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.