knowing way. Then she opened the door,
there to find a deputy from the sheriff's office.

"They 've impaneled a jury up at the courthouse," he announced. "The
coroner wants Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Harkins to come up there and tell
what they know about this here skeleton they found."

It was the expected. The two men went forth, to find the street about
the courthouse thronged, for already the news of the finding of the
skeleton had traveled far, even into the little mining camps which
skirted the town. It was a mystery of years long agone, and as such it
fascinated and lured, in far greater measure perhaps, than some murder
of a present day. Everywhere were black crowds under the faint street
lamps. The basement of the courthouse was illuminated; and there were
clusters of curious persons about the stairways. Through the throngs
started Harry and Fairchild, only to be drawn aside by Farrell, the
attorney.

"I 'm not going to take a part in this unless I have to," he told them.
"It will look better for you if it is n't necessary for me to make an
appearance. Whatever you do," and he addressed Harry, "say nothing
about what you were telling me this afternoon. In the first place, you
yourself have no actual knowledge of what happened. How do you know
but what Thornton Fairchild was attacked by this man and forced to kill
in self-defense? It's a penitentiary offense for a man to strike
another, without sufficient justification, beneath ground. And had
Sissie Larsen even so much as slapped Thornton Fairchild, that man
would have been perfectly justified in killing him to protect himself.
I 'm simply telling you that so that you will have no qualms in keeping
concealed facts which, at this time, have no bearing. Guide yourselves
accordingly--and as I say, I will be there only as a spectator, unless
events should necessitate something else."

They promised and went on, somewhat calmer in mind, to edge their way
to the steps and to enter the basement of the courthouse. The coroner
and his jury, composed of six miners picked up haphazard along the
street--according to the custom of coroners in general--were already
present. So was every person who possibly could cram through the doors
of the big room. To them all Fairchild paid little attention,--all but
three.

They were on a back seat in the long courtroom,--Squint Rodaine and his
son, chalkier, yet blacker than ever, while between them sat an old
woman wit