ear,
sober eyes, and hale, house-bleached skin, bore out the authority
conceded to him in Kensington as a rich gentleman of the world.

"Mr. Magistrate," said Duff Salter, "this examination concerns the
public and the ends of justice only as bears upon the death of the late
citizens of Kensington, William Zane and Saylor Rainey. It is a
preliminary examination only, and the person suspected by public gossip
has not retained counsel. With your permission, as the executor of
William Zane, I will conduct such part of the inquiry here as my duty
toward the deceased, and my knowledge of the evidence, notwithstanding
my frontier notions of law, suggest to me."

"You prosecute?" asked the magistrate, and added, "Yes, yes! I will!"

Calvin Van de Lear got up and bowed to the magistrate.

"Your Honor, my deep interest in Miss Agnes Wilt has driven me to leave
the bedside of a dying parent to see that her interests are properly
attended to in this case. Whenever she is concerned I am for the
defence."

"Yes!" exclaimed the magistrate. "Salter, have you a witness?"

"Mike Donovan!" called Duff Salter.

A red-haired Irishman, with one eyebrow higher than the other, and scars
on his face, walked into the alderman's court from the private room, and
was sworn.

"Donovan," spoke Duff Salter, standing up, "relate the occurrences of a
certain night when you rowed the prisoner, Andrew Zane, and certain
other persons, from Treaty Island to an uncertain point in the River
Delaware."

"Stop! stop!" exclaimed Calvin Van de Lear, rising. "It seems to me I
have seen that fellow's face before. Donovan, hadn't you a wooden leg
when last I saw you?"

"No doubt of it," answered the Irishman.

"Why haven't you got it on now?" cried Calvin, scowling.

"Because, yer riverence, me own legs was plenty good enough on this
occasion."

"Now, now, I won't!" ordered the sententious little magistrate.

"Proceed with the narrative," cried Duff Salter, "and repeat no part of
the conversation in that boat."

"It was a dark and lowering night," said the waterman, "as we swung
loose from Traity Isle. I sat a little forward of the cintre, managing
the oars. Mr. Andrew Zane was in the bow, on the watch for difficulties.
In the stern sat the boss, Mr. William Zane. Between him and me--God's
rest to him!--sat the murdered gintleman, well-beloved Saylor Rainey!
The tide was running six miles an hour. We steered by the lights of
Kinsington."

"Then