She looked half killed, poor lamb. "He may be out of town, searching for a better position," I tried to comfort her. "He wants to have something to offer more than himself." "I only want him," she said, looking at me frankly. "I don't know why I tell you all this, but you are so kind, and I _must_ talk to some one." She sat there, in the cozy corner the school-teacher had made with a portière and some cushions, and I saw she was about ready to break down and cry. I went over to her and took her hand, for she was my own niece, although she didn't suspect it, and I had never had a child of my own. But after all, I could not help her much. I could only assure her that he would come back and explain everything, and that he was all right, and that the last time I had seen him he had spoken of her, and had said she was "the best ever." My heart fairly yearned over the girl, and I think she felt it. For she kissed me, shyly, when she was leaving. With the newspaper files before me, it is not hard to give the details of that sensational trial. It commenced on Monday, the seventh of May, but it was late Wednesday when the jury was finally selected. I was at the court-house early on Thursday, and so was Mr. Reynolds. The district attorney made a short speech. "We propose, gentlemen, to prove that the prisoner, Philip Ladley, murdered his wife," he said in part. "We will show first that a crime was committed; then we will show a motive for this crime, and, finally, we expect to show that the body washed ashore at Sewickley is the body of the murdered woman, and thus establish beyond doubt the prisoner's guilt." Mr. Ladley listened with attention. He wore the brown suit, and looked well and cheerful. He was much more like a spectator than a prisoner, and he was not so nervous as I was. Of that first day I do not recall much. I was called early in the day. The district attorney questioned me. "Your name?" "Elizabeth Marie Pitman." "Your occupation?" "I keep a boarding-house at 42 Union Street." "You know the prisoner?" "Yes. He was a boarder in my house." "For how long?" "From December first. He and his wife came at that time." "Was his wife the actress, Jennie Brice?" "Yes, sir." "Were they living together at your house the night of March fourth?" "Yes, sir." "In what part of the house?" "They rented the double parlors down-stairs, but on account of the flood I moved them up-stairs to the second floor front." "That was on Sunday? You moved them on Sunday?" "Yes, sir." "At what time did you retire that night?" "Not at all. The water was very high. I lay down, dressed, at one o'clock, and dropped into a doze." "How long did you sleep?" "An hour or so. Mr. Reynolds, a boarder, roused me to say he had heard some one rowing a boat in the lower hall." "Do you keep a boat around during flood times?" "Yes, sir." "What did you do when Mr. Reynolds roused you?" "I went to the top of the stairs. My boat was gone."