"Cannot say? Why? Do you forget?"
"I forget just how long after Mr. Harwell came up I closed it."
"Was it more than ten minutes?"
"Yes."
"More than twenty?"
"Perhaps." How pale her face was, and how she trembled!
"Miss Leavenworth, according to evidence, your uncle came to his death not very long after Mr. Harwell left him. If your door was open, you ought to have heard if any one went to his room, or any pistol shot was fired. Now, did you hear anything?"
"I heard no confusion; no, sir."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Nor any pistol shot."
"Miss Leavenworth, excuse my persistence, but did you hear anything?"
"I heard a door close."
"What door?"
"The library door."
"When?"
"I do not know." She clasped her hands hysterically. "I cannot say. Why do you ask me so many questions?"
I leaped to my feet; she was swaying, almost fainting. But before I could reach her, she had drawn herself up again, and resumed her former demeanor. "Excuse me," said she; "I am not myself this morning. I beg your pardon," and she turned steadily to the coroner. "What was it you asked?"
"I asked," and his voice grew thin and high,—evidently her manner was beginning to tell against her,—"when it was you heard the library door shut?"
