“There’s been quite a lot o’ talk—”
“Suspicion, you mean.”
“We—ell, yes.”
“People are inclined to connect Mr. Sedgwick with the death of the woman?”
“What else can you expect?” returned the old man deprecatingly. “Iry Dennett’s been tellin’ his story. He’s certain the woman he seen talkin’ to Mr. Sedgwick is the dead woman. Willin’ to swear to it anywheres.”
“What about Gansett Jim? Has he contributed anything to the discussion?”
“No. Jim’s as close-tongued as Iry is clatter-mouthed.”
“And probably with reason,” muttered Kent. “Well, I’ll look for you inside.”
He returned to join Sedgwick. Together they entered the building, while behind them a rising hum testified to the interest felt in them by the villagers.
Within, a tall wizened man, with dead fishy eyes, stalked nervously to and fro on a platform, beside which a hastily constructed coffin with a hasped cover stood on three sawhorses. On a chair near by slouched the sheriff, his face red and streaming. A few perspiring men and women were scattered on the benches. Outside a clock struck eleven. There was a quick inflow of the populace, and the man on the platform lifted up a chittering voice.