“Your right name isn't Walker Farr and you know it isn't,” bellowed a voice on the opposite side of the hall. Other voices pot-shotted at him with the words, “Nelson Sinkler.” “Will one man in this convention stand up and show himself so that I can talk to him face to face?” shouted the man at bay. Detective Mullaney and Richard Dodd could not find seats. The others were sitting, and the two were marked men. “Well, Dodd, you have been whispering. What have you to say aloud?” demanded the man they were baiting. “I say your name is not Walker Farr.” “You!” The tall young man darted a finger at Mullaney. “I say you're Nelson Sinkler.” “And what of him?” “He is wanted by the state of Nebraska for murder.” A sound that was mingled sigh and groan ran and throbbed from galleries to floor; it filled the great hall and seemed to vibrate back and forth over the assemblage. And for the long minute that the dreadful sound continued until it had breathed itself out into horrified silence the man who stood on the settee looked straight into the white face of the girl in the gallery. But those of the throng who devoured him with eager stares could not discern one trace of confession on his countenance. Then he did a strange thing. He held his arms out toward Detective Mullaney and crossed them, wrist over wrist, and he smiled. “If you are certain enough of your man to dare to arrest me, sir, I stand here waiting for the handcuffs.” The detective hesitated, visibly embarrassed. He had been looking for confusion, confession by manner, even collapse. “This is a put-up political job,” declared a delegate. “That's no murderer--that man.” “I am waiting,” repeated Farr. Detective Mullaney flushed. There were murmurs of hostility in the throng about him. He ran over swiftly in his mind the contents of his note-book and fortified his courage. “I haven't secured a warrant yet--but I'll take your dare,” he announced. He started to come down the aisle. “Just one moment,” called a stentorian voice in the gallery. “You're wrong, my man, down there. I don't want to see an innocent person disgraced in public nor an officer get himself into a scrape. That man is not Nelson Sinkler.” “What are we running here--a state convention or a police court?” Colonel Dodd demanded, leaping up and grabbing the arm of the presiding officer. “Order all those men ejected from the hall.” But at that moment the convention was not in the control of the chairman. Irregular as it all was, human nature demanded to be shown there and then. Delegates arose, shouting, and surrounded Farr, making effectual bulwarks against Mullaney with their bodies. Voices asked the stranger in the gallery for information, and he motioned the vociferous mob into silence.