JOE TELLS HIS STORY The inquest was held late Saturday afternoon in the bleak living-room of the McBride house.

The coroner had explained the manner in which the murdered man had come to his death, and as he finished he turned to Moxlow.

The prosecuting attorney shifted his position slightly, thrust out his long legs toward the wood-stove, and buried his hands deep in his trousers pockets, then he addressed the jury.
They were there, he told them, to listen to certain facts that bore on the death of Archibald McBride.

If, after hearing these facts, they could say they pointed to any person or persons as being implicated in the murder, they were to name the person or persons, and he would see that they were brought before the grand jury for indictment.

They were to bear in mind, however, that no one was on trial, and that no one was accused of the crime about to be investigated, yet they must not forget that a cold-blooded murder had been committed; human hands had raised the weapon that had crushed out the life of the old merchant, human intelligence had made choice of the day and hour and moment for that brutal deed; the possibility of escape had been nicely calculated, nothing had been left to chance.