Daniel said nothing to this, and there was a little pause, while his intolerable opinion of Fanchon seemed to thicken the very atmosphere the angry boy was breathing. Leigh’s eyes flashed, and he hit his lip hard, but his elder brother held out his hand. “I’ve got to go now.” There was a break in Daniel’s voice. His other arm went around the prisoner’s shoulders. Leigh broke down at the touch, and the brothers clung together. Then Daniel tore himself away. “We’ll get you out of this, Leigh--God bless you!” A moment more and Daniel got out into the corridor, where he stumbled blindly, dashing tears from his eyes. The turnkey, locking the door of the cell, was startled. “Anything the matter, sir?” “Nothing!” said Daniel, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Nothing!” He made his way hastily out of the station-house. He did not stop even to confer with Judge Jessup. They had already covered most of the case in their previous talks; the morning would do for Judge Jessup. It was late, and Daniel wanted to reassure Mrs. Carter. He was horribly sorry for his mother. There seemed no way to comfort her. She was fairly stunned by the blow, and she could only keep on crying out that Leigh was a child, nothing but a child! Daniel walked slowly at first. He did not want people to think that he was slinking home because his brother was in the station-house, charged with murder. The main street of the town was quiet enough at that hour, but it was evident that there was suppressed excitement. Little groups were gathered here and there along his way from the station-house, and men stopped talking to observe him covertly as he passed. The story of Fanchon and Corwin had been magnified by this time until it bore no resemblance to its original form. Scandal is an ugly thing, fed usually by falsehood and growing like a dirty snowball rolled up in a coal-yard. Daniel perceived the curious faces, and was aware of the hush as he approached. Here and there a man took pains to speak to him in sign of open sympathy, but not often. The long, pleasant street was rather dim under the arching trees, except where a lance of light shot across it from a street-lantern, or the headlight of a passing motor illuminated it broadly for a moment. The inn opposite his father’s office was still brilliant for some belated diners, and he was aware that two or three of the waiters came to the door to stare at him as he went by. In the room over their heads Corwin had been shot to death by his brother--only a few hours before. But he noticed that a Victrola was grinding out a rag-time record in the dining-room in spite of it. He was glad that the next turn took him through the church lane into the old street that led to his father’s house. Here only an occasional light shone in the houses, standing far apart and surrounded by their old-fashioned gardens, and there were few passers-by.