to tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for
this afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull's death. Where's
your partner, Mr. Rochester?" looking around inquiringly.

"In Cleveland. Won't I do?" replied Kent, his appointment forgotten
in the news that Ferguson had just given him.

"No, we didn't come for legal advice," Ferguson smiled; then grew
serious. "What's Mr. Rochester's address?"

Kent walked over to his desk and picked up the telegram. "The City
Club, Cleveland," he stated.

"Thanks," Ferguson jotted down the address in his note-book.
"Jones, here," placing his hand on his companion, "came to serve
Mr. Rochester with a subpoena; he's wanted at the Turnbull inquest
as a material witness."


CHAPTER VIII

THE INQUEST

Coroner Penfield adjusted his eyeglasses and scanned the spectators
gathered for the Turnbull inquest. The room was crowded with both
men and women, the latter predominating, and the coroner decided
that, while some had come from a personal interest in the dead man,
the majority had been attracted by morbid curiosity. There was a
stir among the spectators as an inner door opened and the jury,
led by the morgue master filed into the room and took their places.