Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. "I won't have this!" he cried. "I won't allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It's all wrong!" The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at stake. "Sit down, for the present, Blake," he said. "Mrs. Faulkner, will you give us your version of these events?" Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said, "Certainly. Will you ask questions?" The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner. "I am ready," she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times and seasons. A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: "Do you corroborate the story as just related by Blake, the footman?" "Yes, I think so," and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as if in an effort of recollection. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice Faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Natalie she seemed a middle-aged matron. "I am sure I agree with his facts as stated, as to our entering the room, but I'm not sure he was able to hear clearly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not." "You were not?" "No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but I am not ready to say positively that I clearly understood the words." "You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping in at the door?" "He wasn't peeping. He was, it seemed to me, listening. I, naturally, thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and I called out his name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that as he was not my footman I had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his full face toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled, and that something unusual must be happening in the studio. He told me the lights had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing 'Help!' It was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. I bade Blake turn on the light quickly, and then I followed him into the room." "Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. Now, will you tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it." "I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. I inferred that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him." "And how did you think this intruder had entered?"