“I said Nelson Sinkler—­that’s you!” screamed the voice.

And on that, from here and there in the hall, like snipers posted in ambush, men shouted the name “Nelson Sinkler”—­the words popping like rifles.

There was uproar.  Part of it was protest, part hysterical demonstration of excitement in an assemblage which did not in the least understand.

Then after a time came quiet, for the object of the attack stood in his elevated position, unruffled, stern, turning bold front to right and left as men barked at him.

“I am here where all may look on me,” he said.  “Let one or all of those who are attacking me stand forth in view, too.”

No one stood up.

“It’s a cowardly man who will not put his name to a letter or show his face when he makes an accusation,” cried Farr.

“How about a man who doesn’t dare to use his own name?” This questioner remained in ambush.

“Your right name isn’t Walker Farr and you know it isn’t,” bellowed a voice on the opposite side of the hall.

Other voices pot-shotted at him with the words, “Nelson Sinkler.”

“Will one man in this convention stand up and show himself so that I can talk to him face to face?” shouted the man at bay.

Detective Mullaney and Richard Dodd could not find seats.  The others were sitting, and the two were marked men.

“Well, Dodd, you have been whispering.  What have you to say aloud?” demanded the man they were baiting.

“I say your name is not Walker Farr.”

“You!” The tall young man darted a finger at Mullaney.

“I say you’re Nelson Sinkler.”

“And what of him?”

“He is wanted by the state of Nebraska for murder.”

A sound that was mingled sigh and groan ran and throbbed from galleries to floor; it filled the great hall and seemed to vibrate back and forth over the assemblage.  And for the long minute that the dreadful sound continued until it had breathed itself out into horrified silence the man who stood on the settee looked straight into the white face of the girl in the gallery.

But those of the throng who devoured him with eager stares could not discern one trace of confession on his countenance.

Then he did a strange thing.

He held his arms out toward Detective Mullaney and crossed them, wrist over wrist, and he smiled.

“If you are certain enough of your man to dare to arrest me, sir, I stand here waiting for the handcuffs.”

The detective hesitated, visibly embarrassed.  He had been looking for confusion, confession by manner, even collapse.

“This is a put-up political job,” declared a delegate.  “That’s no murderer—­that man.”

“I am waiting,” repeated Farr.

Detective Mullaney flushed.  There were murmurs of hostility in the throng about him.  He ran over swiftly in his mind the contents of his note-book and fortified his courage.