“Did you notice whether the shades were drawn?” “They were drawn to the west windows, but were raised to all four of the south windows.” “Were you long in the room?” “Only long enough to say ‘good-night’ and ask him not to read too late.” “What did he say to this?” “Laughed, as he always did, when I spoke of his sitting up late, and,” in a voice that was almost a sob; “said, ‘You know, mother, I can’t get over my bad habits, but really to-night I’m only going to read a chapter or two more, for I must write a letter and then go to bed. I’ve got a busy day to-morrow.’” “Was that all he said?” “Excepting ‘good-night.’” “Do you recall anything in his manner, tone, or words that indicated trouble or apprehension of any kind?” “Nothing. He was, as always, cheerful and, seemingly, happy, and laughed quite carelessly when he spoke of his bad habit.” “When did you next see him?” The question came with a suddenness that startled every one who heard it, including the witness. She grew white and for a moment swayed as if she would fall. Dr. Rogers, her physician, stepped towards her, but before he could reach her side, she recovered by what seemed a supreme effort of the will, and, raising her head, answered: “In the morning, a little after six, lying dead on the threshold of the south door.” Then her head dropped on the table in front of her, and her face was hidden from the gaze of her curious neighbours, but not a sob was heard. She had spent her tears long before. At an adjourned session, she testified that she had heard no unusual noise during the night. She was a sound sleeper and did not wake easily. She had fallen asleep soon after hearing the clock strike ten. She did not recall awaking until aroused by the noise made by Mary Mullin knocking at her door, soon after six o’clock, to tell her of the discovery of the murder. “Do you believe that a pistol shot could have been fired at your side door and you not hear it?” the coroner asked, with that sudden sharpness he had at times. “I am compelled to believe that it did occur;” and there was to more than one onlooker an air of defiance in the answer. “In advance of this, would you believe it possible?” he demanded. She looked at him as if weighing the question and its purpose, and then said deliberately: “No.” The answer manifestly accorded with the sense of the spectators, among whom there were sundry exchanges of glances not all friendly to the witness. But the coroner was speaking again: “Mrs. Parlin, what do you know of the parentage of the late Theodore Wing?” Every head was bent towards the witness to catch the answer to what the veriest dullard suspected was the most important question thus far asked. The witness grew pale--paler than she had been at any time, and there came into her bearing a touch of defiance rather felt than seen. She was apparently arming herself against coroner and spectators. “He was the son of Judge Parlin.”