The coroner and his jury, composed of six miners picked up haphazard along the street--according to the custom of coroners in general--were already present.

So was every person who possibly could cram through the doors of the big room.

To them all Fairchild paid little attention,--all but three.
They were on a back seat in the long courtroom,--Squint Rodaine and his son, chalkier, yet blacker than ever, while between them sat an old woman with white hair which straggled about her cheeks, a woman with deep-set eyes, whose hands wandered now and then vaguely before her; a wrinkled woman, fidgeting about on her seat, watching with craned neck those who stuffed their way within the already crammed room, her eyes never still, her lips moving constantly, as though mumbling some never-ending rote.

Fairchild stared at her, then turned to Harry.
"Who 's that with the Rodaines ?" Harry looked furtively.

"Crazy Laura--his wife." "But--" "And she ain't 'ere for anything good!" Harry's voice bore a tone of nervousness.