"No time for humor," grunted the judge.
Vandervent looked at Mrs. Walbrough. Her glance was uncompromisingly hostile. Only in Randall's eyes did he read anything approximating sympathy. And he resented finding it there.
"The—er—difficulties——" he began.
"Not much difficulty in shutting an elevator-boy's mouth, is there?" demanded the judge. "It isn't as though we were asking you really to interfere with the course of justice, Vandervent. You realize that Miss Deane is innocent, don't you?"
"Certainly," said Vandervent. "But—I'm an officer of the law, Judge."
"Does that mean that you won't help Miss Deane? Good God! You aren't going to let a young woman's name be dragged through a filthy mess like this, are you?"
"Not if I can help it," said Vandervent.
"That's better," grunted the judge. "But how do you expect to help it, though?"
"By finding the real murderer."
"When?" roared Walbrough. "To-day?"