The clamour broke out. The sheriff seized Bobby by the arm.
"Here," he growled at him, "you little brat! What do you mean, raising a row like this?"
Bobby struggled. He had a great deal to say. All was confusion. Half the room seemed to be on its feet. Bobby saw his father making way toward him through the crowd. Only the clock and the white-haired judge beneath it seemed to have retained their customary poise. The clock tick-tocked deliberately, and its second-hand went forward in swift jerks; the judge sat quiet, motionless, his chin on his fists, his eyes looking steadily from under their bushy white brows.
"Just a moment," said the judge, finally, "Sheriff, bring that boy here."
Bobby found himself facing the great walnut desk. Behind him the room had fallen silent save for an irregular breathing sound.
"Who are you?" asked the judge.
"Bobby Orde."
"Why do you say the prisoner—Mr. Kincaid—did not commit the deed?"
Bobby started in a confused way to tell about the cap. The judge raised his hand.
"Were you present at this crime?" he asked shrewdly.