The Councilor being told to sit there in attendance does just that, staying sullen, sulky, short-winded, and soured. He can't manage a good mouthful of words, yet, nor will he be able to for a few moments more as he takes to mopping an already drenched handkerchief around and up and down his face and hands.
Ahhh, how he longs to be back home where he oversaw the town council and could simply make such necessary demands of it as getting in a blasted mind reader or mystic when needed! Not that he did such that often back in Westenford. . . only once or twice. . . . Usually it was a simple matter of a vote to determine innocence or guilt from those extraordinarily like-aged, like-minded, like-bodied fellows most of the town snidely called "The Bellies" but officially answered to the Parliamentary Ruling Council of Westenford.
So, waiting, reminiscing dreamily enough, and finally shufflingly, quiveringly coming back to the present moment, Treadwell listens until he finally, gruffly sums up the prisoner's words with "A shape changer. Mmph mmph."
Thus, he hushes again, taking deeper pulls from his pipe and slumping where he sits.