e told you that he was acquainted with Symonds--a
fact unknown to me--and I noticed on one or two occasions that he seemed
to have acquaintances among the men tramping west to the Kootenay
district. I can only imagine that after his success in Montana last
year, Symonds made up his mind to try the same game on the C.P.R., and
that during the last fortnight he came somehow into communication with
my father. My father must have been aware of Symonds's plans--and may
have been unable at the last to resist the temptation to join in the
scheme. As to all that I am entirely in the dark."

He paused, and then, looking down, he added, under his breath, as though
involuntarily--"I pray--that he may not have been concerned in the
murder of poor Brown. But there is--I think--no evidence to connect him
with it. I shall be glad to answer to the best of my power any questions
that the court may wish to put."

He sat down heavily, very pale, but entirely collected. The room watched
him a moment, and then a friendly, encouraging murmur seemed to rise
from the crowd--to pass from them to Anderson.

The coroner, who was an old friend of Anderson's, fidgeted a little and
in silence. He took off his glasses and put them on again. His tanned
face, long and slightly twisted, with square harsh brows, and powerful
jaw set in a white fringe of whisker, showed an unusual amount of
disturbance. At last he said, clearing his throat: "We are much obliged
to you, Mr. Anderson, for your frankness towards this court. There's
not a man here that don't feel for you, and don't wish to offer you his
respectful sympathy. We know you--and I reckon we know what to think
about you. Gentlemen," he spoke with nasal deliberation, looking round
the court, "I think that's so?"

A shout of consent--the shout of men deeply moved--went up. Anderson,
who had resumed his former attitude, appeared to take no notice, and the
coroner resumed.

"I will now call on Mrs. Ginnell to give her evidence."

The Irishwoman rose with alacrity--what she had to say held the
audience. The surly yet good-hearted creature was divided between her
wish to do justice to the demerits of McEwen, whom she had detested, and
her fear of hurting Anderson's feelings in public. Beneath her rough
exterior, she carried some of the delicacies of Celtic feeling, and she
had no sooner given some fact that showed the coarse dishonesty of the
father, than she veered off in haste to describe the pat