"Sit down, Bull," George Woods called.
"The question is," he added, "what reason is there for believing what Michael says?"
"His word's enough," somebody called.
"Some of us think so," George said. "But there's some don't. Is there anyone else can say, Michael?"
Michael shook his head. He thought of Snow-Shoes, but the old man had refused to be present at the inquiry or to have anything to do with it. He had pretended to be deaf when he was asked anything about Paul's opals. And Michael, who could only surmise that Snow-Shoes' reasons for having taken the stones in a measure resembled his own when he took them from Paul, would not have him put to the torture of questioning.
George had said: "It might make a lot of difference to Michael if you'd come along, Mr. Riley."
But Snow-Shoes had marched off from him as if he had not heard anyone speak, his blue eyes fixed on that invisible goal he was always gazing at and going towards.
George had not seen him come into the hall; but when he was needed, his tall figure, white clad and straight as a dead tree, rose at the back of the hall.
"It's true," he said. "I wanted to be sure of Michael; I shadowed him. I saw him with the stones when he says. I did not see him with them any other time."
He sat down again; his eyes, which had flashed, resumed their steady, distant stare; his features relapsed into their mask of impassivity.