which concerned—our family. We had never heard—of him before. We knew nothing about him. But I came here—to see.”
“You did a very imprudent thing,” commented the coroner.
“I see it now,” agreed Miss Croydon humbly. “I came against the advice of my sister.”
“Then your sister knew you were coming?”
“Oh, yes; and tried to dissuade me. But I am sometimes—well-a little obstinate, I fear,” she went on, with just the ghost of a smile, and a humility which seemed to Godfrey a trifle excessive. “I shall not soon forget the lesson.”
Goldberg nodded, still looking at her. Godfrey wondered if he, too, suspected that there was something hidden behind this seeming candour. He had seen more than one instance of Goldberg’s acumen—an acumen heightened by a certain Oriental vividness of imagination. But, apparently, the coroner was satisfied with Miss Croydon’s answers.
“That is all, at present,” he said. “Your story shall go no farther. Mr. Godfrey, I am sure, promises that, too.”
“Certainly,” assented Godfrey.
“Of course,” the coroner added, “I shall have to summon you as a witness at the inquest. It will probably be tomorrow afternoon.”
She bowed without replying.
“One thing more,” said Goldberg. “Did he have the papers? Did he give them to you?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “He had no papers. He was lying.”
