“Six months,” she answered, curtly.
“So it was in Chicago you knew your friend?”
“Yes,” she admitted, with a slight start.
“And you are sure he didn’t belong there?”
“Yes; but look here: why are you asking such a lot of questions about him? I’ve told you his name and where he’s gone to, and if you can’t find him that’s your lookout.”
“The consequences of our not being able to find him would be much more serious for you than for me,” remarked Mr. Merritt, quietly.
“Now, Mrs. Atkins,” resumed the Coroner, “can you say in what particular Mr. Brown differs from this dead man?”
“Oh, they’re a good deal alike,” she replied, fluently,—but I noticed that she did not look in the direction of the corpse,—“only Mr. Brown’s younger, and not so heavy, and his nose is different. Still, the man does resemble Mr. Brown surprisingly. It gave me quite a shock when I first saw him.” It certainly had, only I wondered if that were the true explanation.
“Please tell us what you did yesterday.”
“I went out in the morning and I came home at about half-past five.”
“What were you doing during all that time?”
“Oh, several things; I called on some friends and did some errands.”
“Your husband has been out of town, I hear?”
“Yes.”
“When did he leave the city?”
“On Tuesday morning.”
“When did he return?”
“Last night.”
“At what time?”
“Half-past one.”
“Where did he come from?”
“Boston.”
“But surely the Boston train gets in a good deal earlier than that!” the Coroner exclaimed.
“Yes, there had been a delay owing to a slight accident on the line,” she reluctantly explained.
“Is Mr. Atkins often away?”
“Yes; he’s out of town every week or so, on business.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Atkins, that is all,” the Coroner concluded, politely. But the lady was not so easily appeased, and flounced out of the room without deigning to glance at any of us.
The detective slipped out after her—to call the maids, as he explained, but it was five or six minutes before he returned with the waitress.
After answering several unimportant questions, the girl was asked whether she had ever seen the deceased before. “No, sir,” she replied, promptly.
“Did anyone call on your mistress on Tuesday evening?”
“I can’t say, sir; I was out.”
“At what time did you go out?”
“At about a quarter to eight, sir.”
“Where did you go to?”
“We went to a party at me sister’s.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“The cook and me, sir.”
“Ah, the cook went out, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you usually go out together?”
“No, sir.”
“How did it happen that you did so on Tuesday?”
“Mr. Atkins, he was away, so Mrs. Atkins she said we might both go out.”
“Mr. Atkins is often away from home, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How often?”
“About once a fortnight, sir.”
“Has Mrs. Atkins ever allowed you both to go out together before?”
“No, sir.”
“Where does your sister live, and what is her name?”
“Mrs. Moriarty, 300 Third Avenue.”
The Coroner paused to scribble down the address, then resumed:
“At what time did you get back from the party?”
The girl tugged at her dress in some embarrassment. “It might have been after eleven,” she reluctantly admitted.
“How much after—quarter past, half-past?” he suggested, as she still hesitated.
“It was almost half-past, sir.”
“And when you returned, did you see your mistress?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, with some surprise.
“Did you notice anything unusual about her?”
“Well, sir, she’d been crying, and I never see her cry before.”
“What did Mrs. Atkins say to you?”
“She scolded us for being so late,” the girl answered shamefacedly.
“Was that all she said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was your mistress when you saw her?”
“She was lying on the sofy in her bed-room, tired like.”
“What did Mrs. Atkins do yesterday?”
“She went out after breakfast and didn’t come back till nearly six.”
“How did she seem when she returned?”
“She’d been crying awful, and she just lay quiet and wouldn’t eat no dinner.”
“Do Mr. and Mrs. Atkins get along well together?”
“Oh, sir, they’re that loving,” she answered with a blush and a smile.
Again my curiosity got the better of my discretion, and I asked: “Did you hear any strange noises during the night?”
The Coroner glared at me, but said nothing this time.
“Well,” replied the girl, “me and Jane did think as we’d heard a scream.”
Ha, ha, thought I, and I saw Mr. Merritt indulge in one of his quiet smiles.
“So you heard a scream,” said the Coroner.
“I don’t know for sure; I thought so.”
“At what time did you hear it?”
“I don’t know, sir; some time in the night.”
“What did you do when you heard it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
This was all that could be got out of her, so she made way for the cook, who, after being cross-questioned at some length, did no more than corroborate the waitress’s statement, only she was more positive of having heard the “screech” as she called it.
“Could you tell whether it was a man or woman who screamed?” inquired the Coroner.
“It was a woman’s voice, sir.”
Mr. Stuart, who was next admitted, proved to be a small, middle-aged man, extremely well groomed, and whom I recognized as one of the members of my Club, whose name I had never known. On being asked if he had ever seen the dead man before, he solemnly inserted a single