“We’ve heard about quite a few dog-poisoning cases over the line in Redfern,” said the thin cop with professional calm. “None here.”

The man in the shorts hitched them up, looking shocked. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

A boy said, boldly, “Ole Matlin would.” He had an underslung jaw and wore spectacles on his snub nose. “I’m Phil Bourchard,” he said to the cop. He had courage.

“We jist know,” said another. “I’m Ernie Allen.” Partisanship radiated from his whole thin body. “Ole Matlin doesn’t want anybody on his ole property.”

“Sure.” “He doesn’t want anybody on his ole property.” “It was ole Matlin.”

“It was. It was,” said Freddy Titus.

“Freddy,” said the housekeeper in blue, “now, you better be still. I’ll tell your Dad.” It was a meaningless fumble for control. The boy didn’t even hear it.

Judge Kittinger tried, patiently. “You can’t accuse without cause, Freddy.”

“Bones didn’t hurt his ole property. Bones wouldn’t hurt anything. Ole Matlin did it.”

“You lying little devil!”

“He’s a liar!”

The cop gave Freddy another shake. “You kids found him, eh?”

“We were up at Bourchard’s and were going down to the Titus house.”

“And he was dead,” said Freddy.

“I know nothing about it,” said Matlin icily. “Nothing at all.”

The cop, standing between, said wearily, “Any of you people see what coulda happened?”

“I was sitting in my backyard,” said the man in shorts. “I’m Daugherty, next door, up Hannibal Street. Didn’t see a thing.”

The small woman in a print dress spoke up. “I am Mrs. Page. I live across the corner, Officer. I believe I did see a strange man go into Mr. Matlin’s driveway this morning.”

“When was this, Ma’am?”

“About eleven o’clock. He was poorly dressed. He walked up the drive and around the garage.”

“Didn’t go to the house?”

“No. He was only there a minute. I believe he was carrying something. He was rather furtive. And very poorly dressed, almost like a tramp.”

There was a certain relaxing, among the elders. “Ah, the tramp,” said Mike Russell. “The good old reliable tramp. Are you sure, Mrs. Page? It’s very unlikely . . . .”

But she bristled. “Do you think I am lying?”

Russell’s lips parted, but he felt the Judge’s hand on his arm. “This is my guest, Mr. Russell . . . Freddy.” The Judge’s voice was gentle. “Let him go, Officer. I’m sure he understands, now. Mr. Matlin was not even at home, Freddy. It’s possible that this . . . er . . . stranger . . . Or it may have been an accident . . .”

“Wasn’t a tramp. Wasn’t an accident.”