The Hollow of Her Hand | Page 6

a penny had been left. Watch, cuff-links,
scarf pin, cigarette case, purse and bill folder,--all gone. Burton had
seen most of these articles in the office."
"Isn't it--but no! Why should I be the one to offer a suggestion that
might be construed as a defence for this woman?"
"You were about to suggest, madam, that some one else might have
taken the valuables--is that it?" cried the sheriff.
"Had you thought of it, Mr. Sheriff?"
"I had not. It isn't reasonable. No one about this place is suspected. We
have thought of this, however: the murderess may have taken all of
these things away with her in order to prevent immediate identification
of her victim. She may have been clever enough for that. It would give
her a start."
"Not an unreasonable conclusion, when you stop to consider, Mr.
Sheriff, that the man took the initiative in that very particular," said Mrs.
Wrandall in such a self-contained way that the three men looked at her
in wonder. Then she came abruptly to her feet. "It is very late,
gentlemen. I am ready to go upstairs, Mr. Sheriff."
"I must warn you, madam, that Mr. Drake is reasonably certain that it is
your husband," said the coroner uncomfortably. "You may not be
prepared for the shock that--"
"I shall not faint, Dr. Sheef. If it IS my husband I shall ask you to leave
me alone in the room with him for a little while." The final word trailed
out into a long, tremulous wail, showing how near she was to the
breaking point in her wonderful effort at self-control. The men looked
away hastily. They heard her draw two or three deep, quavering breaths;
they could almost feel the tension that she was exercising over herself.
The doctor turned after a moment and spoke very gently, but with
professional firmness. "You must not think of venturing out in this
wretched night, madam. It would be the worst kind of folly. Surely you
will be guided by me--by your own common sense. Mrs. Burton will be
with you--"
"Thank you, Dr. Sheef," she interposed calmly. "If what we all fear

should turn out to be the truth, I could not stay here. I could not breathe.
I could not live. If, on the other hand, Mr. Drake is mistaken, I shall
stay. But if it is my husband, I cannot remain under the same roof with
him, even though he be dead. I do not expect you to understand my
feelings. It would be asking too much of men,--too much."
"I think I understand," murmured Drake.
"Come," said the sheriff, arousing himself with an effort.
She moved swiftly after him. Drake and the coroner, following close
behind with Mrs. Burton, could not take their eyes from the slender,
graceful figure. She was a revelation to them. Feeling as they did that
she was about to be confronted by the most appalling crisis imaginable,
they could not but marvel at her composure. Drake's mind dwelt on the
stories of the guillotine and the heroines who went up to it in those
bloody days without so much as a quiver of dread. Somehow, to him,
this woman was a heroine.
They passed into the hall and mounted the stairs. At the far end of the
corridor, a man was seated in front of a closed door. He arose as the
party approached. The sheriff signed for him to open the door he
guarded. As he did so, a chilly blast of air blew upon the faces of those
in the hall. The curtains in the window of the room were flapping and
whipping in the wind. Mrs. Wrandall caught her breath. For the briefest
instant, it seemed as though she was on the point of faltering. She
dropped farther behind the sheriff, her limbs suddenly stiff, her hand
going out to the wall as if for support. The next moment she was
moving forward resolutely into the icy, dimly lighted room.
A single electric light gleamed in the corner beside the bureau. Near the
window stood the bed. She went swiftly toward it, her eyes fastened
upon the ridge that ran through the centre of it: a still, white ridge that
seemed without beginning or end.
With nervous fingers, the attendant lifted the sheet at the head of the
bed and turned it back. As he let it fall across the chest of the dead man,
he drew back and turned his face away.
She bent forward and then straightened her figure to its full height,
without for an instant removing her gaze from the face of the man who
lay before her: a dark-haired man grey in death, who must have been
beautiful to look upon in the flush of life.
For