"Only one cup and saucer and plate had been used, Sir." "And the chairs, how were they placed?" "About as usual, I imagine." Mitchell looked a trifle worried. "There was no chair drawn up to the tea table, if you mean that. Only Miss Baird's chair stood close by it." "What did you do upon the discovery of Miss Baird's body?" asked Penfield, after a pause. "Made sure that she was dead and not in need of a physician, then sent O'Bryan to telephone to the coroner, while Myers and I searched the house," replied Mitchell. "Did you find any one in the house?" "No, Sir. It was empty, except for the dead woman and a cat." The inspector's reply caused a stir of interest, and one juror started to address him, then, conscious of attracting attention, decided not to speak. "Did you find the windows and doors locked?" inquired Penfield, after a second's thought. "Yes; that is, those on the first floor and in the basement were locked," explained Mitchell. "The windows on the second and third floors were unlocked, but closed. Sunday was a cold day," he added. "In your opinion, Mitchell, could the house have been entered from the second story?" asked Penfield. The inspector considered the question before answering. "No, Sir, not without a ladder, and we found none on the premises. The house sets back in its own grounds, so to speak, and the neighboring houses are quite far away. There is no party wall, and no porch roof to aid a housebreaker." "That is all for the present, Inspector. As you go out, ask O'Bryan to come here." The plain clothes officer kept them waiting only a brief second. His testimony simply corroborated that of his superior officer, and Patrolman Myers, who followed him, added nothing of interest. Upon his departure from the platform, his place was taken by an old negro, who, with some difficulty, mounted the steps and hobbled across the platform to the witness chair. "What is your name?" asked Coroner Penfield, who had waited in some impatience while the witness was being sworn. "Oscar, Sah, please, Sah." "Oscar what?" "Oscar Benjamin De Cassenove Jackson, Sah." "Well, Oscar, are you acquainted with the nature of an oath?" "Laws, Sah, ain't I been married mos' forty years? My wife, she's kinda handy wif her tongue," and Oscar smiled, deprecatingly. "I am not alluding to swearing," exclaimed Penfield. "I mean the sort of oath requiring you to tell the truth and nothing but the truth." "Laws, Sah, I tells de truf every day o' my life," replied Oscar with some indignation. "'Tain't no occasion to tell me that." "Very well." Penfield spoke with sternness. "Remember, you are under oath to tell only the truth. When did you last see Miss Susan Baird alive?" Oscar blinked at the abruptness of the question. "Sunday mawning, Sah, when I was servin' dinner at one o'clock." "Did she appear to be in good spirits?" asked Penfield. "In good health--" he added, noting Oscar's mystified expression.