Part 19 (2/2)

”I think we've got him, Mrs. Pitman,” he said. ”The jury won't even go out of the box.”

But further than that he would not explain. He said he had a witness locked in his room, and he'd be glad of supper for him, as they'd both come a long ways. And he went out and bought some oysters and a bottle or two of beer. But as far as I know, he kept him locked up all that night in the second-story front room. I don't think the man knew he was a prisoner. I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting by the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial--an elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking.

Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled in a blanket--not that I think his witness even thought of escaping, but the little man was taking no chances.

At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell. I admitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room. I had not seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me. He was dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and he looked as if he had not slept for days.

Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined.

”You haven't been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?” I asked.

”Oh, no, I'm well enough, I've been traveling about. Those infernal sleeping-cars--”

His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother's picture, with the jonquils beneath.

”That's curious!” he said, going closer. ”It--it looks almost like Lida Harvey.”

”My mother,” I said simply.

”Have you seen her lately?”

”My mother?” I asked, startled.

”No, Lida.”

”I saw her a few days ago.”

”Here?”

”Yes. She came here, Mr. Howell, two weeks ago. She looks badly--as if she is worrying.”

”Not--about me?” he asked eagerly.

”Yes, about you. What possessed you to go away as you did? When my--bro--when her uncle accused you of something, you ran away, instead of facing things like a man.”

”I was trying to find the one person who could clear me, Mrs. Pitman.”

He sat back, with his eyes closed; he looked ill enough to be in bed.

”And you succeeded?”

”No.”

I thought perhaps he had not been eating and I offered him food, as I had once before. But he refused it, with the ghost of his boyish smile.

”I'm hungry, but it's not food I want. I want to see _her_,” he said.

I sat down across from him and tried to mend a table-cloth, but I could not sew. I kept seeing those two young things, each sick for a sight of the other, and, from wis.h.i.+ng they could have a minute together, I got to planning it for them.

”Perhaps,” I said finally, ”if you want it very much--”

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