rand manner. "I've wondered about that--whether you thought a judge had
a right to do a thing of that sort."

Wilton's hand, clenched on the edge of the desk, shook perceptibly.

"Did you think that, judge?" the detective persisted.

The judge hesitated.

"It's a point I've never gone into," he said finally, with intentional
sarcasm.

Hastings snapped his knife-blade shut and thrust the piece of wood into
his pocket.

"Let's get away from this beating about the bush," he suggested, voice
on a sterner note. "I don't want to irritate you unnecessarily, judge. I
came here for information--stuff I'm more than anxious to get. And I go
back to that now: won't you tell me anything more about the discovery of
the woman's body by the two of you--you and Webster?"

"No; I won't! I've covered the whole thing--several times."

"Is there anything that you haven't told--anything you've decided to
suppress?"

Wilton got up from his chair and struck the desk with his fist.

"See here, Hastings! You're getting beside yourself. Representing Miss
Sloane doesn't warrant your insulting her friends. Suppose we consider
this interview at an end. Some other time, perhaps----"

Hastings also had risen.

"Just a minute, judge!" he interrupted, all at once assuming the
authoritative air that had so amazed Wilton the night of the murder.
"You're suppressing something--and I know it!"

"That's a lie!" Wilton retorted, the flush deepening to crimson on his
face.

"It ain't a lie," Hastings contradicted, holding his self-control. "And
you watch yourself! Don't you call me a liar again--not as long as you
live! You can't afford the insult."

"Then, don't provoke it. Don't----"

"What did Webster whisper to you, across that corpse?" Hastings
demanded, going nearer to Wilton.

"What's this?" Wilton's tone was one of consternation; the words might
have been spoken by a man stumbling on an unsuspected horror in a dark
room.

They stared at each other for several dragging seconds. The detective
waved a hand toward the judge's chair.

"Sit down," he said, resuming his own seat.

There followed another pause, longer than the first. The judge's
breathing was laboured, audible. He lowered his eyes and passed his hand
across their thick lids. When he looked up again, Hastings commanded him
with unwavering, expectant gaze.

"I've made a mistake," Wilton began huskily, and stopped.

"Yes?" Hastings said, unbending. "How?"

"I see it