h white hair which straggled about her cheeks, a woman with
deep-set eyes, whose hands wandered now and then vaguely before her; a
wrinkled woman, fidgeting about on her seat, watching with craned neck
those who stuffed their way within the already crammed room, her eyes
never still, her lips moving constantly, as though mumbling some
never-ending rote. Fairchild stared at her, then turned to Harry.

"Who 's that with the Rodaines?"

Harry looked furtively. "Crazy Laura--his wife."

"But--"

"And she ain't 'ere for anything good!"

Harry's voice bore a tone of nervousness. "Squint Rodaine don't even
recognize 'er on the street--much less appear in company with 'er.
Something's 'appening!"

"But what could she testify to?"

"'Ow should I know?" Harry said it almost petulantly. "I did n't even
know she--"

"Oyez, oyez, oyez!" It was the bailiff, using a regular district-court
introduction of the fact that an inquest was about to be held. The
crowded room sighed and settled. The windows became frames for human
faces, staring from without. The coroner stepped forward.

"We are gathered here to-night to inquire into the death of a man
supposed to be L. A. Larsen, commonly called 'Sissie', whose skeleton
was found to-day in the Blue Poppy mine. What this inquest will bring
forth, I do not know, but as sworn and true members of the coroner's
jury, I charge and command you in the great name of the sovereign State
of Colorado, to do your full duty in arriving at your verdict."

The jury, half risen from its chair, some with their left hands held
high above them, some with their right, swore in mumbling tones to do
their duty, whatever that might be. The coroner surveyed the
assemblage.

"First witness," he called out; "Harry Harkins!"

Harry went forward, clumsily seeking the witness chair. A moment later
he had been sworn, and in five minutes more, he was back beside
Fairchild, staring in a relieved manner about him. He had been
questioned regarding nothing more than the mere finding of the body,
the identification by means of the watch, and the notification of the
coroner. Fairchild was called, to suffer no more from the queries of
the investigator than Harry. There was a pause. It seemed that the
inquest was over. A few people began to move toward the door--only to
halt. The coroner's voice had sounded again:

"Mrs. Laura Rodaine!"

Prodded to her feet by the squint-eyed man beside her, she