The door opened, and the sheriff slouched into the room. He was chewing a long wheat straw, and his whole appearance was one of troubled weakness.
“Morning,” he said briefly.
“Sit down, Sheriff,” and the judge indicated a meek seat for the official in a distant corner. “Have you learned anything?” he asked.
The sheriff shook his head.
“What you turning all these neighbors out of doors for?” he questioned.
“We don't want people tracking in and out the house, Sheriff. Important evidence may be destroyed. I propose examining the slaves first—does that meet with your approval?”
“Oh, I've talked with them, they don't know nothing,” said the sheriff. “No one don't know nothing.”
“Please God, we may yet put our fingers on some villain who does,” said the judge.
Outside it was noised about that judge Price had taken matters in hand—he was the old fellow who had been warned to keep his mouth shut, and who had never stopped talking since. A crowd collected beyond the library windows and feasted its eyes on the back of this hero's bald head.
One by one the house servants were ushered into the judge's presence. First he interrogated little Steve, who had gone to Miss Betty's door that morning to rouse her, as was his custom. Next he examined Betty's maid; then the cook, and various house servants, who had nothing especial to tell, but told it at considerable length; and lastly big Steve.