He identified the gun, however. The coroner read him the serial numbers, and he corroborated them from his permit card. The coroner nodded.

“Now, Mr. Wainwright, where did you keep this weapon?”

“In my car, up to the last few months. After we had the trouble about Evans, I took it to my bedroom. It was kept in a table drawer beside my bed.”

“When did you see it last?”

“I don’t remember. Perhaps two weeks ago. I’m not sure.”

“You didn’t miss it from the drawer?”

“I seldom use the drawer. No.”

“Who had access to your room?”

He stirred restlessly. “Anybody,” he said. “There are forty people in and about the place. Maybe two dozen in the house.”

“I’m sorry to bring this up. Your mother would know it was there, wouldn’t she?”

“I don’t think she knew I had it. She was afraid of firearms.”

“But she could have seen it there?”

“Yes.”

“Other people, callers in the house, for instance, did not go upstairs, I gather.”

“No. There were rooms below for men and women.”

“Who had access to your room, outside of the servants? Who were staying in the house when this happened?”

“My wife and my mother’s secretary, Miss Abbott.”

Bessie not being present, all eyes turned to me. I knew everybody there, from the tradesmen on the jury to the people who crowded the room: Bill Sterling, Lydia, Julian and Margery Stoddard, a hundred or more who had seen me grow up from pigtails and a bicycle until now. Most of the eyes were friendly, but some were not. I know now that I was not above suspicion myself that day. Although I did not know it, gossip had been busy about Tony and me. If Maud Wainwright had objected, if we had quarreled—

Nevertheless, when the verdict came it was more or less inevitable. Maud, the cheerful and hearty woman before her illness, the brave and kindly one since, had killed herself. I wanted to stand up and deny it. So, I know, did Tony. There was nothing to do, however. When it was over I pushed past the crowd and out into the cold air. When I saw myself in the mirror of my car I was white to the lips.

Jim Conway came to see me that afternoon. I found him in the library, pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets and his eyes grave. He gave me a thin smile.

“Well, we got our verdict,” he said.

“And it’s a lie,” I said angrily. “You know she didn’t do it.”

“All right. Who did? Use your head, Pat. Who wanted her out of the way? Not you. You lose a good job. Anyhow, I know you liked her. Bessie? I understand she doesn’t get anything by the will. She was better off with her mother-in-law alive than dead. Besides, she’s scared out of her skin. Tony? He gets the money and the business, but he’s out, for any number of reasons. Then who?”