They had parted, almost before they had met!
To Dieudonné Lane, ignorant as he was of the cause of all this, it seemed that the final parting of all had come, and, bitterly he reflected, they had had no chance—no chance whatever—for what was due them from their love, their life itself.
Anne Oglesby, the kiss of her lover's lips still sweet and trembling upon her mouth, her own mind confused, her own heart disturbed, turned towards the dusty stair, all her senses in a whirl. And within five minutes Don Lane, very pale and much distressed, was in the front part of the little home of Joel Tarbush. The officer had brought him before Justice Blackman, the coroner, and the coroner's jury, six solemn-faced men who sat now in the front parlor which had no other occupants save the red-eyed daughter of the dead man, and save the long and shrouded figure which lay upon the couch near by.
Don Lane could not misread the hostility of the gaze turned upon him by most of these whom now he saw.
Something suddenly caught at his heart—his first feeling of fear, of uncertainty; but even this was mingled with a rage at fate, which could be so cruelly unjust to him. And always, in spite of himself, he felt his eyes turning to look, awed, terrified, upon the long thing which lay upon the couch. And always the eyes of these six men saw what he did, saw what he saw.
"This is Dewdonny Lane," said the Sheriff briefly, and himself sat down to await the progress of events.
The formalities were few. "You may be sworn," said the coroner to him—"it's just as well." Then the oath administered, Blackman began the regular questions, and Don answered steadily.
"My name is Dieudonné Lane. I am twenty-two years of age. I have no residence as yet. I am a graduate in engineering. I'm going to Wyoming some time this month to take up my work there."
There was a little silence in the room, and then the coroner began again:
"Where were you just now?" he asked. "We sent for you at your home."