There was a general smile at this.
"But you did not see it?"
"I hear some shooting."
"But you did not see who did the shooting?"
"Aw, no; but she said—"
"That will do, thank you," she said sweetly, and the man retired.
The prosecution consulted its notes. "Pierre La Flitche!" was called out.
A slender, swart-skinned man, lithe of figure and graceful, stepped forward to the open space before the table. He was darkly handsome, with a quick, eloquent eye which roved frankly everywhere. It rested for a moment on Frona, open and honest in its admiration, and she smiled and half-nodded, for she liked him at first glance, and it seemed as though they had met of old time. He smiled pleasantly back, the smooth upper lip curling brightly and showing beautiful teeth, immaculately white.
In answer to the stereotyped preliminaries he stated that his name was that of his father's, a descendant of the coureurs du bois. His mother—with a shrug of the shoulders and flash of teeth—was a breed. He was born somewhere in the Barrens, on a hunting trip, he did not know where. Ah, oui, men called him an old-timer. He had come into the country in the days of Jack McQuestion, across the Rockies from the Great Slave.
On being told to go ahead with what he knew of the matter in hand, he deliberated a moment, as though casting about for the best departure.