“Is this a pair of your shoes, Isaac?”
“Yassah,” was the listless answer.
“You wore these shoes the night the Judge was killed, didn’t you?”
“Yassah.”
“You’re sure of it?”
“Yassah. Dem’s my ole ones. I got a new pair now.”
The lawyer stepped close and in threatening tones asked:
“Will you explain to this Court what your shoes were doing making tracks in the soft mud of the underground passage from the family vault of the Graham house the night of this murder?”
Isaac’s jaw dropped, he drew his red bandanna handkerchief and mopped his brow.
A hum of excitement ran over the court room, and an officer cried: