Ellis, just off his run, had reached the court-room only a second before he stepped to the stand. Now he looked around, surprised at the lawyer's question. His wandering eye halted at Lane.
"There he is."
"Which man do you mean?"
"The one on the end of the bench."
"At what time did this take place?"
"Lemme see. About quarter-past ten, maybe."
"Which way did he go when he left you?"
"Toward Fifteenth Street."
"That is all." The lawyer turned briskly toward Kirby. "Mr. Lane, will you take the stand?"
Every eye focused on the range rider. As he moved forward and took the oath the scribbling reporters found in his movements a pantherish lightness, in his compact figure rippling muscles perfectly under control. There was an appearance of sunburnt competency about him, a crisp confidence born of the rough-and-tumble life of the outdoor West. He did not look like a cold-blooded murderer. Women found themselves hoping that he was not. The jaded weariness of the sensation-seekers vanished at sight of him. A man had walked upon the stage, one full of vital energy.