“We will have no argument about it, Westby,” said Irving. “Please climb the ladder at once and release Allison.”
“I beg of you, Mr. Upton,” said Westby in a tone of distress, “don’t, please don’t, confuse argument with impartial inquiry; nothing is more distasteful to me than argument. I merely ask for investigation; I court it in your own interest as well as mine.”
Irving grew rigid. His head was throbbing painfully; the continued snickering all round him and Westby’s increasing confidence and fluency grated on his nerves. He drew out his watch.
“I will give you one minute in which to climb that ladder,” he said.
“Mr. Upton, you wish to be a just man,” pleaded Westby. “Even though you have the great weight of authority—and years”—Westby choked a laugh—“behind you, don’t do an unjust and arbitrary thing. Allison himself wouldn’t have you—would you, Allison?”
The victim grinned uncomfortably.
“Mr. Upton,” urged Westby, “you wouldn’t have me soil these hands?” He displayed his laudably clean, pink fingers. “Of course, if I go up there I shall get my hands all dirty—and equally of course if I had been up there, they would be all dirty now. Surely you believe in the value of circumstantial evidence; therefore, before we fix the responsibility, let us search for the dirty pair of hands.”
“Time is up,” said Irving, closing his watch.
“But what is time when justice trembles in the balance?” argued Westby. “When the innocent is in danger of being punished for the guilty, when—”
“Westby, please climb that ladder at once.”