Part 8 (1/2)

That night, for the first time in his career, he allowed himself to be kept awake, not by the fear that he should fail through inexperience in his duty to his client--as had happened sometimes to trouble him earlier in his professional life--but by a dread that he should wilfully betray his trust to the public. At two o'clock he lay staring at the wall, asking himself if he was becoming corrupt; if he, too, believed in s.h.i.+elding guilt if only that guilt were dressed in purple and spoke with a soft and cultured accent.

II.

”Mr. Banks will be down in a moment;” the trim maid had said, and left the library door open as she withdrew.

The young prosecutor walked about the room uneasily. He had hoped at the last moment that the object of his call would be from home--that he would take fright and refuse to be seen--that action had been taken by the police which would put it out of his power to give the warning that he now felt he was here to give. But, no. ”Mr. Banks will be down in a moment.” He had heard quite distinctly, and there had not been the slightest accent of fear or annoyance in the voice that spoke.

In his agitation he had taken up a curiously wrought paper knife which lay upon the table and had dropped it as if it had burned his fingers.

”Good G.o.d!” he exclaimed. ”_He_ was the college thief. It is no new thing, then.”

He took up the knife again and examined it closely. There could be no mistake. It was a gold wrought, elaborately engraved blade, set in a handle which had no duplicate, for the students, who had planned the gift which had so mysteriously disappeared had devised and caused to be engraved a secret symbol which was cut deep in the polished surface.

It was to have been a surprise for one of the favorites in the faculty.

It had disappeared--and here it was!

”Good morning, Mathews. This is really very kind. I--”

It was the voice of Walter Banks, but their eyes met over the fallen paper knife, which had dropped from trembling fingers at the first word.

A great wave of color rushed into the face of young Banks. The prosecutor stood mute and pale. Involuntarily he had tried to cover the knife with a corner of the rug as he turned to meet his host. It vaguely dawned upon him that he was a guest in a house where he was playing the part of a detective. His hand was extended in the hearty western fas.h.i.+on which had become second nature to him, but Walter Banks did not take it.

”Will you sit down?” said the host in a tone which was hoa.r.s.e, and quite unlike the frank, free voice that spoke a moment before.

As he seated himself he bent forward and took up the bit of tell-tale gold and ivory. Then he said, slowly in a tone that was scarcely audible:

”Yes, I took it. You are right. It _is_ the college knife.”

”Don't! don't!” exclaimed Fred Mathews, rising. ”I am-- You forget-- I am-- My office. Think. I am for the prosecution!” His face was livid.

Young Banks leaned heavily against the table. The color began to die out of his lips. His hand trembled as he laid the knife upon the table.

Neither spoke. The brain of the young prosecutor found only sc.r.a.ps and shreds of thought, in which such words as duty, honor, pity, hospitality, wealth, social order, floated vaguely here and there, buffeted by the one insistent idea that he should go--go quickly--and leave this man alone with his shame and humiliation.

Walter Banks was the first to speak.

”Come up to my room. Mother might come in here and--I suppose--you have come about-- I--Is--? You say you are for the prosecution. Have they traced the cloak to me?”

The lawyer stepped back again and looked at the man before him. What could he mean by saying such a thing as that--_to him?_ They had never been close friends, but now in spite of everything the thought that he was the prosecutor kept itself steadily in the attorney's mind and struggled with a pity and reluctance that were seeking to justify him by a belief in the insanity of young Banks.

No one but a lunatic would have made that last remark. The thought was a relief. He grasped at it eagerly and began to fas.h.i.+on his mental outlook to fit the idea. Then suddenly came to him with overwhelming force all he had ever heard or read of the failure of justice where criminals of high degree were concerned.

He had followed his host to the stairs. Suddenly he turned, caught up his hat from the stand where he had left it, and pa.s.sed out of the street door without a word. Once in the street he glanced involuntarily up at the house. At the window of the room he had just left stood Walter Banks. His arm was about his mother's shoulders, and both were very pale. There was a strange likeness between them.

III.

Every conceivable form of pressure to prevent the trial of Walter Banks was brought to bear in the next few weeks; but Prosecutor Mathews had pushed the case vigorously in spite of it all. He felt not only that justice was at stake, but that his own moral fibre was in p.a.w.n, as well. He held aloof from his social friends--who were in many cases the friends of the accused, also--lest he lose sight of his duty through some fresh or new form of attack upon his integrity of purpose.

It had come to his knowledge that even the Judge who was to sit in the case had been approached by the friends of the defendant, and it was felt that it would be difficult to impanel a jury that would or could be fair and impartial.