in Askatoon, though he had been there a good many years and he was no
longer as young as he looked--who was also called as a witness, "We'll
know more about Mr. J. G. Kerry when this trial is over than will suit
his book." It did not occur to Augustus Burlingame that in Crozier, who
knew why he had fled the house of the showy but virtuous Mrs. Tynan, he
might find a witness of a mental and moral calibre with baffling
qualities and some gift of riposte.

Crozier entered the witness-box at a stage when excitement was at fever
height; for the M'Mahon Gang had given evidence which every one believed
to be perjured; and the widow of the slain man was weeping bitterly in
her seat because of noxious falsehoods sworn against her honest husband.

There was certainly someting credible and prepossessing in the look of
Crozier. He might be this or that, but he carried no evil or vice of
character in his face. He was in his grave mood this summer afternoon.
There he stood with his long face and the very heavy eyebrows, clean-
shaven, hard-bitten, as though by wind and weather, composed and
forceful, the mole on his chin a kind of challenge to the vertical dimple
in his cheek, his high forehead more benevolent than intellectual, his
brown hair faintly sprinkled with grey and a bit unmanageable, his
fathomless eyes shining. "No man ought to have such eyes," remarked a
woman present to the Young Doctor, who abstractedly nodded assent, for,
like Malachi Deely and John Sibley, he himself had a theory about
Crozier; and he had a fear of what the savage enmity of the morally
diseased Burlingame might do. He had made up his mind that so intense a
scrupulousness as Crozier had shown since coming to Askatoon had behind
it not only character, but the rigidity of a set purpose; and that view
was supported by the stern economy of Crozier's daily life, broken only
by sudden bursts of generosity for those in need.