"When?"
"Four or five minutes before the fire."
"Ellen did not go out the back door. Floyd did not go out the back door. Some one else did."
"And you will take the case, Mr. Shagarach?" Emily awaited his answer as breathlessly as if Robert's life or death hung in a trembling balance which Shagarach's finger could tip to one side or the other.
"It interests me. Have you a photograph of the accused with you?"
"No," answered Emily, thinking the request somewhat strange.
Shagarach began gazing at her with extraordinary intensity. The great will inclosed in his little body seemed to bear down hard upon her so as really to hurt. But she felt no resentment, only a kind of satisfied acquiescence, as if all were for the best. Yet, among ordinary people Emily was an individuality rare and fragrant, asserting herself forcefully, without being in the least self-assertive.
"Have you anything else?" asked the lawyer. Emily did not know how long the interim was.
"There is the strange peddler," she ventured to say. This time his answer was an interrogative look.
"Miss Wesner spoke of him today—a vegetable vender, who has been coming to the Arnold's for the last few weeks——"