"I may be mistaken in the directions, but it was across the square, opposite from Mulberry Street. I turned to the right. I must have run perhaps four or five blocks, I don't know just how far it was. It was quite warm." "Did you come into this street?" "I don't really know." "You didn't see anybody?" "Not a soul. I didn't hear a sound." "What time was that?" "I heard the clock strike one before I turned back." "Gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, "it was just about that time that Joel Tarbush was killed, right here." "That's true," said Don Lane. "It's terrible to think of--but why----" "You heard Judge Henderson's testimony, gentlemen," went on the coroner. "He told of seeing these three people pass by on the square in front of his office stair. Just before that he had said good night to Tarbush himself. He saw Tarbush start right over this way for his home. Now, just in time to catch him before he got into his home--if a man was running fast--a man _did_ run from the square over in this direction!" The members of the jury remained silent. Their faces were extremely grave. "And, gentlemen, you have heard the testimony of other witnesses here before now, stating that this witness was heard to make threats to Tarbush yesterday afternoon, right after he was dismissed from my own court upstairs. Mr. Jorgens, I believe you were there. What did this young man say after he had for the second time assaulted Ephraim Adamson--twice in one day, and entirely regardless of the rebuke of the law?" "He said, Mr. Coroner," replied Nels Jorgens gravely, even with sadness in his face, "just when he came out of the crowd where he had left Adamson laying on the ground already--he said to Tarbush, 'You'll come next'--or I'll get you next'--something of that kind." "Was he angry at that time?" "Yes, Mr. Coroner, he was," said Nels Jorgens, against his will. Ben McQuaid leaned over to whisper to Jerome Westbrook. "It seems like this young fellow comes in here with his college education and undertakes to run this whole town. Pretty coarse work, it looks like to me." Jerome Westbrook nodded slowly. He recalled Sally Lester's look. Of all the six faces turned toward him from the scattered little group of the coroner's jury, not more than two showed the least compassion or sympathy. Don Lane's hot temper smarted under the renewed sense of the injustice which had assailed him yet again. "What's the game?" he demanded. "Why am I brought here? What's the matter with you people? Do you mean to charge me with killing this man? What have I done to any of you? Damn your town, anyhow--the rotten, lying, hypocritical lot of you all!" "The less you say the better," said the coroner; and the sheriff's steady gaze cautioned Don Lane yet more.