“Well, sir, perhaps he wasn’t to say agitated,—­he looked more blank, yes, as you might say, blank.”

“Was he trembling?” persisted Mr. Orville, “was he pale?” and the coroner frowned slightly at this juror’s repeated inquisitiveness.

“Louis is always pale,” returned the butler, seeming to make an effort to speak the exact truth.

“Then of course you couldn’t judge of his knowledge of the matter,” Mr. Orville said, with an air of one saying something of importance.

“He had no knowledge of the matter, if you mean Mr. Crawford’s death,” said Lambert, looking disturbed and a little bewildered.

“Tell your own story, Lambert,” said Coroner Monroe, rather crisply.  “We’ll hear what Louis has to say later.”

“Well, sir, then I took Louis to the office, and we both saw the —­the accident, and we wondered what to do.  I was for telephoning right off to Doctor Fairchild, but Louis said first we’d better tell Miss Florence about it.”

“And did you?”

“We went out in the hall, and just then Elsa, Miss Lloyd’s maid, was on the stairs.  So we told her, and told her to tell Miss Lloyd, and ask her for orders.  Well, her orders was for us to call up Doctor Fairchild, and so we did.  He came as soon as he could, and he’s been in charge ever since, sir.”

“A straightforward story, clearly told,” observed the coroner, and then he called upon Louis, the valet.  This witness, a young Frenchman, was far more nervous and excited than the calm-mannered butler, but the gist of his story corroborated Lambert’s.

Asked if he was not called upon to attend his master at bedtime, he replied

“Non, M’sieu; when Monsieur Crawford sat late in his library, or his office, he dismiss me and say I may go to bed, or whatever I like.  Almost alway he tell me that.”

“And he told you this last night?”

“But yes.  When I lay out his clothes for dinner, he then tell me so.”

Although the man seemed sure enough of his statements he was evidently troubled in his mind.  It might have been merely that his French nature was more excitable than the stolid indifference of the English butler.  But at the same time I couldn’t help feeling that the man had not told all he knew.  This was merely surmise on my part, and I could not persuade myself that there was enough ground for it to call it even an intuition.  So I concluded it best to ask no questions of the valet at present, but to look into his case later.

Parmalee, however, seemed to have concluded differently.  He looked at Louis with an intent gaze as he said, “Had your master said or done anything recently to make you think he was despondent or troubled in any way?”

“No, sir,” said the man; but the answer was not spontaneous, and Louis’s eyes rolled around with an expression of fear.  I was watching him closely myself, and I could not help seeing that against his will his glance sought always Florence Lloyd, and though he quickly averted it, he was unable to refrain from furtive, fleeting looks in her direction.