probably from that which you will give here under oath."     

       "That," replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, "is as you choose. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as a part of my testimony under oath."     

       "But you say it is incredible."     

       "That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true."     

       The coroner was apparently not greatly affected by the young man's manifest resentment. He was silent for some moments, his eyes upon the floor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: "We will resume the inquest."     

       The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.     

       "What is your name?" the coroner asked.     

       "William Harker."     

       "Age?"     

       "Twenty-seven."     

       "You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?"     

       "Yes."     

       "You were with him when he died?"     

       "Near him."     

       "How did that happen—your presence, I mean?"     

       "I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose, however, was to study him, and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories."     

       "I sometimes read them."     

       "Thank you."     

       "Stories in general—not yours."     

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