“I’m afraid the boy’s alone,” the Judge said gently, “but it’s only for the night.” His voice was melodious. “Can’t be sheltered from grief when it comes. None of us can.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I wish he would grieve. I wish he would bawl his heart out. Wash out that black hate. I ought to go home. None of my concern. It’s a woman’s job.” He moved and his hand went toward the phone. “He has a teacher. I can’t help feeling concerned, sir. May I try?”

The Judge said, “Of course, Mike,” and he put his brittle old bones into a chair.

Mike Russell pried the number out of the Board of Education.

“Miss Lillian Dana? My name is Russell. You know a boy named Freddy Titus?”

“Oh, yes. He’s in my class.” The voice was pleasing.

“Miss Dana, there is trouble. You know Judge Kittinger’s house? Could you come there?”

“What is the trouble?”

“Freddy’s little dog is dead of poison. I’m afraid Freddy is in a bad state. There is no one to help him. His folks are away. The woman taking care of him,” Mike’s careful explanatory sentences burst into indignation, “has no more sympathetic imagination than a broken clothes-pole.” He heard a little gasp. “I’d like to help him, Miss Dana, but I’m a man and a stranger, and the Judge . . .” He paused.

“. . . is old,” said the Judge in his chair.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the voice on the phone said slowly. “Freddy’s a wonderful boy.”

“You are his friend?”

“Yes, we are friends.”

“Then, could you come? You see, we’ve got to get a terrible idea out of his head. He thinks a man across the street poisoned his dog on purpose. Miss Dana, he has no doubt! And he doesn’t cry.” She gasped again. “Greenwood Lane,” he said, “and Hannibal Street—the southeast corner.”

She said, “I’ll come. I have a car. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Russell turned and caught the Judge biting his lips. “Am I making too much of this, sir?” he inquired humbly.

“I don’t like the boy’s stubborn conviction.” The Judge’s voice was dry and clear. “Any more than you do. I agree that he must be brought to understand. But . . .” the old man shifted in the chair. “Of course, the man, Matlin, is a fool, Mike. There is something solemn and silly about him that makes him fair game. He’s unfortunate. He married a widow with a crippled child, and no sooner were they married than she collapsed. And he’s not well off. He’s encumbered with that enormous house.”

“What does he do, sir?”