The old woman in the corner began to whimper, “Blood and trouble!  Blood and trouble all my days!  Red on his hands!  Dripping!  Olga!  Blood!”

“But the road to the beach begins there too,” Mrs. Brenner cried, above the cracked voice, “and Tobey saw his pa before he came home.  He said he did.  I tell you, Mart was on the hill.  He put on Tobey’s shoes.  Before God I’m telling you the truth.”

Dick Roamer spoke hesitatingly, “Mebbe the old woman’s right, Munn.  Mebbe those tracks are Brenner’s.”

Mrs. Brenner turned to him in wild gratitude.

“You believe me, don’t you?” she cried.  The tears dribbled down her face.  She saw the balance turning on a hair.  A moment more and it might swing back.  She turned and hobbled swiftly to the shelf.  Proof!  More proof!  She must bring more proof of Tobey’s innocence!

She snatched up his box of butterflies and came back to Munn.

“This is what Tobey was doin’ this afternoon!” she cried in triumph.  “He was catchin’ butterflies!  That ain’t murder, is it?”

“Nobody catches butterflies in a fog,” said Munn.

“Well, Tobey did.  Here they are,” Mrs. Brenner held out the box.  Munn took it from her shaking hand.  He looked at it.  After a moment he turned it over.  His eyes narrowed.  Mrs. Brenner turned sick.  The room went swimming around before her in a bluish haze.  She had forgotten the blood on her hand that she had wiped off before Mart came home.  Suppose the blood had been on the box.

The sheriff opened the box.  A bruised butterfly, big, golden, fluttered up out of it.  Very quietly the sheriff closed the box, and turned to Mrs. Brenner.

“Call your son,” he said.

“What do you want of him?  Tobey ain’t done nothing.  What you tryin’ to do to him?”

“There is blood on this box, Mrs. Brenner.”

“Mebbe he cut himself.”  Mrs. Brenner was fighting.  Her face was chalky white.

“In the box, Mrs. Brenner, is a gold watch and chain.  The man who was killed, Mrs. Brenner, had a piece of gold chain to match this in his buttonhole. The rest of it had been torn off”

Olga made no sound.  Her burning eyes turned toward Mart.  In them was all of a heart’s anguish and despair.

“Tell ’em, Mart!  Tell ’em he didn’t do it!” she finally pleaded.

Mart’s face was inscrutable.

Munn rose.  The other men got to their feet.

“Will you get the boy or shall I?” the sheriff said directly to Mrs. Brenner.

With a rush Mrs. Brenner was on her knees before Munn, clutching him about the legs with twining arms.  Tears of agony dripped over her seamed face.

“He didn’t do it!  Don’t take him!  He’s my baby!  He never harmed anybody!  He’s my baby!” Then with a shriek, as Munn unclasped her arms, “Oh, my God!  My God!”

Munn helped her to her feet.  “Now, now, Mrs. Brenner, don’t take on so,” he said awkwardly.  “There ain’t going to be no harm come to your boy.  It’s to keep him from getting into harm that I’m taking him.  The village is a mite worked up over this murder and they might get kind of upset if they thought Tobey was still loose.  Better go and get him, Mrs. Brenner.”