be kept quiet. He could not be moved to his apartment in
Washington, nor could he be subjected to questioning about anything.

"That is," he explained, "for three or four days--possibly longer. He's
critically ill. But for my knowledge of the terrific shock he's
sustained as a result of the murder, I'd be inclined to say he'd broken
down after a long, steady nervous strain.

"I'll have a nurse out to look after him. Miss Sloane has volunteered,
but she has troubles of her own."

Judge Wilton took the news to Hastings, who was on the front porch,
whittling, waiting to see Lucille before returning to Washington.

"I think Garnet's right," Wilton added. "I thought, even before last
night, Berne acted as if he'd been worn out. And you handled him rather
roughly. That sort of questioning, tantalizing, keeping a man on
tenterhooks, knocks the metal out of a high-strung temperament like his.
I don't mind telling you it had me pretty well worked up."

"I'm sorry it knocked him out," Hastings said. "All I wanted was the
facts. He wasn't frank with me."

"I came out here to talk about that," Wilton retorted, brusquely.
"You're all wrong there, Hastings! The boy's broken all to pieces. He
sees clearly, too clearly, the weight of suspicion against him. You've
mistaken his panic for hostility toward yourself."

The old man was unconvinced, and showed it.

"Suspicion doesn't usually knock a man into a cocked hat--unless there's
something to base it on," he contended.

"All right; I give up," Wilton said, with a short laugh. "All I know is,
he came to me before we saw you in the music room, and told me he wanted
me to be there, to see that he omitted not even a detail of what he
knew."

Hastings, looking up from the intricate pattern he was carving,
challenged the judge:

"Has it occurred to you that, if he's not guilty, he might suspect
somebody else in this house, might be trying to shield that person?"

In the inconsiderable pause that followed, Wilton's lips, parting for
an incredulous smile, showed the top of his tongue against his teeth, as
if set for pronunciation of the letter "S." Hastings, in a mental flash,
saw him on the point of exclaiming: "Sloane!" But, if that was in his
mind, he put it down, elaborating the smile to a laughing protest:

"That's going far afield, isn't it?"

Hastings smiled in return: "Maybe so, but it's a possibility--and
possibilities have to be dealt with."

"Which reminds me," the