“I’m sure you know him. You could place him in the hands of the police, if you wished.”
She stared without answering into his steady eyes. There was something compelling in their glance, a power there was no resisting, urging her to speak. She had been deeply shaken by the evening’s tragedy; her strength was almost gone. Godfrey saw her yielding, yielding—a moment more, and he would have the story. With a last sigh of resistance, she opened her lips, closed them, opened them again…
The door opened and a man came in—a keen-faced man of middle age, who nodded to Godfrey and threw a quick, penetrating glance at his companion. Behind him, the clamour burst out anew; various heads appeared in the doorway, various eager faces sought to peer into the room; but the newcomer calmly closed the door and assured himself that it was locked. He looked at Godfrey again, then expectantly at the girl.
“Miss Croydon,” said Godfrey, “this is Coroner Goldberg, whose duty it is to investigate this affair, and who may wish to ask you some questions.”
Goldberg removed his hat and bowed. Miss Croydon met his gaze with an admirable composure. Godfrey sighed—that moment of weakness was past—if Goldberg had only been a moment later!
“Only a few at present,” began the coroner, in a voice soft and deferential, as only he knew how to make it. How often, with that voice, had he led a witness on and on to his own ruin! “You were the only witness of this tragedy, I believe, Miss Croydon?”
“Yes, sir.”
