The crowd wasn't getting smaller.
If anything it was growing — people drawn from further down the street by the noise, by the particular pull of something wrong happening in a public place. They pressed forward in clusters, talking over each other, the conversations layering into a single ongoing noise.
Noel stood at the entrance of the restaurant, his coat on and hands in his pockets, listening.
"—another one, just like before—"
"—thought they hanged him, I read it in the papers—"
"—What if it's a different person? What if someone learned from him—"
"—a group, maybe. Some society—"
"—my cousin said there were two of them all along—"
No one said: 'What if the man they hanged was innocent?'
No one said: 'What if they got it wrong?'
