Carteret was
expecting them, though there had been no appointment made. These three
resourceful and energetic minds, representing no organized body, and
clothed with no legal authority, had so completely arrogated to
themselves the leadership of white public sentiment as to come together
instinctively when an event happened which concerned the public, and, as
this murder presumably did, involved the matter of race.
"Well, gentlemen," demanded McBane impatiently, "what are we going to do
with the scoundrel when we catch him?"
"They've got the murderer," announced a reporter, entering the room.
"Who is he?" they demanded in a breath.
"A nigger by the name of Sandy Campbell, a servant of old Mr. Delamere."
"How did they catch him?"
"Our Jerry saw him last night, going toward Mrs. Ochiltree's house, and
a white man saw him coming away, half an hour later."
"Has he confessed?"
"No, but he might as well. When the posse went to arrest him, they found
him cleaning the clothes he had worn last night, and discovered in his
room a part of the plunder. He denies it strenuously, but it seems a
clear case."
"There can be no doubt," said Ellis, who had come into the room behind
the reporter. "I saw the negro last night, at twelve o'clock, going into
Mr. Delamere's yard, with a bundle in his hand."
"He is the last negro I should have suspected," said Carteret. "Mr.
Delamere had implicit confidence in him."
"All niggers are alike," remarked McBane sententiously.
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