"And who was this person?"
"Miss Tuttle."
With the utterance of this name the veil fell from the coroner's
intentions and the purpose of this petty but prolonged inquiry stood
revealed. It was to all a fearful and impressive moment. To me it
was as painful as it was triumphant. I had not anticipated such an
outcome when I put my wits to work to prove that murder, and not
suicide, was answerable for young Mrs. Jeffrey's death.
When the murmur which had hailed this startling turn in the inquiry
had subsided, the coroner drew a deep breath, and, with an uneasy
glance at the jury, who, to a man, seemed to wish themselves well
out of this job, he dismissed the cook and summoned a fresh witness.
Her name made the people stare.
"Miss Nixon."
Miss Nixon! That was a name well known in Washington; almost as
well known as that of Uncle David, or even of Mr. Tallman. What
could this quaint and characteristic little body have to do with
this case of doubtful suicide? A word will explain. She was the
person who, on the day before, had made that loud exclamation when
the box containing the ribbon and the pistol had been disclosed to
the jury.
As her fussy little figure came forward, some nudged and some
laughed, possibly because her bonnet was not of this year's style,
possibly because her manner was peculiar and as full of oddities
as her attire.
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