Judge Ostrander was a man of keen perception, quick to grasp an idea, quick to form an opinion. But his mind acted slowly to~night. Deborah Scoville wondered at the blankness of his gaze and the slow way in which he seemed to take in this astounding fact.

At last he found voice and with it gave some evidence of his usual acumen.

“Madam, a shadow is an uncertain foundation on which to build such an edifice as you plan. How do you know that the fact you mention was coincident with the crime? Mr. Etheridge’s body was not found till after dark. A dozen men might have come down that path with or without sticks before he reached the bridge and fell a victim to the assault which laid him low.”

“I thought the time was pretty clearly settled by the hour he left your house. The sun had not set when he turned your corner on his way home. So several people said who saw him. Besides —”

“Yes; there is a BESIDES. I’m sure of it.”

“I saw the tall figure of a man, whom I afterwards made sure was Mr. Etheridge, coming down Factory Road on his way to the bridge when I turned about to get Reuther.”

“All of which you suppressed at the trial.”

“I was not questioned on this point, sir.”

“Madam,”— he was standing very near to her now, hemming her as it were into that decaying corner —“I should have a very much higher opinion of your candour if you told me the whole story.”

“I have, sir.”

His hands rose, one to the right hand wall, the other to the left, and remained there with their palms resting heavily against the rotting plaster. She was more than ever hemmed in; but, though she felt a trifle frightened at his aspect which certainly was not usual, she faced him without shrinking and in very evident surprise.

“You went immediately home with the child after that glimpse you got of Mr. Etheridge?”

“Yes; I had no reason in the world to suppose that anything was going to happen in the ravine below us. Of course, I went straight on; there were things to be done at home, and — you don’t believe me, sir.”

His hands fell; an indefinable change had come over his aspect; he bowed and seemed about to utter an ironic apology. She felt puzzled and unconsciously she began to think. What was lacking in her statement? Something. Could she remember what? Something which he had expected; something which as presiding judge over John’s trial he had been made aware of and now recalled to render her story futile. It couldn’t be that one little thing — But yes, it might be. Nothing is little where a great crime is concerned. She smiled a dubious smile, then she said:

“It seems too slight a fact to mention, and, in-deed, I had forgotten it till you pressed me, but after we had passed the gates and were well out on the highway, I found that Reuther had left her little pail behind her here, and we came back and got it. Did you mean that, sir?”

“I meant nothing; but I felt sure you had not told all you could about that fatal ten minutes. You came back. It is quite a walk from the road. The man whose shadow you saw must have reached the bridge by this time. What did you see then or — hear?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing, judge. I was intent on finding the baby’s pail, and having found it I hurried back home all the faster.”

“And tragedy was going on or was just completed, in plain sight from this gap!”

“I have no doubt, sir; and if I had looked, possibly John might have been saved.”

The silence following this was broken by a crash and a little cry. Peggy’s house had tumbled down.

The small incident was a relief. Both assumed more natural postures.

“So the shadow is your great and only point,” remarked the judge.

“It is sufficient for me.”

“Ah, perhaps.”

“But not enough for the public?”