“I think it will be a great wrong if such a wanton murder goes unpunished,” he answered. “Yes,” said the mother carelessly; “but the motive? Did he murder him because he was an illegitimate son of Judge Parlin?” “Oh, pshaw, Mrs. Matthewson, nobody believes that story. Why, they tell me Judge Parlin was a real nice man. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with such a woman as she would have been, if the story was true.” A crowd gathered and, in spite of Charles Matthewson’s efforts to change the subject, persisted in discussing the murder, which was still a live topic wherever Judge Parlin and Lawyer Wing had been known. To Matthewson’s increased annoyance, he noted that Trafford had moved to a nearer table, where he could catch the talk. “What kind of man would Judge Parlin have been, if the story were true?” Mrs. Matthewson asked listlessly. “Oh, yes; but you know that’s not the same. He was a mere youngster, and a designing woman you know can do anything with a man. Oh, no: it would be bad enough in him, but the woman--why, she’d be simply abominable; simply abominable.” “Well, if there was such a woman, she’s undoubtedly dead long ago,” Mrs. Matthewson said. “We might at least not begrudge her a grave. We came near making Judge Parlin chief justice.” Charles was uneasy. His mother was not accustomed to losing her head, but he had his suspicions at this moment, and tried again to draw her away; but she seemed not to notice his efforts, and showed herself not loath to go on with the conversation. “If the thing isn’t true,” broke in a woman who was fearful she might not make herself felt in the presence of the overbearing Mrs. Matthewson, “my husband says it’s a forgery; but what could that nice Mr. Wing have forged such a story as that for? Do you see, Mr. Matthewson?” “You must excuse me from expressing any opinion one way or the other,” he said, thus distinctly appealed to. “Murders and forgeries are not in my line, and I don’t think my opinion would have the value it might if I was a criminal lawyer or a detective.” “Oh, a detective!” some one interrupted. “What a dreadful nasty set of men detectives must be! It makes me crawl to think of their having anything to do with me.” “Then you mustn’t be a murderer or permit any one to murder you. It’s the only way I know to steer clear of the gang.” “Come, Charles,” interposed his mother. “Aren’t you a little hard? As long as we have criminals, we must have criminal catchers. We can’t spare them.” “But we needn’t make them our heroes, as some people do,” he replied, wondering in secret why his mother was chiming into his mood so completely. “I object to having them dragged into my company--almost as much as I’d object to being dragged into theirs.”