Henry Dunbar (Mystery Classics Series). Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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Lovell listened, with a strange expression upon his face. If Henry Dunbar was pale, Henry Dunbar’s legal adviser was still more so. The jurymen stared aghast at the coroner, as if they had been awe-stricken by his impertinence towards the chief partner of the great banking-house of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby. How dared he — a man with an income of five hundred a year at the most — how dared he discredit or question any assertion made by Henry Dunbar?
The Anglo–Indian smiled, a little contemptuously. He stood in a careless attitude, playing with the golden trinkets at his watch-chain, with the hot August sunshine streaming upon his face from a bare unshaded window opposite him. But he did not attempt to escape that almost blinding glare. He stood facing the sunlight; facing the gaze of the coroner and the jurymen; the scrutinizing glance of Arthur Lovell. Unabashed and nonchalant as if he had been standing in a ball-room, the hero of the hour, the admired of all who looked upon him, Mr. Dunbar stood before the coroner and jury, and told the broken history of his old servant’s death.
“Yes,” Mr. Lovell thought again, as he watched the rich man’s face, “his nerves must be made of iron.”
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