“No, I know that, but we are interested in finding out. I don’t think you know me--I am the District Attorney--and I shall take particular pains to find out.” A gulf suddenly yawned before Milton’s feet, and he made a prompt, bold attempt to leap it. “I didn’t like to say nothin’ ’baout it, bein’ as it’s in th’ fam’ly”--he cast an uneasy glance at John here--“but Seth Fairchild rides th’ mare a good deal. I did hear somebody saddlin’ th’ mare, but I took it fer granted it was him, ’n’ sao I didn’t git up. It’d be jes like him, I said to myself, to go ridin’ in th’ moonshine. He’s thet sort of a feller, naow ain’t he, John?” The sound of his own voice frightened Milton as he went on, and his closing appeal to the brother for corroboration carried the nervous accent of fear. John did not answer, but rose and walked over to join Ansdell at the window. “Of caourse,” Milton began, in a lower voice, to which he sought to give a confidential tone, “I don’t wan’ to say nothin’ agin Seth. Of caourse, he’s John’s brother, ‘n’----” The words were cut short by the rolling back of one of the parlor doors, and the entrance of the three doctors. The Coroner, who came last, pulled the door shut again. The older of the other two came to the District Attorney and said, with deliberate distinctness: “We are both prepared to swear that Mr. Fairchild’s death was caused by a gunshot wound in the head.” It was then that John sprang to the stove, and shook its grate vehemently. At sight of the Sheriff, who advanced upon him with a directness which left no ambiguity as to his purpose, Milton rose excitedly from his chair, cast a swift scared glance around the company, and then, while the handcuffs were being snapped upon his wrists, began to whimper. “I didn’t do it! It’s a put-up job! It’s them brothers o’ his thet allus hankered after his money, ’n’ naow they got it they’re tryin’ to put the thing on me. ’N’ his wife, tew, thet stuck-up city gal, she----” “Come naow, yeou better shut up,” said the Sheriff sententiously. “Th’ more yeh say th’ wuss it’ll be fer yeh.” Most of the men present averted their gaze during the brief period of alternate threats and cringing, of rough curses and frenzied fawning on the Sheriff, the District Attorney, and even the Coroner, which ensued; but Mr. Hubbard watched it all carefully with evident interest. “That is a very curious type of criminal,” he said, as the Sheriff and his prisoner left the room; “very curious indeed! I never saw a murderer before who had so little nerve, and funked so absolutely when he was confronted with detection. Why, I’ve seen men, guilty as guilty could be, who would deceive even their own lawyers. But such a simpleton as that--he’s not worth his rope.”