not do it!" cried Bobby aloud.

The clamour broke out. The sheriff seized Bobby by the arm.

"Here," he growled at him, "you little brat! What do you mean, raising a
row like this?"

Bobby struggled. He had a great deal to say. All was confusion. Half the
room seemed to be on its feet. Bobby saw his father making way toward
him through the crowd. Only the clock and the white-haired judge beneath
it seemed to have retained their customary poise. The clock tick-tocked
deliberately, and its second-hand went forward in swift jerks; the judge
sat quiet, motionless, his chin on his fists, his eyes looking steadily
from under their bushy white brows.

"Just a moment," said the judge, finally, "Sheriff, bring that boy
here."

Bobby found himself facing the great walnut desk. Behind him the room
had fallen silent save for an irregular breathing sound.

"Who are you?" asked the judge.

"Bobby Orde."

"Why do you say the prisoner--Mr. Kincaid--did not commit the deed?"

Bobby started in a confused way to tell about the cap. The judge raised
his hand.

"Were you present at this crime?" he asked shrewdly.

"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.

The judge lowered his voice so that only Bobby could hear.

"Do you know who murdered Mr. Pritchard?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bobby in the same tone, "I do."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know his name. He's sitting----"

"I thought so," interrupted the judge. "Mr. Sheriff," he called sharply.
That official approached. "Close all doors," said the judge to him
quietly, "and see that no one leaves this room. Mr. Attorney, your
witness here is ready to be sworn."

Bobby went through the preliminaries without a clear understanding of
them; or, indeed, a definite later recollection. He was deadly in
earnest. The crowd did not exist for him. Not the faintest trace of
embarrassment confused his utterance, but he got very little forward
under the prosecuting attorney's questioning--the matter was too
definite in his own mind to permit of his following another's method of
getting at it. Finally the judge interposed.

"It's not strictly in my province," said he, "but we are all anxious for
the truth. I hope the prosecuting attorney may see the advisability of
allowing the boy to tell his own story in his own way. Afterward he
will, of course, have full opportunity for cross-questions."

This being agreed to, Bobby went ahead.

"Mr. Kincaid lost his cap, just as he said, and Curly carried it in