I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.
She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.
“You don’t know anything about me, do you?” she asked. “Where I come from, who I was before I married John—anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think—yes, I am sure you are kind.”
Somehow, I was not quite
Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.
“You did not hear the table fall?”
“No. I was fast asleep.”
The Coroner smiled.
“A good conscience makes a sound sleeper,” he observed. “Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all.”