Yet, there were certain features of that inquest which awakened strange hope in her breast.  It was held in the county court room; and the crowd gathering to listen and hear somehow gave her a different impression from the unwashed rabble that usually infests public courts to feast on the carrion of criminal proceedings.  Men predominated, of course; but they were decent men, men of standing, not idlers and blacklegs.  As she passed up the aisle with Matthews and Mrs. Williams to the front row of chairs where the news editor and Wayland and Brydges and the youth from Washington were already seated, she heard a man’s voice say, “They’ve gone too far this time, by Jingo!  It will take more than wind-jamming to win next fall’s elections with this against them.”

“You bet there’s an awakening,” returned another voice.  “The-dyed-in-the-woollies don’t realize yet; but they will waken up after election day!”

The news editor had only finished giving evidence; on the whole immaterial testimony; for suspicions do not pass with juries and coroners.

“How was it you attended the examination of this mine?” was the last question asked him.

Considering the Smelter City lots, for which the news editor had yet to pay and the “kiddies” which he had to support, it would have been an easy matter for him ‘to slink’ that question.  “A newspaper man’s pursuit of a good story” would have been answer enough to satisfy any coroner; but the news editor did not give that answer.  He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief.  Then, he put them back on his nose and looked straight at the gentleman presiding.

“May I answer that question in my own way, taking plenty of time?” he asked.  “I take it this inquest is being held to get at the real truth.”

The coroner said, “Go ahead!”

The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company sat up and whispered something to Brydges.  The handy man turned lazily round.  “Yes,” he said, “one of our staff.”

The news editor cleared his throat, and a little sharp intersection of lines bridged above his nose.

“For some little time, it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on.”

The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company jumped to his feet.

“The witness should keep to a strict recital of fact, not rumors,” he interjected; and the downy-lipped representative of the Federal Government said nothing about the privileges of a witness, or the impropriety of a special pleader opening his mouth at an inquest.

“Confine yourself to facts,” ordered the coroner heavily.

Wayland and Eleanor suddenly leaned forward.  The news editor rubbed his glasses and resumed in a low clear tense voice.  How many of the listeners had the faintest idea of what the recital cost him?