"I'll 'splain that in a minute. Then he ran as fast as he could----" That was as far as Bobby got for the moment. A slight confusion at one of the doors interrupted him. Almost immediately it died, but before Bobby could resume, the sheriff elbowed his way forward. "Laughton--you know, that second witness, the fellow who worked for Pritchard--tried to get out. I have him in charge." "Hold him," said the judge. The sheriff elbowed his way back down the aisle. "How do you know all this?" began the prosecuting attorney. "If Mr. Kincaid wore the cap, why isn't his head hurt?" demanded Bobby. "If the shot was fired by Pritchard, when lying on the ground," explained the attorney, "it would not have scraped." "But it wasn't," persisted Bobby. "It was fired from down hill, and about thirty feet away. That would hit the man, wouldn't it?" he appealed. "Certainly." "Well, is Mr. Kincaid hurt?" "This, your honour," said the attorney with some impatience, "is beside the mark----" He was interrupted by a cry from Bobby. "He's gone!" he wailed, pointing his hand toward the seat where Laughton had been sitting. "Was that the man?" asked the judge. "Yes," said Bobby, "and he's gotten away." "Mr. Sheriff," said the judge, "examine the man for a scar or wound on the head." The sheriff disappeared. The clock tick-tocked away five minutes, then ten. Finally the door swung open. "Your Honour," said the sheriff clearly, across the court-room, "the man has confessed." XXVI THE SIXTEEN GAUGE SHOTGUN Bobby and his friend, Johnny English, sat on the floor of Bobby's chamber reviewing the exciting events of the afternoon. In the tumult following the sheriff's announcement, Bobby was temporarily forgotten. He had slipped back into the crowd, and from that point had followed closely all that had ensued. Laughton's confession merely filled in the details of Bobby's surmises. It seems that Pritchard had had a violent quarrel with his man, ending by knocking him down and stalking off across the fields. Mad with rage, Laughton had picked himself up and followed without even pausing long enough to get a hat. He had lost track of his victim in the popple thicket, but had come across Kincaid's cap, which he had appropriated. A shot from Pritchard's little rifle apprised him of his enemy's whereabouts. The murder committed, he had mounted a stump to spy upon the country. He had seen Kincaid and his dog, and was just about to withdraw, when the cap was knocked from his head by a bullet which at the same time broke the skin on his scalp. Thinking himself discovered, he had run. Later reconnoitring carefully, he had seen two apparently unexcited small boys climbing into a pony cart a half-mile away and had come to the conclusion that the bullet had been spent, and a chance shot. The idea of incriminating Mr. Kincaid had not come to him until later. Mr. Kincaid had at once been released. Under cover of the congratulations, the boys made their escape.