rose, and
laughing in silly fashion, stumbled to the aisle, her straying hair,
her ragged clothing, her big shoes and shuffling gait all blending with
the wild, eerie look of her eyes, the constant munching of the almost
toothless mouth. Again she laughed, in a vacant, embarrassed manner,
as she reached the stand and held up her hand for the administration of
the oath. Fairchild leaned close to his partner.

"At least she knows enough for that."

Harry nodded.

"She knows a lot, that ole girl. They say she writes down in a book
everything she does every day. But what can she be 'ere to testify to?"

The answer seemed to come in the questioning voice of the coroner.

"Your name, please?"

"Laura Rodaine. Least, that's the name I go by. My real maiden name
is Laura Masterson, and--"

"Rodaine will be sufficient. Your age?"

"I think it's sixty-four. If I had my book I could tell. I--"

"Your book?"

"Yes, I keep everything in a book. But it is n't here. I could n't
bring it."

"The guess will be sufficient in this case. You 've lived here a good
many years, Mrs. Rodaine?"

"Yes. Around thirty-five. Let's see--yes, I 'm sure it's thirty-five.
My boy was born here--he 's about thirty and we came here five years
before that."

"I believe you told me to-night that you have a habit of wandering
around the hills?"

"Yes, I 've done that--I do it right along--I 've done it ever since my
husband and I split up--that was just a little while after the boy was
born--"

"Sufficient. I merely wanted to establish that fact. In wandering
about, did you ever see anything, twenty-three or four years ago or so,
that would lead you to believe you know something about the death of
this man whose demise we are inquiring?"

The big hand of Harry caught at Fairchild's arm. The old woman had
raised her head, craning her neck and allowing her mouth to fall open,
as she strove for words. At last:

"I know something. I know a lot. But I 've never figured it was
anybody's business but my own. So I have n't told it. But I
remember--"

"What, Mrs. Rodaine?"

"The day Sissie Larsen was supposed to leave town--that was the day he
got killed."

"Do you remember the date?"

"No--I don't remember that."

"Would it be in your book?"

She seemed to become suddenly excited. She half rose in her chair and
looked down the line of benches to where her husband sat, the scar
showing plainly in the rather br