CHAPTER XI
Colonel Sir Ian Hereward, the first witness, was called by the police sergeant who guarded the door.
Probably there was not a person in the room who did not sympathize deeply with the man who had been so tragically bereaved; yet as the door opened and he walked in, curiosity was the emotion upper most in every heart. People who were acquainted with the man, or knew him by sight, vaguely expected to see him changed by the horror which had broken his life; but Ian Hereward had not been a soldier in vain. He did not totter in as if staggering under a load, nor was his head bowed, nor were his shoulders bent. He looked as he had looked many times when he had gone into battle—grave, composed, expressionless, as a man who faces an ordeal should look when watched by many eyes.
He took his place in the witness's chair. The room was very still, and the rustling of papers which the coroner rather uneasily sorted before beginning his catechism sent a sharp little thrill through highly keyed nerves.
Then the usual questions were put at the start. How old was Lady Hereward? How long had they
89
