by an imperative urge to find out all that was possible of the affair.
The force that drove him was the need in his heart to exonerate his
friend. Though he recognized the weight of evidence against her, he
could not believe her guilty. Under tremendous provocation it might be
in character for her to have shot his uncle in self-defense or while in
extreme anger. But all his knowledge of her cried out that she could
never have chloroformed him, tied him up, then taken his life while he
was helpless. She was too fine and loyal to her code, too good a
sportsman, far too tender-hearted, for such a thing.

Yet the evidence assaulted this conviction of his soul. If the Wild
Rose in the dingy court-room had been his friend of the outdoor spaces,
he would have rejected as absurd the possibility that she had killed
his uncle. But his heart sank when he looked at this wan-faced woman
who came late and slipped inconspicuously into a back seat, whose eyes
avoided his, who was so plainly keyed up to a tremendously high pitch.
She was dressed in a dark-blue tailored serge and a black sailor hat,
beneath the rim of which the shadows on her face were dark.

The room was jammed with people. Every aisle was packed and hundreds
were turned away. In the audience was a scattering of fashionably
dressed women, for it was possible the inquest might develop a
sensation.

The coroner was a short, fat, little man with a highly developed sense
of his importance. It was his hour, and he made the most of it. His
methods were his own. The young assistant district attorney lounging
by the table played second fiddle.

The first witnesses developed the movements of Cunningham during the