Bella (with her eyes wandering piteously round the stolid faces of the jury, and at last seeking counsel in the looks of her father). Am I really obliged to answer this question? Scratchell. Yes, yes, girl, you’d better answer. Bella. The unhappiness was about a gentleman to whom Miss Harefield is deeply attached. Mr. Harefield forbade her to see this gentleman, or to hold any communication with him. Coroner. And that had been the cause of ill-feeling between the father and daughter? Bella. I have never said ill-feeling. I only say that Mr. Harefield’s manner to his daughter was morose and unkind. Coroner. Did you perceive anything approaching to eccentricity or mental disturbance in his manner last evening? Bella. Nothing. Coroner. Should you consider him a man likely to commit suicide? Bella. I should say not. He was always reserved and gloomy. Coroner. But not more so yesterday evening than usual? Bella. No more than usual. Coroner. How did Miss Harefield seem impressed by the discovery of her father’s death? Bella. She seemed stunned. Coroner. She said very little, I conclude? Bella. She said nothing. The awfulness of the discovery seemed to turn her to stone. The next and last witness was one in whom even those stolid jurymen felt a keen interest. The next witness was Beatrix Harefield, who came into the room slowly, leaning upon Mrs. Dulcimer, a living image of horror and amazement. Some one, seeing how feebly she moved from the door to the table, brought her a chair; or, in the richer phraseology of the reporters, she was ‘accommodated with a seat.’ She sat, looking straight at the distant coroner, seen dimly by the light of tall wax candles in old silver candelabra, at the end of an avenue of jurymen. Beatrix was questioned as to the finding of her father’s body. Her replies were at first hardly audible, but voice and manner grew firmer as she went on. Coroner. What induced you to suggest that your mother’s sitting-room should be the first place to be searched? Beatrix. Because I fancied my father’s thoughts would dwell upon my mother last night. Coroner. Why? Beatrix. The gentleman who came here--after an absence of many years--was a countryman and friend of my mother’s. That would carry my father’s thoughts back. Coroner. Can you tell me the name of this gentleman? His evidence would be important as to the state of your father’s mind yesterday evening. Beatrix. I have heard him called Antonio. Coroner. That was his Christian name, no doubt. Have you never heard his surname? Beatrix. Never, to my knowledge. I was a child when he used to visit here. I have heard my father and mother both speak of him as Antonio. Coroner. Was your father in the habit of going into that locked up room of your mother’s? Beatrix. I know he went there sometimes. Coroner. How do you know that? Beatrix. I found the key left in the door once. No one could have left it there but my father.