If she had aimed at sensation, she could not have hoped for greater success. A murmur of surprise ran about the room, and the confusion rose to a height that for a time defied the efforts of the coroner to preserve order. Curiosity to hear further questions and answers came to his aid, and silence was restored. “By a former marriage?” “No. He was born out of wedlock.” “When did you first learn of this?” “On the eleventh of this month.” “The day succeeding the murder?” “Yes.” “How did you learn of it?” “From a paper in the judge’s handwriting, found in Theodore’s desk, and enclosed in an envelope addressed ‘Mrs. Amelia Parlin; Mr. Theodore Wing; to be opened and read by the survivor, in event of the death of either, and until such death to remain unopened.’” “Was this inscription also in the handwriting of your late husband?” Now many noted that she had said “Judge Parlin,” and not “my late husband,” as if she would remind them from the start of the public’s share in his acts, rather than of her own. “It was.” “Please produce that paper.” The witness drew forth a large square envelope and handed it to the coroner, who said to the jury: “I regret that I am compelled to read to you a paper which was evidently intended for one person’s reading only, and that Mrs. Parlin or Mr. Wing, according as the one or the other should be the longest-lived. The circumstances of the death which placed this in the hands of the other for perusal, leaves no alternative. Before reading, let me say, I was a townsman of Judge Parlin: I had the honour to know him intimately, and notwithstanding what I am about to read you, I still hold it an honour. He was an able lawyer, an upright judge, a good citizen, and, I may add, a noble man. If he sinned, who of us is there that is without sin? If there be such, let him cast the first stone. I am not entitled to do so.” The widow sat with head held high, as if there had come to her again the old strength that so many felt was gone forever. When her husband was in question, her courage had no limit. She flinched from no eye that was turned towards her, but there was that in her own which seemed to resent even the kindly words of the coroner, as if in protest that they implied wrong in her husband’s past which she would not for one instant admit. It was not for them to accuse, still less to excuse. What he had done was a thing that concerned him and his God alone, and her look said more plainly than words, “neither do I accuse him!” The instinct of defence covered her as a shield. Meantime the coroner read: