And he, adjusting his glasses, turned to the court room and read: "We, the jury, find that the deceased came to his death from injuries sustained at the hands of Thornton Fairchild, in or about the month of June, 1892." That was all, but it was enough.

The stain had been placed; the thing which the white-haired man who had sat by a window back in Indianapolis had feared all his life had come after death.

And it was as though he were living again in the body of his son, his son who now stood beside the big form of Harry, striving to force his eyes upward and finally succeeding,--standing there facing the morbid, staring crowd as they turned and jostled that they might look at him, the son of a murderer! How long it lasted he did not, could not know.

The moments were dazed, bleared things which consisted to him only of a succession of eyes, of persons who pointed him out, who seemed to edge away from him as they passed him.

It seemed hours before the court room cleared.