The housekeeper went slowly to the chair and seated herself with a tired air. For some reason she was wearing black, and her red face was stern as she turned to face the coroner. She was far from being a good-looking woman, and I judged as I looked at her that she had a temper. The mouth was small, and the narrow lips were set in a stern thin line. Ranville gave her one look and leaned over me to say: “She has got her back up over something.” Her first statements had to do with Warren's household. She had been his housekeeper for some years, living in the house when he was out of the country. I judged she thought that her long years of service had given her a place of authority, for she spoke as if she had complete reign over the household. When he returned from China, she had secured a cook and a maid and there was also a man working around the grounds. She told us it was Warren's practice to work in his library during the afternoon and that he had dinner about seven o'clock. “Did he work there alone?” asked the coroner. “Oh, no; his secretary, Florence Harlan, was there with him.” She paused a moment and then went on to say that she understood that Mr. Warren was writing a book, though she was not sure. All visitors to the house afternoons were told to go to the library. There had not, however, been many people to see him the last few days. “Now,” came the coroner's voice. “Suppose you tell us just what you were doing yesterday afternoon.” “Well,” answered the woman, “Mr. Warren had told me Mr. Carter and two friends were coming to dinner. I arranged the dinner with the cook and spent part of the afternoon getting the dining room ready. About seven o'clock Mr. Carter came with his friends. I was getting rather worried then.” “What were you worried over?” She was silent for a moment, then went on. “Mr. Warren had not come to the house. He always stopped working about six and dressed for dinner. But when it got after six, I called the library. In fact, I called it on the phone several times, but I received no reply. Then I went out of the house, and, going to the library, knocked on the door. No one answered. But—” She paused. A murmur started around the room as they waited for her next words. She paused and continued: “But I thought I heard a sound in the library.” “What do you mean by a sound?” was the question. She hesitated as if not sure of her words, then said: “It's hard to say. It was just as I started to reach my hand for the knocker upon the door. A sound hard to describe, like a chair being pushed across the floor, or like glass breaking; I am not sure.”