“She is coming round in the most extraordinary way,” said the little nurse, full of importance. “Doctor says she must have an iron constitution. But she won’t let anybody go near her--not her husband or anyone. Strange, isn’t it? She’ll be going out in a day or two; there’s nothing to keep her in for.” The woman dropped her voice. “She’ll be wanted to give evidence at the inquest. Dreadful, isn’t it? Doctor says they’re holding it over till to-morrow on her account.” I had already been notified as to the time and place of the inquest and enjoined to attend it. That Harter’s condition at the time of the smash would be strictly inquired into was already a matter of certainty. All that day people came up to the house, insisting upon talking about it all. I saw only Lady Annabel, who walked in through a French window, without going to the hall door at all. Even she did not touch upon the side of things that had so lately absorbed all her attention. The nearest that she came to it was to say that if ever anything seemed like the judgment of Heaven--and there she broke off, with the tears pouring down her face. Afterward she went up to see Claire. They do not like one another very much, but it is always an unconscious relief to Claire to pour out the story of her own reactions, to anybody at all. She was better after Lady Annabel’s visit and came downstairs. Late in the evening, Christopher took the car to the station to meet Bill’s father. He bore many offers of hospitality, but the old man, perhaps not unnaturally, preferred to stay alone at the inn. He had not brought his young wife. “He is to see Nancy to-morrow, after the inquest,” Christopher told me. He hesitated a little, and I could guess what was in his mind. “She thinks that he knows nothing at all, about poor Bill and that woman. I suppose there’s no chance of anything cropping up, at this inquest?” “Surely not. Of course, the jury will be composed of local men and they’re bound to know that there’s been talk. But I don’t see how it affects the manner of the accident, which is what they have to find a verdict about.” “Death by misadventure,” said Christopher slowly, and without much conviction. “H’m! There’s the question of contributory negligence, or worse. Did you see anything of Harter that evening?” “Not much. Do you mean that he was the worse for drink?” “Between ourselves, Chris, the fellow had undoubtedly been drinking, but as far as I could tell he was all right when he left the house.” “Then I can’t for the life of me understand how it happened. The ground was dry, there was no possibility of a skid, and nothing coming towards them in the road, to give any possible reason for a swerve.” “The steering gear?” “Nothing the matter with it. I was there when the men righted the car. They looked to see.” “The chief evidence, beside that of Mrs. Kendal, who actually witnessed the whole thing, will be Mrs. Harter’s, then?”