“Say, judge, I never thought about a kid like that usin’ shootin’-irons,” he said mournfully. “But I told him the truth--every bit of it! I’ll go on the stand an’ swear to it. You see, it was this way--I couldn’t get the thing to ’em, an’ I thought they oughter know.” The judge glared at him in silence, then swung his swivel chair around a little and looked over the papers on his desk. “Meddling, Mr. Bernstein; nothing at all but meddling in other people’s business,” he retorted shortly. “If I had my way there’d be a new law in this State. I’d send nosey people to the work-house, sir. I’d give ’em something to do. Here’s your deposition. Read it over. You’ll be called again, some time this afternoon.” “Now, looka here, judge, I ain’t a meddler,” objected Bernstein plaintively. “That man Corwin was blackmailin’ the lady and I wanted to stop him. I’m conferring a favor now, sir, goin’ on the stand. Anybody who knows Sam Bernstein knows he ain’t goin’ to lie. I’ve got a reputation. This trial, sir, with me on the stand----” He paused regretfully. “Say, it would make just about three thousand feet of great stuff--and they won’t let me bring in my camera-men!” “Confound your camera-men!” said the judge, and rose, slamming down the top of his desk. “Dan, you here? We’ve got to go over to the court-house now. You come over in half an hour, Bernstein. I reckon it isn’t more than one thousand feet of film to the square,” he added with a sudden, irresistible twinkle. Even Bernstein laughed. The judge, linking his arm in Daniel’s, kept pace with the younger man as they walked up the main street toward the old court-house. It was a little past ten o’clock now, and the street was full. Daniel noticed that the tide was flowing toward the court-house. His cheeks reddened angrily under the curious glances of men and women in the crowds. There had been a strong element of sympathy for Corwin. He had been freehanded, and had made himself at home in local sporting circles. Daniel, with his fine perception of the trend of human feeling, knew that the sympathy was not all on their side. Fanchon’s famous dance at the church musicale, and her frequent appearances with the man himself, had all worked against her. It did not seem quite fair to lay all the blame on Corwin. If William had shot him, the thing would have been understood. Leigh’s act was subject to terrible misinterpretations. It seemed as if the Carter family had employed a boy to do the shooting in the hope of getting off scot-free. To half the men on the street it looked like a case of sheer cowardice on the husband’s part, and Daniel knew it. He had that kind of sensitiveness--wrought up by much solitary suffering and introspective thought--that made this consciousness of the possible charge of cowardice against them all a kind of torture. He was very white, and his eyes sparkled dangerously.