"There are many ways. I might have left it there days ago. I have told you I was in the habit of visiting his room. But first, let me see if it is my handkerchief." And she held out her hand.
"I presume so, as I am told it has your initials embroidered in the corner," he remarked, as Mr. Gryce passed it to her.
But she with horrified voice interrupted him. "These dirty spots! What are they? They look like"
"Like what they are," said the coroner. "If you have ever cleaned a pistol, you must know what they are, Miss Leavenworth."
She let the handkerchief fall convulsively from her hand, and stood staring at it, lying before her on the floor. "I know nothing about it, gentlemen," she said. "It is my handkerchief, but—" for some cause she did not finish her sentence, but again repeated, "Indeed, gentlemen, I know nothing about it!"
This closed her testimony.
Kate, the cook, was now recalled, and asked to tell when she last washed the handkerchief?
"This, sir; this handkerchief? Oh, some time this week, sir," throwing a deprecatory glance at her mistress.
"What day?"
"Well, I wish I could forget, Miss Eleanore, but I can’t. It is the only one like it in the house. I washed it day before yesterday."
"When did you iron it?"
"Yesterday morning," half choking over the words.
"And when did you take it to her room?"
The cook threw her apron over her head. "Yesterday afternoon, with the rest of the clothes, just before
