Liane listened to his story open-mouthed. Her hands were closed tightly, and once or twice, when questions were put to him by Coroner or jury, she held her breath until he had answered. She was as one paralysed by some unknown fear. Their gaze met more than once, and on each occasion he fancied he detected, even through her veil, that her eyes were dark and haggard, like one consumed by some terrible dread.
“You have, I believe, some knowledge of this miniature,” the Coroner observed, again taking the small oval bejewelled portrait in his hand.
“Yes,” he answered. “It is undoubtedly the one which has been missing from my late father’s collection for more than twenty years. It was supposed to have been stolen, but by whom could never be ascertained. My father had several times offered handsome rewards for its recovery, as it is a family portrait.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, by what means it could have come into the unfortunate girl’s possession?”
“None whatever. The unexpected discovery amazed me.”
“You have not told us what caused you to ride along Cross Lane on that evening,” the foreman of the jury observed presently.
Again Liane held her breath.
“I had an appointment,” he answered, not without considerable hesitation, “and was proceeding to keep it.”
“Did you know Miss Bridson?”
“We had met on several occasions.”