"Very well, now answer."

"Sir," he replied, turning and looking the juryman full in the
face, and in that way revealing his unguarded left hand to my gaze, "I
have opened Mr. Leavenworth's letters as usual for the last two weeks,
and I can think of nothing in them bearing in the least upon this
tragedy."

The man lied; I knew it instantly. The clenched hand pausing
irresolute, then making up its mind to go through with the lie firmly,
was enough for me.

"Mr. Harwell, this is undoubtedly true according to your judgment,"
said the coroner; "but Mr. Leavenworth's correspondence will have to
be searched for all that."

"Of course," he replied carelessly; "that is only right."

This remark ended Mr. Harwell's examination for the time. As he sat
down I made note of four things.

That Mr. Harwell himself, for some reason not given, was conscious
of a suspicion which he was anxious to suppress even from his own mind.

That a woman was in some way connected with it, a rustle as well as
a footstep having been heard by him on the stairs.

That a letter had arrived at the house, which if found would be
likely to throw some light upon this subject.