The boys bent over the pad. Then Freddy’s lips opened hard. “How do you know the time, Judge Kittinger?”

“Well,” said the Judge, “hm . . . let me think. I was looking out the window for my company and just then he arrived.”

“Five minutes of one, sir,” Mike said.

Freddy flashed around. “What makes you sure?”

“I looked at my watch,” said Russell. “I was taught to be exactly five minutes early when I’m asked to a meal.” There was a nodding among the boys, and Miss Dana wrote on the pad.

“Then I was mistaken,” said the Judge, thoughtfully. “It was shortly before one. Of course.”

Phil Bourchard took over. “Did you see anyone go into Matlin’s driveway or back lot?”

“I did not.”

“Were you out of doors or did you look up that way?”

“Yes, I . . . When we left the table. Mike?”

“At two-thirty, sir.”

“How do you know that time for sure?” asked Freddy Titus.

“Because I wondered if I could politely stay a little longer.” Russell’s eyes congratulated Miss Lillian Dana. She had made them a team, and on it, Freddy was the How-do-you-know-for-sure Department.

“Can you swear,” continued Phil to the Judge, “there was nobody at all around Matlin’s back lot then?”

“As far as my view goes,” answered the Judge cautiously.

Freddy said promptly, “He couldn’t see much. Too many trees. We can’t count that.”

They looked at Miss Dana and she marked on the pad. “Thank you. Now, you have a cook, sir? We must question her.”

“This way,” said the Judge, rising and bowing.

Russell looked after them and his eyes were velvet again. He met the Judge’s twinkle. Then he sat down and ran an eye quickly over some of the sheets of paper, passing each on to his host.

Startled, he looked up. Lillian Dana, standing in the door, was watching his face.

“Do you think, Mike . . .?”

A paper drooped in the Judge’s hand.

“We can’t stop,” she challenged.

Russell nodded, and turned to the Judge. “May need some high brass, sir.” The Judge rose. “And tell me, sir, where Matlin plays golf. And the telephone number of the Salvage League. No, Miss Dana, we can’t stop. We’ll take it where it turns.”

“We must,” she said.

It was nearly ten when the neighbors began to come in. The Judge greeted them soberly. The Chief of Police arrived. Mrs. Somers, looking grim and uprooted in a crêpe dress, came. Mr. Matlin, Mrs. Page, Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty, a Mr. and Mrs. Baker, and Diane Bourchard who was sixteen. They looked curiously at the tight little group, the boys and their blonde teacher.

Last of all to arrive was young Mr. Russell, who slipped in from the dark veranda, accepted the Judge’s nod, and called the meeting to order.