"You have proved enough. My
grandson may be a scoundrel,--I can see, in the light of this
revelation, how he might be; and he seems not to have denied it. I
maintain, nevertheless, that my man Sandy is innocent of the charge
against him. He has denied it, and it has not been proved. Carteret, I
owe that negro my life; he, and his father before him, have served me
and mine faithfully and well. I cannot see him killed like a dog,
without judge or jury,--no, not even if he were guilty, which I do not
believe!"
Carteret felt a twinge of remorse for the pain he had inflicted upon
this fine old man, this ideal gentleman of the ideal past,--the past
which he himself so much admired and regretted. He would like to spare
his old friend any further agitation; he was in a state of health where
too great excitement might prove fatal. But how could he? The negro was
guilty, and sure to die sooner or later. He had not meant to interfere,
and his intervention might be fruitless.
"Mr. Delamere," he said gently, "there is but one way to gain time. You
say the negro is innocent. Appearances are against him. The only way to
clear him is to produce the real criminal, or prove an alibi. If you, or
some other white man of equal standing, could swear that the negro was
in your presence last night at any hour when this crime could have taken
place, it might be barely possible to prevent the lynching for the
present; and when he is tried, which will probably be not later than
next week, he will have every opportunity to defend himself, with you
to see that he gets no less than justice.
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