“Will you give us the name of this novel?” “COMPENSATION.” “And you found this book called COMPENSATION in your room upstairs?” “Yes.” “On the book-shelf?” “Yes.” “Where does this book-shelf stand?” Mr. Jeffrey looked up as much as to say, “Why so many small questions about so simple a matter?” but answered frankly enough: “At the right of the door leading into the bedroom.” “And at right angles to the door leading into the hall?” “Yes.” “Very good. Now may I ask you to describe the cover of this book?” “The cover? I never noticed the cover. Why do you—. Excuse me, I suppose you have your reasons for asking even these puerile and seemingly unnecessary questions. The cover is a queer one I believe; partly red and partly green; and that is all I know about it.” “Is this the book?” Mr. Jeffrey glanced at the volume the coroner held up before him. “I believe so; it looks like it.” The book had a flaming cover, quite unmistakable in its character. “The title shows it to be the same,” remarked the coroner. “Is this the only book with a cover of this kind in the house?” “The only one, I should say.” The coroner laid down the book. “Enough of this, then, for the present; only let the jury remember that the cover of this book is peculiar and that it was kept on a shelf at the right of the opening leading into the adjoining bed-room. And now, Mr. Jeffrey, we must ask you to look at these rings; or, rather, at this one. You have seen it before; it is the one you placed on Mrs. Jeffrey’s hand when you were married to her a little over a fortnight ago. You recognize it?” “I do.” “Do you also recognize this small mark of blood on it as having been here when it was shown to you by the detective on your return from seeing her dead body at the Moore house?” “I do; yes.” “How do you account for that spot and the slight injury made to her finger? Should you not say that the ring had been dragged from her hand?” “I should.” “By whom was it dragged? By you?” “No, sir.” “By herself, then?” “It would seem so.” “Much passion must have been in that act. Do you think that any ordinary quarrel between husband and wife would account for the display of such fury? Are we not right in supposing a deeper cause for the disturbance between you than the slight one you offer in way of explanation?” An inaudible answer; then a sudden straightening of Francis Jeffrey’s fine figure. And that was all. “Mr. Jeffrey, in the talk you had with your wife on Tuesday morning was Miss Tuttle’s name introduced?” “It was mentioned; yes, sir.” “With recrimination or any display of passion on the part of your wife?” “You would not believe me if I said no,” was the unexpected rejoinder.