Likewise, every statement of Frank Blainey went unchallenged. He had ordered the old man out because he was a nuisance, explained Frank. He was just a loafer, who didn’t work for his living. He had hated to do it--sure he had--never hated to do a thing so much in his life. No, he wasn’t angry. He had closed up store and gone home right afterward--about eleven o’clock. His wife had gone to spend the night with her people, and there was no one at home. Yes, he had worried about it a lot on the way home. It had been a disagreeable task, the most disagreeable of his life. Nothing but the good of his business could have made him do it. Jeff Potter wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to have around the store. Women didn’t like to come where he was. “What women--what women, Colonel Donaldson?” whispered Kirby. “Quick--ask him what women!” * * * * * But Colonel Donaldson, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his thin fingers together, his eyes--piercing eyes, too, they were--fastened on the witness, did not seem even to hear; while old Jeff bowed his gray head in shame, and his hands clasped and unclasped on the table before him, and his collar choked him so that he opened it at the neck. It was at lunch, which followed immediately after Frank’s testimony, that Kirby broke loose. He and Jeff, Bill Carson and his wife and little Ella, had eaten in a restaurant; and now Kirby rose to pay the bill. “He just don’t care--don’t care that!” And Kirby snapped his strong fingers. “I’ve been in many a trial. I never befo’ saw a lawyer not even raise a finger to save a client!” A curious crowd had gathered round them. “That’s right,” some of them said. “He ain’t done a thing.” And Mrs. Carson, face upraised, grabbed old Jeff by the sleeve, while little Ella clung to her mother’s skirt. “Oh, get another lawyer,” pleaded the woman, “before it’s too late. Please--please!” Jeff swallowed, but he shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “No--it wouldn’t be fair.” Early in the afternoon the ancient and supine lawyer for the defense showed the first spark. The testimony for the State was all in, and he had put Kirby on the stand. His voice as he stood, stiff and formal beside Jeff’s chair, was dry, matter of fact. “How long, Squire Kirby, have you known the defendant, Jeff Potter?” “Forty years.” “You must know, then, his reputation for law and order. Is it good or bad?” “Good.” Then Burton Evans, exuding confidence, was on his feet. “He’s a tenant on your place, I believe, Mr. Kirby. Did he pay his rent last year?” Kirby turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” he asked, “must I answer that question?” The judge looked at Colonel Donaldson. “Do I hear any objections from the plaintiff’s lawyer? If so I may rule that question out. If not--” The voice was dry. “No objection, Your Honor.” And Kirby, from the witness chair, glared. “He paid me what I asked,” snapped Kirby. “And what did you ask, Mr. Kirby?” demanded Evans.