The lawyer drew out his watch.
“Twelve forty-five,” he said. “The New York express passes through Granite at one twenty. We’ll have plenty of time to catch it. If you will get ready at once, we’ll start. We can discuss details during the trip.”
“‘We’?” echoed Caleb. “What d’ye mean? I’m not going to New York with you.”
“Mr. Conover!” exclaimed Wendell, shaking his inert host by the shoulder to rouse him from his apparent stupor, “you don’t realize! Gerald is in a cell on a murder charge. To-morrow he will be sent to the Tombs—our city prison—to remain until his case comes up. Then he will be tried for his life and——”
“I know all about the course of such things. You don’t need to tell me.”
“But this is a life-and-death matter!”
“Well, if I can keep cool over it, I presume you can, can’t you? It’s very kind of you to explain all this to me, but it ain’t necessary. I understand everything you’ve told me, and I understand a lot you’ve overlooked. For instance, the pictures that’ll be in all to-morrow’s evening papers of my boy on his way to the Tombs, handcuffed to a plain-clothes man, and pictures of that chorus woman of his in all sorts of poses, and pictures of the ‘stricken father’—that’s me—and Letty figuring as the ‘aged mother, heart-broke at her son’s crime.’ And my daughter and her—the Prince d’Antri. And my house and a diagram of the restaurant where the shooting was done. And there’ll be interviews with the Montmorency thing and accounts of her being brave and visiting Jerry in the Tombs. And a maynoo of what he’ll have for Thanksgiving dinner in his cell. And——”
“I’ll do what I can to prevent publicity. I——”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. What happens in public the public has a right to read about. If Jerry’s dragged us into the limelight, can we kick if the papers let folks see us there?”
“But surely——”