His son watched until he got as far as the hall, almost out of sight, then hurried after. ``Dad. Dad, wait.''

He caught up with the old man in the living room. Old man Arthur had put down the suitcase to open the front door.

``Just this one favor, Dad. Just don't tell Ferguson that crazy opinion of yours.''

``Why not?'' The old man gave the room a stare in leaving; under the scraggly brows the pale old eyes burned with a bitter memory. ``It's the truth.''

``The Bartlett girl was killed by Mr. Dronk's son. Rossi and Ferguson have been across the street, talking to the kid. They've found some sort of new evidence, a bundle of clothes or something, and it must link the kid even stronger to the crime. Why wonn't you accept facts? The two kids were together a lot, they were having some kind of teen-age affair -- God knows how far that had gone -- and the kid's crippled. He limps, and the man who hit you and took the cane, he limped. My God, how much more do you want?''

His father looked him over closely. ``You sound like an old woman. You should have gone to work today,' stead of sneaking around spying on the Dronk house.''

``Now, see here'' --

``The trouble with you,'' old man Arthur began, and then checked himself. Young Mrs. Arthur had opened the oven and there was a drifting odor of hot biscuits. The old man opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. ``Isn't enough time to go into it,'' he finished, and slammed the door in his son's face.