He resumed his seat beside Sedgwick. His eyes grew dull and melancholy. One would have thought him sunk in a daze, or a doze, while the procession filed past the unknown dead. His monocle, which had dropped from his eye as he turned from the coffin, dangled against his hand. Chancing to look down at it, Sedgwick started and stared. Kent’s knuckle, as seen through the glass, stood forth, monstrous and distorted, every line of the bronzed skin showing like a furrow.
The monocle was a powerful magnifying lens.
The sheriff’s heavy voice rose. “Any one here present recognize or identify the deceased?” he droned, and, without waiting for a reply, set the lid in place and signaled to the medical officer.
“Feller citizens,” began the still shaking physician, “we don’t need any jury to find that this unknown drowned woman—”
“The deceased was not drowned.” Emerging from his reverie, Chester Kent had leisurely risen in his place and made his statement.
“N-n-not drowned!” gasped the medical man.
“Certainly not! As you must know, if you made an autopsy.”
“No autopsy was necessary,” replied the other quickly. “There’s plenty of testimony without that. We’ve heard the witnesses that saw the drowned body on the grating it washed ashore on.”
“The body never washed ashore on that grating.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. “How do you figure that?” called a voice.