There was a long pause, which Mr. Parker ended. “Sam, we’ve got to consider the next step--no doubt you have considered it; for it necessarily follows your statement. You’ve declared your faith, so to speak; now you’ve got to supplement faith with works.” The boy nodded. “I know, sir. They’ve locked up Peter Groche. We--I, that is--have got to get him out; for he’s innocent.” “Precisely.” Sam could not repress a shudder. “He’s in the police station for something I did. When they release him, I suppose I’ll have to take his place. I don’t know much about law, but that would seem to be--er--er--to be----” “Essential justice?” queried his father. “That--that’s my idea, sir.” “I see. But how do you plan to bring it about?” Sam squared his shoulders. “By going down to the station and telling the officers what I’ve told you--everything. Then they’ll have to let Peter Groche go. And they--they can keep me.” “That would be a simple method; but there may be a better one--not so direct, but probably more effective.” Sam stared at his father. “More effective?” he repeated. “Yes. The officers might be slow to act. You have to remember that they think the case against Groche is pretty strong.” “But they’d have to believe me,” Sam urged. “Not so fast, son! Don’t forget that there is a good deal of circumstantial evidence against Groche. Your story would certainly create a doubt--and a strong doubt--in his favor; but with his reputation for evil doing, they would be reluctant to let him go and risk making a mistake. No; there is a surer way to achieve the result.” “And that is----?” “To go straight to Major Bates and give him your version.” “Oh!” gasped Sam, and blanched at thought of confronting the redoubtable Major, by long odds the most terrifying, overbearing and truculent person in all Plainville. “Oh, I--I’d rather not, Father! They can put me in a cell if they want to, but----” Mr. Parker rose to his feet. “We’ll go to the Major--at once!” he said, with decision. CHAPTER VI DEALING WITH THE OGRE Major Bates lived in a big, brick house, made gloomy and forbidding by tall evergreen trees growing close to its walls. It had been, in its day, one of the noted mansions of the town, and still maintained much of its former state. Its hedges were trimmed to a nicety; its graveled walks were straight of edge and free of encroaching grass; its lawn was the smoothest to be found for miles around; the brass rails beside the steps shone with frequent polishing. Yet, with all this care, there was something cheerless about the place, something suggesting an institution rather than a home. To his few cronies the Major admitted that he liked to keep his premises “well policed,” as he termed it, in memory of his army days; but the townspeople generally were of opinion that the verdict of a clever woman hit the case perfectly. “Wonderfully kept up; marvelously well ordered; excellent for everything--except comfortable living.”