last Wednesday night he disappeared from the boarding house where he and I were both lodging, and various persons here will know”—­he glanced at one or two faces in the ring before him—­“that I have been making inquiries since, with no result.  As to what or who led him into this horrible business, I know nothing.  The Nevada deputies have 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 pathetic efforts of the son.  Her homely talk told; the picture grew.

Meanwhile Anderson sat impatient or benumbed, annoyed with Mrs. Ginnell’s garrulity, and longing for the whole thing to end.  He had a letter to write to Ottawa before post-time.