incensed?  Was it that in habitually delving into the motives of men’s actions he had lost the power of dissociating what a man did from what he was; had come to see him, with his thoughts, deeds, and omissions, as a coherent growth?  And he looked at Tryst.  The big laborer was staring with all his soul at Derek.  And, suddenly, he saw his nephew stand up—­tilt his dark head back against the wall—­and open his mouth to speak.  In sheer alarm Felix touched Mr. Pogram on the arm.  The little square man had already turned; he looked at that moment extremely like a frog.

“Gentlemen, I wish to say—­”

“Who are you?  Sit down!” It was the chairman, speaking for the first time in a voice that could be heard.

“I wish to say that he is not responsible.  I—­”

“Silence!  Silence, sir!  Sit down!”

Felix saw his nephew waver, and Sheila pulling at his sleeve; then, to his infinite relief, the boy sat down.  His sallow face was red; his thin lips compressed to a white line.  And slowly under the eyes of the whole court he grew deadly pale.

Distracted by fear that the boy might make another scene, Felix followed the proceedings vaguely.  They were over soon enough:  Tryst committed, defence reserved, bail refused—­all as Mr. Pogram had predicted.

Derek and Sheila had vanished, and in the street outside, idle at this hour of a working-day, were only the cars of the four magistrates; two or three little knots of those who had been in court, talking of the case; and in the very centre of the street, an old, dark-whiskered man, lame, and leaning on a stick.

“Very nearly being awkward,” said the voice of Mr. Pogram in his ear.  “I say, do you think—­no hand himself, surely no real hand himself?”

Felix shook his head violently.  If the thought had once or twice occurred to him, he repudiated it with all his force when shaped by another’s mouth—­and such a mouth, so wide and rubbery!

“No, no!  Strange boy!  Extravagant sense of honour—­too sensitive, that’s all!”

“Quite so,” murmured Mr. Pogram soothingly.  “These young people!  We live in a queer age, Mr. Freeland.  All sorts of ideas about, nowadays.  Young men like that—­better in the army—­safe in the army.  No ideas there!”

“What happens now?” said Felix.

“Wait!” said Mr. Pogram.  “Nothing else for it—­wait.  Three months—­twiddle his thumbs.  Bad system!  Rotten!”

“And suppose in the end he’s proved innocent?”

Mr. Pogram shook his little round head, whose ears were very red.

“Ah!” he said:  “Often say to my wife:  ‘Wish I weren’t a humanitarian!’ Heart of india-rubber—­excellent thing—­the greatest blessing.  Well, good-morning!  Anything you want to say at any time, let me know!” And exhaling an overpowering whiff of gutta-percha, he grasped Felix’s hand and passed into a house on the door of which was printed in brazen letters:  “Edward Pogram, James Collet.  Solicitors.  Agents.”