Mike opened his lips. Closed them. Freddy went across the lawn to his kitchen door. There was a brown crockery bowl on the back stoop. His sneaker, rigid on the ankle, stepped over it. Mike Russell watched, and then, with a movement of his arms, almost as if he would wring his hands, he went up the Judge’s steps.

“Well?” The Judge opened his door. “Did you talk to the boy?”

Russell didn’t answer. He sat down.

The Judge stood over him. “The boy . . . The enormity of this whole idea must be explained to him.”

“I can’t explain,” Mike said. “I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.”

“Perhaps I had better . . .”

“What are you going to say, sir?”

“Why, give him the facts,” the Judge cried.

“The facts are . . . the dog is dead.”

“There are no facts that point to Matlin.”

“There are no facts that point to a tramp, either. That’s too sloppy, sir.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Judge, the boy is more rightfully suspicious than we are.”

“Nonsense,” said the Judge. “The girl saw the dog’s body before Matlin came . . .”

“There is no alibi for poison,” Mike said sadly.

“Are you saying the man is a liar?”

“Liars,” sighed Mike. “Truth and lies. How are those kids going to understand, sir? To that Mrs. Page, to the lot of them, Truth is only a subjective intention. ‘I am no liar,’ sez she, sez he, ‘I intend to be truthful. So do not insult me.’ Lord, when will we begin? It’s what we were talking about at lunch, sir. What you and I believe. What the race has been told and told in such agony, in a million years of bitter lesson. Error, we were saying. Error is the enemy.”

He flung out of the chair. “We know that to tell the truth is not merely a good intention. It’s a damned difficult thing to do. It’s a skill, to be practiced. It’s a technique. It’s an effort. It takes brains. It takes watching. It takes humility and self-examination. It’s a science and an art . . .

“Why don’t we tell the kids these things? Why is everyone locked up in anger, shouting liar at the other side? Why don’t they automatically know how easy it is to be, not wicked, but mistaken? Why is there this notion of violence? Because Freddy doesn’t think to himself, ‘Wait a minute. I might be wrong.’ The habit isn’t there. Instead, there are the heroes—the big-muscled, noble-hearted, gun-toting heroes, blind in a righteousness totally arranged by the author. Excuse me, sir.”

“All that may be,” said the Judge grimly, “and I agree. But the police know the lesson. They . . .”

“They don’t care.”

“What?”

“Don’t care enough, sir. None of us cares enough—about the dog.”