“Body coming back?” he asked. “Yep. On its way now.” “What occurred in the house where they took it?” “Search me! Everybody was shut out by the sheriff and the doc. They had that body to theirselves nigh twenty minutes.” At this moment the sheriff entered the hall, followed by Doctor Breed, who escorted the coffin to its supporting sawhorses. The meager physician was visibly at the fag end of his self-control. Even the burly sheriff looked like a sick man, as he lifted aside the coffin lid and spoke. “There was reasons, neighbors,” said he, “why the corpse wasn’t suitable to be looked at. Nobody had seen it since last night. We’ve fixed it up as good as we could, and you’ll now please pass by as quick as possible.” In the line that formed Kent got a place behind Elder Dennett, who had decided to take another look for good measure, as he said. The look was a productive one. No sooner had it fallen on the face of the dead than Dennett jabbed an indicatory finger in that direction and addressed the sheriff: “Hey, Len! What’s this?” “What’s what?” growled Schlager. “Why, there’s a cut on the lady’s right cheek. It wasn’t there when I seen the corpse last night.” “Ah, what’s the matter with your eyes?” demanded the sheriff savagely. “You want to hog the lime-light, that’s your trouble!” This was evidently a shrewd lash at a recognized weakness, and the Elder moved on amid jeering comments. But Sedgwick, whose eyes had been fixed upon Kent, saw a curious expression flicker and fade across the long-jawed face. It was exactly the expression of a dog that pricks up its ears. The next moment a titter ran through the crowd as a bumpkin in a rear seat called out: “The dude’s eyes ain’t mates!” Chester Kent, already conspicuous in his spotless white flannels, had made himself doubly so by drawing out a monocle and deftly fixing it in his right eye. He leaned over the body to look into the face, and his head jerked back the merest trifle. Bending lower, he scrutinized the unmanacled right wrist. When he passed on his lips were pursed in the manner of one who whistles noiselessly. He resumed his seat beside Sedgwick. His eyes grew dull and melancholy. One would have thought him sunk in a daze, or a doze, while the procession filed past the unknown dead. His monocle, which had dropped from his eye as he turned from the coffin, dangled against his hand. Chancing to look down at it, Sedgwick started and stared. Kent’s knuckle, as seen through the glass, stood forth, monstrous and distorted, every line of the bronzed skin showing like a furrow. The monocle was a powerful magnifying lens. The sheriff’s heavy voice rose. “Any one here present recognize or identify the deceased?” he droned, and, without waiting for a reply, set the lid in place and signaled to the medical officer. “Feller citizens,” began the still shaking physician, “we don’t need any jury to find that this unknown drowned woman—”