"Have you another?"
"No, sir."
"That is all for the present, Mr. Kauffman. Sheriff, ask Miss Kauffman
to come in."
As the woman (without the disfiguring head-dress which she habitually
wore) stepped to the center of the room a murmur of surprise arose from
the jury and the few spectators who were permitted to squat along the
walls. She not only appeared young; she was comely. Her face, though
darkly tanned, was attractive, and her hair, combed rigidly away from
her brow, was abundant and glossy. The line of her lips was firm yet
sweet, and her long, straight nose denoted the excellence of her strain.
Even her hands, reddened and calloused by labor, were well kept and
shapely. But it was through her bearing that she appealed most strongly
to the ranger and the coroner. She was very far from being humble. On
the contrary, the glance which she directed toward Carmody was remote
and haughty. She did not appear to notice the still, sheeted shape in
the corner.
In answer to a query she informed the jury that her name was Helen
McLaren; that she was a native of Kentucky and twenty-six years of age.
"I came to the mountains for my health," she said, curtly.
"You mean your mental health?" queried the coroner.
"Yes. I wanted to get away from the city for a while. I needed rest and
a change."
The coroner, deeply impressed with her dignity and grace, leaned back in
his chair and said: "Now before I ask the next question, Miss McLaren, I
want to tell you that what you say in answer may be used against you in
court, and according to law you need not incriminate yourself. You
understand that, do you?"
"Yes, sir. I think I do."
"Very well. Now one thing more. It is usual in cases of this kind to
have some one to represent you, and if you wish Mr. Hanscom, the forest
ranger, will act for you."
The glance she turned on Hanscom confused him, but he said: "I'm no
lawyer, but I'll do my best to see that you are treated fairly."
She thanked him with a trustful word, and the coroner began.
"You have had a great sorrow recently, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"A very bitter bereavement?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you any near relatives living?"
"Yes, sir. A sister and several aunts and uncles."
"Do they know where you are?"
"No, sir--at least, not precisely. They know I am in the mountains."
"Will you give me the names and addresses of these relatives?"
"I would rather not, if you please. I do not care to involve them in any
troubles of mine."
"Well, I won't insist on that at this point. But I would like to
understand whether, if I require it, you will furnish this information?"
"Certainly. Only I would rather not disturb them unnecessarily."
Her manner not only profoundly affected the coroner; it soon softened
the prejudices of the jury, although four of them were immediate friends
and neighbors of Kitsong. They all were manifestly astonished at the
candor of her replies.
The coroner himself rose and solemnly disclosed the corpse. "Do you
recognize this man?" he asked.
She paled and shrank from the face, which was brutal even in death, but
answered, quietly, "I do."
"Did you know him when alive?"
"I did not."
This answer surprised both the coroner and his jury.
"Your stepfather testified that he came to your home."
"So he did. But I refused to see him. My stepfather met him outside the
door. I never spoke to him in my life."
"You may be seated again," said Carmody, and after a slight pause
proceeded: "Why did you dislike the deceased? Was he disrespectful to
you?"
"He was."
"In what way?"