teered the irrepressible. “Mr. Harwell, we are told that upon the breaking in of the library door this morning, Mr. Leavenworth’s two nieces followed you into the room.”
“One of them, sir, Miss Eleanore.”
“Is Miss Eleanore the one who is said to be Mr. Leavenworth’s sole heiress?” the coroner here interposed.
“No, sir, that is Miss Mary.”
“That she gave orders,” pursued the juryman, “for the removal of the body into the further room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you obeyed her by helping to carry it in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, in thus passing through the rooms, did you observe anything to lead you to form a suspicion of the murderer?”
The secretary shook his head. “I have no suspicion,” he emphatically said.
Somehow, I did not believe him. Whether it was the tone of his voice, the clutch of his hand on his sleeve—and the hand will often reveal more than the countenance—I felt that this man was not to be relied upon in making this assertion.
“I should like to ask Mr. Harwell a question,” said a juryman who had not yet spoken. “We have had a detailed account of what looks like the discovery of a murdered man. Now, murder is never committed without some motive. Does the secretary know whether Mr. Leavenworth had any secret enemy?”
“I do not.”
“Every one in the house seemed to be on good terms with him?”
