Elder Ira Dennett was the next and last witness called. Somewhere beneath the Elder’s dry exterior lurked the instinct of the drama. Stalking to the platform, he told his story with skill and fervor. He made a telling point of the newly finished picture he had seen in Sedgwick’s studio, depicting the moonlit charge of the wave-mounted corpse. He sketched out the encounter between the artist and the dead woman vividly. As he proceeded, the glances turned upon Sedgwick darkened from suspicion to enmity. Kent was almost ready to wish that he had come armed, when Dennett, with a final fling of his arm toward the artist, stepped from the platform and resumed his seat, amid a surcharged silence. Then Sedgwick rose. He was white; but his voice was under perfect control as he said, “I presume I have the right to be heard in my own defense?” “Nobody’s accused you yet,” growled Schlager. “Public opinion accuses me. That is not to be wondered at, in view of what Elder Dennett has just told you. It is all true. But I do not know the woman who accosted me. I never saw her before that evening. She spoke strangely to me, and indicated that she was to meet some one and go aboard ship, though I saw no sign of a ship.” “You couldn’t see much of the ocean from your house,” said the medical officer. “I walked on the cliffs later,” said Sedgwick, and a murmur went through the court room; “but I never found the woman. And as for throwing her out of a ship, or any such fantastic nonsense, I can prove that I was back in my house by a little after nine o’clock that night.” He sat down, coolly enough; but his eyes dilated when Kent whispered to him: “Keep your nerve. The probability will be shown that she was killed before ten o’clock.” Now, however, Doctor Breed was on his feet again. “Form in line, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “and pass the coffin as spry as possible.” At this, Sheriff Schlager stepped forward and loosened the hasps, preparatory to removing the cover. “The body has been left,” said he, slipping the lid aside, “just as—” Of a sudden, his eyes stiffened. A convulsive shudder ran through his big body. He jammed the cover back, and, with fingers that actually drummed on the wood, forced the hasps into place. “She’s come to life!” cried a voice from the rear. “No, no!” rumbled the sheriff. Whirling upon the medical officer, he whispered in his ear; not more than a single word, it seemed to the watchful Kent. The doctor turned ghastly. “Gents,” he said in a quavering voice to the amazed crowd, “the program will not be carried out as arranged. The—the—well, the condition of the deceased is not fitten—” He stopped, mopping his brow. But Yankee curiosity was not so easily to be balked of its food. It found expression in Lawyer Adam Bain. “That ain’t the law, Doc,” he said. “I’m the law here,” declared Sheriff Schlager, planting himself solidly between the crowd and the coffin. One hand crept slowly back toward his hip.