if it had not appeared to be the habitual expression of one who in his
short life had seen more of sorrow than joy, less of pleasure than care
and anxiety.

The coroner, to whom his appearance one way or the other seemed to be
a matter of no moment, addressed him immediately and without reserve:

"Your name?"

"James Trueman Harwell."

"Your business?"

"I have occupied the position of private secretary and amanuensis
to Mr. Leavenworth for the past eight months."

"You are the person who last saw Mr. Leavenworth alive, are you not?"

The young man raised his head with a haughty gesture which well-nigh
transfigured it.

"Certainly not, as I am not the man who killed him."

This answer, which seemed to introduce something akin to levity or
badinage into an examination the seriousness of which we were all
beginning to realize, produced an immediate revulsion of feeling toward
the man who, in face of facts revealed and to be revealed, could so
lightly make use of it. A hum of disapproval swept through the room,
and in that one remark, James Harwell lost all that he had previously
won by the self-possession of his bearing and the unflinching regard of