revelations about to come.

"Your name?" said the corner briefly, as if conquering his own
sympathy by an unnecessarily formal tone.

"Florence Lloyd," was the answer.

"Your position in this house?"

"I am the niece of Mrs. Joseph Crawford, who died many years ago.
Since her death I have lived with Mr. Crawford, occupying in
every respect the position of his daughter, though not legally
adopted as such."

"Mr. Crawford was always kind to you?"

"More than kind. He was generous and indulgent, and, though not
of an affectionate nature, he was always courteous and gentle."

"Will you tell us of the last time you saw him alive?"

Miss Lloyd hesitated. She showed no embarrassment, no
trepidation; she merely seemed to be thinking.

Her gaze slowly wandered over the faces of the servants, Mrs.
Pierce, Mr. Philip Crawford, the jurors, and, lastly, dwelt for a
moment on the now anxious, worried countenance of Gregory Hall.

Then she said slowly, but in an even, unemotional voice: "It was
last night at dinner. After dinner was over, my uncle went out,