The criminal
was his trusted servant, who had proved unworthy of confidence. No one
could question Mr. Delamere's motives; but he was old, his judgment was
no longer to be relied upon. It was a great pity that he should so
excite and overstrain himself about a worthless negro, who had forfeited
his life for a dastardly crime. Mr. Delamere had had two paralytic
strokes, and a third might prove fatal. He must be dealt with gently.
"Mr. Delamere," he said, with patient tolerance, "I think you are
deceived. There is but one sure way to stop this execution. If your
servant is innocent, you must produce the real criminal. If the negro,
with such overwhelming proofs against him, is not guilty, who is?"
"I will tell you who is," replied Mr. Delamere. "The murderer is,"--the
words came with a note of anguish, as though torn from his very
heart,--"the murderer is Tom Delamere, my own grandson!"
"Impossible, sir!" exclaimed Carteret, starting back involuntarily.
"That could not be! The man was seen leaving the house, and he was
black!"
"All cats are gray in the dark, Carteret; and, moreover, nothing is
easier than for a white man to black his face. God alone knows how many
crimes have been done in this guise! Tom Delamere, to get the money to
pay his gambling debts, committed this foul murder, and then tried to
fasten it upon as honest and faithful a soul as ever trod the earth."
Carteret, though at first overwhelmed by this announcement, perceived
with quick intuition that it might easily be true.
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