ened. On the sill was more fresh
blood.

There was no sign of the Judge.

As they gazed about in horror, they heard a noise in the back yard and
looking out saw, very dimly, two men carrying off a heavy object, they
lifted it over the back fence and then followed, to disappear.

Schmidt, the janitor, was terror-stricken. Evidently, the Judge had been
murdered and his body was now being made away with. What was to be done?
If he interfered, the murderers would wreak their vengeance on him; if
he refrained, he would be blamed for the murder or at least for
complicity.

"I tink, Johann, dere's only one ting, and dat is go straight an' tell
de police," said his wife. As they stood, they heard a light foot on the
stairs. Their hearts stood still, but they peered out to see a woman in
a gray cloak step into the street, and they breathed more freely. Now
they rushed to the station house and told their tale in tears and
trembling.

The Police Captain was scornful and indifferent. Had there been but one
witness, he might have ordered him away; but two witnesses, intensely in
earnest, made some impression. He sent an inspector around to see. That
official came back to report the truth of the statement made by the
Schmidts, that the Judge's room was empty, upset, and had some blood
stains; but he attached little importance to the matter. He had,
however, locked up and sealed the door, pending examination.

Next morning, there was an attempt to hush the matter up, but a reporter
appeared in the interests of a big paper, and by a clever combination of
veiled threats and promises of support, got permission to see the room.
The reporterial instinct and the detective instinct are close kin, and
the newspaper published some most promising clues: The Judge was visited
at midnight by a man whom he had robbed and who had threatened to kill
him; a broken door, papers stolen, a scuffle, traces of human blood (the
microscope said so) in several places, blood on the window sill, a heavy
something thrown out of the window and carried off by two men, blood on
the back fence, and no trace of the Judge.

It was a strong case, and any attempt to gloss it over was rendered
impossible by the illustrated broadside with which the newspaper
startled the public.

CHAPTER LVII

The Trial

All Chicago remembers the trial of Michael Shay. It filled the papers
for a month; it filled folk's minds and mouths for two. Many a worse
murder h