Unhappily for him it was in continuation of the same subject. Had he bought candles or not at the grocer's around the corner? Yes, he had. Before visiting the house? Yes. Had he also bought matches?
Yes. What kind? Common safety matches. Had he noticed when he got home that the box he had just bought was half empty? No.
Nevertheless he had used many matches in going through this old house, had he not? Possibly. To light his way upstairs, perhaps?
It might be. Had he not so used them? Yes. Why had he done so, if he had candles in his pocket, which were so much easier to hold and so much more lasting than a lighted match? Ah, he could not say; he did not know; his mind was confused. He was awake when he should have been asleep. It was all a dream to him.
The coroner became still more persistent.
"Did you enter the library on your solitary visit to this old house?"
"I believe so."
"What did you do there?"
"Pottered around. I don't remember."
"What light did you use?"
"A candle, I think."
"You must know."
"Well, I had a candle; it was in a candelabrum."
"What candle and what candelabrum?"
"The same I used upstairs, of course"
"And you can not remember where you left this candle and candelabrum when you finally quitted the house?"
"No. I wasn't thinking about candles."
"What were you thinking about?"
"The rupture with my wife and the bad name of the house I was in."
"Oh! and this was on Tuesday night?"
"Yes, sir."
"How can you prove this to us?"
"I can not"
"But you swear -"
"I swear that it was Tuesday night, the night immediately preceding the one when - when my wife's death robbed me of all earthly happiness."
It was feelingly uttered, and several faces lightened; but the coroner repeating: "Is there no way you can prove this to our satisfaction?" the shadow settled again, and on no head more perceptibly than on that of the unfortunate witness.
It was now late in the day and the atmosphere of the room had become stifling; but no one seemed to be conscious of any discomfort, and a general gasp of excitement passed through the room when the coroner, taking out a box from under a pile of papers, disclosed to the general gaze the famous white ribbon with its dainty bow, lying on top of the fatal pistol.
That this special feature, the most interesting one of all connected with this tragedy, should have been kept so long in reserve and brought out just at this time, struck many of Mr. Jeffrey's closest friends as unnecessarily dramatic; but when the coroner, lifting out the ribbon, remarked tentatively, "You know this ribbon?" we were more struck by the involuntary cry of surprise which rose from some one in the crowd about the door, than by the look with which Mr. Jeffrey eyed it and made the necessary reply. That cry had something more than nervous excitement in it. Identifying the person who had uttered it as a certain busy little woman well known in town, I sent an officer to watch her; then recalled my attention to the point the coroner was attempting to make. He had forced Mr. Jeffrey to recognize the ribbon as the one which had fastened the pistol to his wife's arm; now he asked whether, in his opinion, a woman could tie such a bow to her own wrist, and when in common justice Mr. Jeffrey was obliged to say no, waited a third time before he put the general suspicion again into words:
"Can not you, by some means or some witness, prove to us that it was on Tuesday night and not on Wednesday you spent the hours you speak of on this scene of your marriage and your wife's death?"
The hopelessness which more than once had marked Mr. Jeffrey's features since the beginning of this inquiry, reappeared with renewed force as this suggestive question fell again upon his ears; and he was about to repeat his plea of forgetfulness when the coroner's attention was diverted by a request made in his ear by one of the detectives. In another moment Mr. Jeffrey had been waved aside and a new witness sworn in.
You can imagine every one's surprise, mine most of all, when this witness proved to be Uncle David.
