“This is a solemn confession,” he said, turning to his lawyer, “and is made to the district attorney, with yourself and Mr. Burroughs as witnesses.”
Mr. Randolph bowed his head, in acknowledgment of this formal statement.
“I am a criminal in the eyes of the law,” said Mr. Crawford, in an impersonal tone, which I knew he adopted to hide any emotion he might feel. “I have committed a dastardly crime. But I am not the murderer of my brother Joseph.”
We all felt our hearts lightened of a great load, for it was impossible to disbelieve that calm statement and the clear gaze of those truthful, unafraid eyes.
“The story I have to tell will sound as if I might have been my brother's slayer, and this is why I assert the contrary at the outset.”
Pausing here, Mr. Crawford unlocked the drawer of a desk and took out a small pistol, which he laid on the table.
“That,” he said, “is my revolver, and it is the weapon with which my brother was killed.”
I felt a choking sensation. Philip Crawford's manner was so far removed from a sensational—or melodramatic effect, that it was doubly impressive. I believed his statement that he did not kill his brother, but what could these further revelations mean? Hall? Florence? Young Philip? Whom would Philip Crawford thus shield for a whole week, and then, when forced to do so, expose?
“You are making strange declarations, Mr. Crawford,” said Lawyer Randolph, who was already white-faced and trembling.
“I know it,” went on Philip Crawford, “and I trust you three men will hear my story through, and then take such measures as you see fit.