“No, never.”

“You had spoken to him about those bonds before?”

“Yes, Monday I saw him and asked him if he would take them off my hand.”

“And he gave you to understand that if you would wait a day or two he would buy the bonds.”

North nodded.

“Hadn’t you learned prior to going to the store that McBride had just received three thousand dollars in cash from Atkinson?”

“Yes, I knew that,—­Langham told me.”

“So that it is reasonable to suppose that McBride had at least four thousand dollars in his safe Thursday afternoon.”

“I suppose it is, but I saw only the thousand he paid me for the bonds.”

“That came from the safe?”

“Yes.”

“I guess that’s all for the present, North.”

“Do you mean you shall want to see me again?” asked North, rising.

“Yes, you won’t leave town to-day; the inquest is to be held this afternoon, you will probably be wanted then, so hold yourself in readiness.”

“I hope you will arrange to get through with me as soon as possible, Moxlow!”

“We won’t put you to any unnecessary inconvenience if we can help it,” returned Moxlow, with a queer cold smile.

“Thank you,” said North and quitted the room.

He sauntered out into the street; he was disposed to consider Mr. Moxlow as something of a fool, as a rank amateur in the present crisis.  He turned into the Square and halted for an instant before the dingy store that had been the scene of the recent tragedy.  People on the street paused when they had passed and turned to stare after him, but North was unaware of this, as he was unaware that his name had come to be the one most frequently mentioned in connection with the McBride murder.  Suddenly he quickened his step; just ahead of him was Marshall Langham.

“Hello, Marsh!” he said, and stepped eagerly forward with extended hand.

The lawyer paused irresolutely and turned on him a bloated face, but there was no welcome in the sullen glance.

“Marsh—­”

Langham’s lips twitched and an angry murmur came from them, but the words were indistinct.

“What’s wrong?” asked North, falling back a step in astonishment.

“Yes, what’s wrong!” said Langham in a hoarse whisper.  “Hell!  You have nerve to stick out your hand to me—­you have bigger nerve to ask me that,—­get out of my way!” and he pushed past North and strode down the street without a single backward glance.

CHAPTER TWELVE

JOE TELLS HIS STORY

The inquest was held late Saturday afternoon in the bleak living-room of the McBride house.  The coroner had explained the manner in which the murdered man had come to his death, and as he finished he turned to Moxlow.  The prosecuting attorney shifted his position slightly, thrust out his long legs toward the wood-stove, and buried his hands deep in his trousers pockets, then he addressed the jury.