"Not always. I have no set hour. Last night I was reading."

"Some book that was in your room?"

"A book I had carried with me. 'The diary of a Peruvian Princess' was the t.i.tle. An old book--but exceedingly interesting."

He spoke gravely, yet it was good to hear him. "I'll make a note of it,"

the coroner said, falling into his mood. But at once he got back to business. "You didn't remove your coat?"

"No. I got so interested that I forgot to make any move towards bed."

The coroner paused, then took another tack. "You've known Nealman for a long time, have you not, Pescini?"

"Something over four years, I should judge."

"You knew him in a business way?"

"More in a social way. We had few business dealings."

"Ah!" The coroner seemed to be studying the pattern of the rugs. "The inquiry of the other day showed you and he from the same city. I suppose you moved largely in the same circle. Belonged to the same clubs, and all that? Mr. Pescini, was Nealman a frequent visitor to your house?"

The witness seemed to stiffen. The coroner leaned forward in his chair.

"He came quite often," the former replied quietly. "He was a rather frequent dinner guest. He and I liked to talk over various subjects."

"You will pardon me, Mr. Pescini, if I have to venture into personal subjects--subjects that will be unpleasant for you to discuss. This inquiry, however, takes the place of a formal inquest. Two men have disappeared. It is the duty of the state, whose representative I am, to spare no man's sensibilities in finding out the truth. We've got to get down to cases. You understand that, I suppose."

"Perfectly." Pescini leaned back, folding his hands. "Perfectly," he said again.

"I believe you recently filed and won a suit for divorce against your wife, Marie Pescini. Isn't this true?"

The witness nodded. None of us heard him speak.

"May I ask what was your grounds, stated in your complaint?"

"I don't see that it makes any difference. The grounds were the only ones by which divorce can be granted in the State of New York."

"Infidelity, I believe?"

"Yes. Infidelity."

"You named certain co-respondents?"

"Yes."

"I ask you this. Was there any man whom you regarded as one of those that had helped to break up your home that, for any reason in the world, you did not name in your complaint?"

"There was not. You are absolutely off on the wrong track."

The coroner dismissed him pre-emptorily, then turned to Edith Nealman.

He asked her the usual questions, with considerable care and in rather surprising detail--how long she had worked as Nealman's secretary, whether he had any enemies; he sounded her as to the missing man's habits, his finances, his most intimate life.

"When did you last see Mr. Nealman?" he asked quickly.

"Just before yesterday's inquest--when he went to his room."

"He didn't call you for any work?"

"No."

"You didn't see him in the corridor--in his room--in the study adjoining his room--or anywhere else?"

"No." Edith's face was stark white, and her voice was very low. Not one of us could ever forget how she looked--that slim, girlish figure in the big chair, the frightened eyes, the pale, sober face. The coroner smiled, a little, grim smile that touched some unpleasant part of me, then abruptly turned to Mrs. Gentry, the housekeeper.

"I'll have to ask you to give publicly, Mrs. Gentry, the testimony you gave me before this inquest."

"I didn't tell you that to speak out in court," the woman replied, angrily. "There wasn't nothin' to it, anyway. I'm sorry I told you----"

"That's for me to decide--whether there was anything to it. It won't injure any one who is innocent, Mrs. Gentry. What happened, about ten-thirty or eleven o'clock."

The woman answered as if under compulsion--in the helpless voice of one who, in a long life's bitter struggle, has learned the existence of many masters. Mrs. Gentry had learned to yield. To her this trivial court was a resistless power, many of which existed in her world.

"I was at the end of the corridor on the second floor--tendin' to a little work. Then I saw Miss Edith come stealin' out of her room."

"You say she was 'stealing.' Describe how she came. Did she give the impression of trying to go--unseen?"

"Yes. I don't think she wanted any one to see her. She went on tip-toe."

"Did she carry anything in her hands?"

"Yes. She had a black book, not big and not little either. She had it under her arm. She crept along the hall, and a door opened to let her in."

"What door was it?"

"The door of Mr. Nealman's suite--a little hall, with one door leading into his chamber--the other to his study."

"Nealman opened the door for her, then?"

"Yes. I saw his sleeve as he closed it behind her."

The coroner's face grew stern, and he turned once more to Edith. To all outward appearance she hadn't heard the testimony. She leaned easily in her big chair, and her palm rested under her chin. Her eyes were shadowy and far-away.

"How can you account for that, Miss Nealman?" Weldon asked.

"There's nothing I can say about it," was her quiet answer.

"You admit it's true, then?"

"I can't make Mrs. Gentry out a liar." It seemed to me that a dim smile played at her lips; but it was a thing even closely watching eyes might easily mistake. "It's perfectly true."