“Mrs. Tretheroe, I believe you knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore?” “Yes.” “You knew him well, one may say?” “Yes—very well—once!” “How long had you known him?” “I knew him from the time my father came to Markenmore, as vicar of this parish, when I was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, until Guy left this house, about seven years ago.” “How old were you then, Mrs. Tretheroe?” “Twenty-two.” “Then your acquaintanceship with him at that period lasted about four or five years?” “About that.” “You were then Miss Veronica Leighton?” “Yes.” “I think you married the late Colonel Tretheroe just after Mr. Guy Markenmore left home—seven years ago?” “Yes.” “And went with your husband to India?” “I did.” “You have only recently returned from India—where Colonel Tretheroe, I think, died last year?” “Quite recently.” The Coroner leaned a little forward from his desk—sure sign, thought Mr. Fransemmery, that his questions were nearing a most particular stage. “Now. Mrs. Tretheroe, during those seven years, did you ever see Guy Markenmore? “Never!” “Did you ever hear from him?” “Never!—nor of him!” “For seven years you neither saw him, nor heard of him, nor heard from him. When did you next see him again?” “On Monday evening last—two—or three—days ago.” “You met him—for the first time for seven years?” “Yes, for the first time for seven years.” “Just tell me, Mrs. Tretheroe, how the meeting came about?” Mrs. Tretheroe folded her hands on the ledge of the witness-box and distributed her glances alternately between the Coroner and the twelve jurymen. By that time she had regained her colour; her eyes had begun to sparkle; she looked as if she was beginning to feel some extraordinary interest in the proceedings. “In this way,” she said, in quiet, even tones. “During Monday evening, after dinner, I had occasion to give some orders to my coachman, Burton. When he was going away, he mentioned that he had just seen Mr. Guy Markenmore; he had seen him, he said, going up to the Court. I thought Burton must be mistaken, but he was positive—and, of course, I knew he had known Guy since boyhood. So——” Here Mrs. Tretheroe paused. Her fingers began to tap the ledge before her; she looked at the Coroner and the jury with a slightly embarrassed expression. “What happened, if you please?” asked the Coroner in matter-of-fact tones. “Well—I wanted to see Guy!” continued Mrs. Tretheroe suddenly. “And so—not just then, but after a while—about half-past ten, I think—I put on a coat over my dinner dress and ran across the park to the Court—there’s a path, a short cut. I came here—I saw Braxfield, the butler, and Valencia Markenmore. I told Valencia that I’d heard Guy had come home. She said he’d gone. Then I thought that, perhaps, hearing I was at the Dower House, he’d come down there to see me, so I went away, thinking I might find him waiting for me.” “Did you find him?” “No—but—I met him. He had been to my house. I met him at the gate.”