“The boys’ll be glad to get Tom back in the nineteenth. O’Rourke says—”
“Look here, Handy,” said the governor, whirling about in his chair, and speaking as sharply as a precinct captain at a primary. “I want none of Tom Whalen’s work in the nineteenth—not while I’m running for governor. But then,” he added gravely, “he’s only going back to the nineteenth to die.”
Handy grunted. “Well, I’ll have Fitzgerald pinch the girl anyway, and keep her in the Division Street station till after election.”
The governor looked at Handy. “William,” he said, “you might as well understand now, that that would be wholly useless. I am convinced of Whalen’s innocence absolutely, beyond all doubt, but it will be impossible to get a jury to convict the one who did kill Brokoski on such evidence as convinced me.”
“But she confesses,” urged Handy.
“To whom?”
“To you.”
“Exactly. But what if that confession be a privileged communication?”
Handy looked up in amazement. “You don’t mean you wouldn’t testify?”
The governor’s countenance lost its legal expression, and became suddenly human. If Handy had been a thinner man he would have jumped when the governor said: