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. "Yes, sir," replied Bobby. The judge lowered his voice so that only Bobby could hear. "Do you know who murdered Mr. Pritchard?" "Yes, sir," replied Bobby in the same tone, "I do." "Who was it?" "I don't know his name. He's sitting----" "I thought so," interrupted the judge. "Mr. Sheriff," he called sharply. That official approached. "Close all doors," said the judge to him quietly, "and see that no one leaves this room. Mr. Attorney, your witness here is ready to be sworn." Bobby went through the preliminaries without a clear understanding of them; or, indeed, a definite later recollection. He was deadly in earnest. The crowd did not exist for him. Not the faintest trace of embarrassment confused his utterance, but he got very little forward under the prosecuting attorney's questioning--the matter was too definite in his own mind to permit of his following another's method of getting at it. Finally the judge interposed. "It's not strictly in my province," said he, "but we are all anxious for the truth. I hope the prosecuting attorney may see the advisability of allowing the boy to tell his own story in his own way. Afterward he will, of course, have full opportunity for cross-questions." This being agreed to, Bobby went ahead. "Mr. Kincaid lost his cap, just as he said, and Curly carried it into the woods and dropped it. Another man came along and picked it up and put it on. Then he walked through the thicket and came up with Mr. Pritchard. He knew where Mr. Pritchard was because Mr. Pritchard had just shot his little rifle at a hawk or something. He stabbed Mr. Pritchard, and then walked down hill and climbed up on a stump to look around. He was facing down hill. He saw Mr. Kincaid and Curly way below. Just then his cap was knocked off by another bullet." "What other bullet?" interposed the prosecution sharply. "That was just an accident," said Bobby confusedly, "it happened to hit. It wasn't shot at him at all." "You mean a spent ball from somewhere else? Who shot it? Where did it come from?"