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Updated: May 2, 2025
The jury, half risen from its chair, some with their left hands held high above them, some with their right, swore in mumbling tones to do their duty, whatever that might be. The coroner surveyed the assemblage. "First witness," he called out; "Harry Harkins!" Harry went forward, clumsily seeking the witness chair.
Suddenly Fairchild looked up sharply at the sound of a feminine voice. "What is the matter?" "Harry Harkins got drowned." All too willingly the news was dispersed. Fairchild's eyes were searching now in the half-light from the faint street bulbs. Then they centered.
He had finished; the light had again been dimmed, and in the added shadow the haggard face seemed ashen. Motionless, thoughtful, interminably silent, the expert stood, holding the sick girl's hand. The nurse first saw him smile. It was a serious smile; it was a strangely hopeful smile a smile which was instantly reflected in her own face and which the mother caught and Dr. Harkins saw.
"Get along without ?" A crooked smile came to the other man's lips. "That is, unless you want to work with a dead man. Harry Harkins got drowned, about an hour ago, in the Blue Poppy shaft!" The news caused Fairchild to recoil and stand gasping. And before he could speak, a new voice had cut in, one full of excitement, tremulous, anxious. "Drowned? Where 's his body?" "How do I know?"
"Now and then there would turn up in the service a man who had entered it from honorable motives, and whose conduct, at all times, was chivalric and clean. There was Hersh Harkins, for example, now United States Collector at Asheville. I had many cases in which Harkins figured." "Tell me of one," I urged. Jenks had a license to make brandy, but not whiskey.
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