"It will be quite necessary to examine Miss Langton on the subject," he declares. Someone is found who remembers to have heard that Miss Langton is at the hotel in the village, near by. An officer is dispatched to bring her in to the inquest. So they wait in the odorous sweetness of the green wood, the officers of justice, the silent corpse, the curious crowd; the wild birds sing on as gayly as if no dead man lay there on the sweet, green grass, with his handsome white face upturned to Heaven as if pleading for vengeance on his slayer. He has not been murdered for purposes of robbery. His gold watch, his diamond ring, his purse, containing a hundred dollars in bills, are all secure upon his person. It is not known that he had an enemy in the world. A strange mystery centers around his death. A few notice that old Mr. Langton goes away quietly before the officer's return with Maud. And Vane Charteris stays. Standing apart beneath the shade of a towering maple, he waits, with a strange, incensed look in his dark blue eyes, and on his handsome face that is almost as white as that of the dead. Many eyes regard him curiously; but the cold, white, inscrutable face tells nothing to their wondering gaze. At last, after what seems a long and wearisome interval of waiting, the rumble of the carriage wheels is heard. They pause in the road near by, they catch the impatient neigh of horses, and the officer appears leading a lady through the trees and grass toward them. She comes toward them, trembling so that, but for the support of the officer's arm, she must certainly fall to the ground. At the coroner's request she lifts her veil and looks at him with frightened, blue eyes, and a wild, white face--whiter than the lilies to which Vane Charteris likened her that morning. She is duly sworn, and they re-cover the dead, white face, with its staring eyes they cannot close, and mute, cold lips. "Do you recognize this man?" they ask her, and after one shuddering, quickly-withdrawn glance, she averts her face, and answers with white, pain-drawn lips: "It is Mr. Clyde." She is asked next: "When and where did you see him last?" A quiver passes over the pale, beautiful face. "Last night, at or near nine o'clock, near this spot," she falters, yet standing suddenly erect, with stately, lily-like grace, and a proudly-poised head. "Was he living or dead?" "Living, of course," haughtily. "Mr. Clyde was your lover?" the coroner interrogated. "I have not said so," she says, flashing him a haughty look. "The fact is well known," he answers. "You went away to marry him last night?" The deep color flows into her cheeks, then recedes again, leaving her pale as marble. "I cannot deny it," she murmurs, in a crushed voice. "Then you changed your mind, as it is a lady's privilege to do, and left him. He was very angry, and used threats toward you," the coroner pursues, politely. "Yes," Miss Langton answers, in the same low, sad voice.