The man bowed and did not reply. Covering the telltale witness with her apron, Miss Hansford took it to the house, and, hiding it in a deep chest in the back chamber where she kept her bed linen, went down to meet the people who were talking of the inquest, which it was thought best to have at once before the body was removed. It was a hurried, informal affair, held by an incompetent coroner, new to the office and conducting his first case. No one of those who saw Paul go by just before the shooting and heard what Elithe said had spoken. The doctor for whom Elithe had been sent had been hurriedly called away immediately after Jack died. Suicide had been suggested by Paul and Clarice and accepted as highly probable, and a verdict to that effect was rendered with very little discussion. Miss Hansford felt that the matter was finished and Paul was safe. The next moment her spirits fell. They were inquiring for the revolver which did the deed. It must be near where Jack was found, and search must be made for it. Here was a trouble she had not foreseen, and she felt as if her heart would burst as she tried to appear natural and put aside her dread of impending evil. All her lodgers and some of the neighbors had heard Elithe. Sooner or later they were sure to talk, and then a hundred verdicts of suicide would not avail to save Paul from suspicion and possible arrest. If he would only speak out now and tell how it happened he would be believed. Evidently he had no thought of speaking out. He had gone with Clarice without doing so, and she could only pray that no inquiries might be made when the missing weapon was not found. Now that the inquest was over and the people began to go she had time to think of Elithe. She was lying on her bed benumbed with the great horror, not the least of which was the knowledge that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy. That he had cared for her more than for a mere friend, she could not doubt, and it seemed to her that “Elithe,” spoken as with his dying breath he had spoken it, would sound in her ears forever. It never occurred to her what construction with regard to herself might be put upon that death scene. She could think of nothing except that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy, and Jack Percy was dead,—shot by Paul Ralston. “Oh, I can’t bear it!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. Why did I ever come here?” Then she remembered the ring, and started to her feet. What should she do with it now? “I’ll give it back to him,” she said, and, putting the box in her pocket, she stole downstairs into the kitchen, keeping herself from sight, as much as possible and watching her opportunity to enter the sitting room when no one was there.