You will now retire." Shuffling forms faded through the door at the right.

Then followed long moments of waiting, in which Robert Fairchild's eyes went to the floor, in which he strove to avoid the gaze of every one in the crowded court room.

He knew what they were thinking, that his father had been a murderer, and that he--well, that he was blood of his father's blood.
He could hear the buzzing of tongues, the shifting of the court room on the unstable chairs, and he knew fingers were pointing at him.

For once in his life he had not the strength to face his fellow men.

A quarter of an hour--a knock on the door--then the six men clattered forth again, to hand a piece of paper to the coroner.