of questions, saying ridiculous things. Really, I'm afraid--for
father's health! Can't you go in now?"

"Couldn't Judge Wilton manage him? Isn't the judge here?"

"No. He came over at dinner time; but he went back to the Randalls'.
Father didn't feel up to talking to him."

Crown, she explained, had literally forced his way into the bedroom,
disregarding her protests and paying no attention to the pretence of
physical resistance displayed by Jarvis.

"The man seems insane!" she said. "I want you to make him leave father's
room--please!"

She halted near the library door, leaving the matter in Hastings' hands.
Since entering the house he had heard Crown's voice, raised to the key
of altercation; and now, when he stepped into Sloane's room, the rush of
words continued.

The sheriff, unaware of the newcomer, stood near the bed, emphasizing
his speech with restless arms and violent motions of his head, as if to
galvanize into response the still and prostrate form before him. On the
opposite side of the bed stood the sepulchral Jarvis, flashing malign
looks at Crown, but chiefly busy, with unshaking hands, preparing a
beverage of some sort for the sick man.

Sloane lay on his back, eyes closed, face under the full glare of the
reading light. His expression indicated both boredom and physical
suffering.

"--have to make an arrest!" Crown was saying. "You're making me take
that action--ain't you? I come in here, considerate as I know how to be,
and I ask you for a few facts. Do you give 'em to me? Not by a long
shot! You lie there in that bed, and talk about leaping angels, and say
I bore you! Well, Mr. Sloane, that won't get you a thing! You're where I
said you were: it's either Webster that will be arrested--or yourself!
Now, I'm giving you another chance. I'm asking you what you saw; and you
can tell me--or take the consequences!"

Hastings thought: "He's up that gum stump of his again, and don't know
how to quit talking."

Sloane made no answer.

"Well," thundered Crown. "I'm asking you!"

"Moaning martyrs!" Sloane protested in a thin, querulous tone. "Jarvis,
the bromide."

"All right!" the sheriff delivered his ultimatum. "I'll stick to what I
said. Webster may be too sick to talk, but not too sick to have a
warrant served on him. He'll be arrested because you won't tell me----"

Hastings spoke then.

"Gentlemen!" he greeted pleasantly. "Mr. Sloane, good evening. Mr.
Sheriff--am I interrupting a priv