The reception the judge gave Gillian was exceedingly cold. He did not rise or offer his hand. Behind his desk he sat and stared frostily at his visitor.

"I dropped in," Gillian cheerfully explained himself, "to see if you mightn't arrange to let me see Jim Truman."

The judge's eyes narrowed. "Is Truman retaining you?" he snapped.

"No, judge. I am interested in the case merely as a bystander. It has stirred my curiosity. A man who kills another by shooting him with a four and a half carat diamond is unique."

The cold eyes stared at him. "Has that Hearthstone girl been in communication with you?"

"She has, judge."

"What did she say?"

"Supposing we make a deal," Gillian suggested. "Supposing you promise to let me see Truman in exchange for the amazing inside facts she gave me."

"What did she say?"

"She said she ran away because a big, tall man with a black beard had been hanging around."

"That's poppyc.o.c.k! You know what happened, Hazeltine. Her lover, Truman, was jealous of Amos Grundle and shot him. Those are the simple facts of the case, and I'm warning you if you come into my court with any tricks, you'll be disappointed."

"But if Truman is guilty, how could a trick save him?"

"It can't!" the judge snapped. "I suppose," he said with heavy irony, "you can produce a man with a black beard."

"I leave him concealed in my sleeve," Gillian chuckled.

Judge Lindley turned red. He stood up.

"Hazeltine, I don't want you in this town and I don't want you in this house. You are my enemy politicallya"and you will be my enemy if you go into court. Don't forget that. Stay out of Clinton. Keep your hands off this affair. If you interfere, you'll be sorry."

Gillian looked at him gravely. "That sounds like a threat."

"Construe it as you wish."

"It sounds," Gillian murmured, "like taking men for rides, guns in the dark, knives in the back. Judge, you almost tempt me to stay. It sounds like a poker game. I am strongly inclined to stick around and call your bluff."

"You'll regret it," the judge snapped.

"My hole card," Gillian returned, "might prove, at that, to be a knave of diamonds."

Judge Lindley's eyes went narrower still. He pressed a b.u.t.ton. The man who had admitted Gillian came in.

"Show this man the door," his honor snapped.

"I may see you in court, judge," Gillian said as he went out.

But Gillian had no real intention of taking the case. He was merely following the dictates of his curiosity. His curiosity led him now to the door of Seth Peters, attorney-at-law.

CHAPTER 6. IN THE STEAM-ROLLER'S PATH.

SETH Peters, Truman's lawyer, had offices over a grocery store, the windows of which were now dark. But there was a light burning in the offices above them. Parking at the curb, Gillian climbed a flight of steps and knocked at a door with a frosted gla.s.s panel.

The door was swung open violently and Gillian found himself looking eye to eye into the pale, haggard face of a young man with curly yellow hair, broad shoulders, and a fighter's jaw.

Behind the young man, on a desk, an electric light burned and cast its rays upon a number of opened law books.

Seth Peters stared at Gillian and, slowly, a wave of red crept up from his neck to his hair. He grinned with astonishment.

"Why!" he said. "You're Gillian Hazeltine!"

"I came in behind a tall man with a black beard," Gillian said, smiling.

The young lawyer was trying to conceal his embarra.s.sment and astonishment. He looked about the shabbily furnished room. He said: "Gee whiz, this certainly is an honor, Mr. Hazeltine. I've gone to court to listen to you a lot of times but I certainly never thought you'd walk into this room. I was just reading up on some of your cases a"wondering how I'd handle this one. Did they tell you Jim Truman has retained me?"

Gillian nodded. "While they weren't telling me that I'd get a knife in the back if I stayed in this spotless town they were saving that you were Truman s lawyer. I dropped impurely out of curiosity."

"Please have a chair. I've been reading up on your defense of Compton MacArthur and-"

"You won't find the solution to this riddle in any book," Gillian gently interrupted. "MacArthur was not guilty, and my job was merely to find who was. In this case, we know that Truman killed Grundle and your only hope is to prove that he had a sufficient motive. My personal inclination," Gillian said with a chuckle, "is to pin the job on Elton Dawbridge or Judge Lindley."

Seth Peters grinned, then sobered. "I guess you don't have to be told what's going on in this town, Mr. Hazeltine. Clinton is rotting with political corruption. Dawbridge is the big boss. Even Lindley takes orders from him. "

"How do you stand with them?"

The young man growled, "h.e.l.l's bells, I'm nothing but an insect in the triumphant course of the steam roller. I'm slated to be squashed flat. They've even made threats on my life. You see, I've been delving into records. They've covered themselves pretty thoroughly, but the smell of dead rats is strong in the wind. I annoy them the way a horsefly annoys a horse. But I don't worry them."

"Have they ever taken a shot at you?" Gillian asked.

"Not yet. And I'm safe for the immediate present. I'm elected to be the goat in this murder trial. Dawbridge knows he'll mash me flat. This is his golden chance. He's using Jim Truman and the Hearthstone kid as a springboard for a leap into the big political puddle. He has his eye on Washington. Look at him grabbing publicity! Doesn't it make you physically sick? When he's sent Jim to the chair, he'll be famous. And he'll send him there!"

"How well," Gillian inquired, "do you know Truman?"

"He's the only pal I have. He's a great guya"hard working, a real scientific farmer, and as decent and square as they make 'em. The only trouble with Jim is, he has too d.a.m.ned much pride. Dawbridge hates him, like poison. Jim got up on a soapbox at the last city election and told people what jellyfish they were if they elected Dawbridge's gang. He has told Dawbridge to his face that he's a crook a sneak-thief and a liar. Now Dawbridge has him where he wants him. Have you seen the Hearthstone girl?"

Gillian told him of meeting the lovely orphan, of her story of the murder, and of delivering her to the DA.

"She might lie Truman out of this," Gillian said, "except that she can't lie. What do you know about her?"

"Finest kid that ever breathed," said the young lawyer. "She's as game as she's good-looking, and clever to boot. Jim and I used to play games with her, trying to make her tell lies. It's a funny kink. She literally can't tell a lie. She gets all red and chokes up if she tries. She would have made a fine wife for Jim. She has the finest principles of any girl I ever knew. I wish she'd fallen for me instead of Jim."

The voting man paused and looked anxiously at Gillian.

"Mr. Hazeltine, if it was anybody but Jim, I wouldn't touch this case. I know he was a d.a.m.ned fool to kill that man, but he did it, and I'd give anything to help him out of the jam he's in. He and Nellie are simply crazy about each other. I feel he had just as much moral right to kill Grundle as one would to kill a rattlesnake that was getting ready to strike in a minute or two. I certainly do wish you'd take this case."

"I'm no miracle worker," Gillian said. "I have no more idea how that boy could be saved than you have."

Seth Peters grinned. "Yeah? Well, I'd lay a bet that you'd have some sweet ideas before many hours had pa.s.sed. I'd match you against a dozen Elton Dawbridges. This is my first murder case and I don't know what to do. I'm not very clever. All I know how to do is put my head down and my fists up, and slam into 'em."

"Tell me about Grundle," Gillian, said.

"I never knew the truth about that skunk," the young man replied, "until they arrested Jim. Then Jim spilled the worksa"told me what he'd learned from Nellie the night before he shot Grundle. Grundle was a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hydea"a model citizen in the city, a wife beater in the home. He was on the board of education and the board of charities, taking orders from Dawbridge. They were a pair of fine thieves. Only one man knows the truth about Grundle's home lifea"the truth about the real man."

"Jeff Pavlitch?" Gillian said.

"Yes, sir. Pavlitch knows."

"If you could put the farm hand on the stand and draw a story out of him of Grundle's brutality, it might make a jury disagree," Gillian offered.

"But what would my case be? Proving that Grundle was a Jekyll and Hidea"prove that Grundle was infatuated with Nellie and intended to kill his wife and marry her. The will is proof enough of that. Dawbridge will try to convince the jury that the girl is little better than a woman of the streetsa"that she somehow cajoled Grundle into making her his heiress. He will have to ruin her reputation to put his case overa"unless he relies on her true story."

"Would you like to drive out and see Pavlitch?" the young lawyer asked.

"Yes. We might see how reliable he is. There's one more question. This morning's papers carried the story that Dawbridge had accused the Clinton orphanage superintendent of gross misuse of officea"it amounted to an indictment for white slavery. Is that story true?"

"No, sir!" Seth Peters indignantly exclaimed. "It is another of Dawbridge's filthy lies. Old Pete Wardell has been the orphanage superintendent for twenty-seven years, and a finer, more decent old man doesn't live. Dawbridge had his ax out for Pete because the old man once told several people that Dawbridge was a crook. Dawbridge has a worthless, drunken brother he wants to put in Pete's job.

"Old Mr. Wardell was up to see me this afternoon. He'd had a heart attack. The scandal has just about killed him. He's been proud of his record at the orphanage and proud of the decent boys and girls to whom he was practically a father. Dawbridge's rotten lies cast a cloud of suspicion on every girl who ever lived in the orphanage. That was what hurt Mr. Wardell. I certainly do wish, Mr. Hazeltine, that you'd jump into this situation and roll up your sleeves and-"

He stopped as a sharp knock occurred at the door.

"Come in!" he shouted.

The door opened. A tall, thin woman with sharp, black eyes came in and closed the door firmly behind her. Her hair, which was black, was obviously dyed, for her face had the sharpness and the lines which hair dyeing somehow brings out.

She glared at Gillian.

"Are you Gillian Hazeltine?"

He nodded. "Yes, madam."

"My name is Nettie Jarvis. You're just the man I want to see."

CHAPTER 7. MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

A m.u.f.fLED exclamation of impatience escaped the younger lawyer. Miss Jarvis," he said, "I told you this afternoon that I simply cannot make use of your testimony. Mr. Hazeltine and I are very busy and-"

"Not too busy to talk to me," Miss Jarvis said grimly. She looked searchingly at Gillian. "So you're Gillian Hazeltine, the great criminal lawyer. My, but this is certainly a pleasure, Mr. Hazeltine! I've read about all your trials. When I heard the rumor that you were in Clinton, I wore myself out trying to find you."

Gillian's eyes were sparkling with secret amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I understand, Miss Jarvis," he said, "that on the morning of Amos Grundle's murder, you saw a tall black bearded man follow him from his house and into the woods."

The seamstress's black eyes glittered.

"That's true, Mr. Hazeltine. I was riding along the road on my bicycle. What's funny about that?" she demanded, glaring at Gillian. "I'm a poor woman. I can't afford a car. I've ridden a bicycle since I was a girl years before you were born. It's much pleasanter than walking."

"And very good exercise," Gillian said in a subdued voice.

"Elegant exercise!" Miss Jarvis cried. "Look how slim I am! I don't have to take Hollywood diets and drink prune juice by the gallon to reduce. It's bicycling that does it. If these modern girls would only-"

"You were saying," Gillian gently broke in, "that you were riding past Grundle's house on your bicycle the morning he was shot."

The black eyes glowed. "Yes, sir. It was a little before ten in the morning. I should say it was approximately nine forty-three. I was on my way to Mrs. Brubaker's, five miles farther along the road, to help make the clothes for her new baby. Mrs. Brubaker will testify to this.

"As I was pa.s.sing the Grundles' front yarda"their house is close to the road, you knowa"I saw Mr. Grundle walk out of the back door with a rifle under his arm. Then I saw a face peering out at him from the bushes."

"Was this the man with the black beard?" Gillian asked. Seth Peters softly groaned, as one might who has heard a story for the fifth time, and an absurdly false story at that.

"Yes, Mr. Hazeltine. He was a great tall man. He wore a black slouch hat and had a long tangled black beard. And as Mr. Grundle started off in the direction of the quarry, this tall, mysterious man stepped out from the bushes and stealthily followed him. He crept from tree to tree like an Indian."

"Did you ever," Seth Peters growled, "see an Indian creep from tree to tree?"

"I go to the movies!" Miss Jarvis snapped. "I guess I know how Indians creep!"

"Go on with your story, Miss Jarvis," Gillian encouraged her.

"Mr. Grundle vanished into the woods," she obliged, "with this tall, sinister-looking man dodging around behind. That is all I saw except that there was a mysterious bulge in the man's hip pocket."

"Such as a revolver might make?"

"Exactly!"

"Then how do you account for the fact that Grundle was shot with a diamond?"

"The stranger stole the diamond the night before from Mr. Truman's house."

"But why did he waste a perfectly good diamond on killing a man when an ordinary bullet would have sufficed?"

"He wanted to cast suspicion on Mr. Truman."

"Why?"

"How do I know who Mr. Truman's enemies are?" the old lady testily answered. "It was probably some enemy out of his Past."

"Mr. Truman is rather a young man to have much of a past. From what I've gathered, his 'past' was devoted mostly to getting an agricultural school educationa"and working his farm."