“You punched cows six years ago. You cartooned five years ago, and you have painted landscapes ever since. I presume, if it became necessary, you could prove an alibi for almost seven years?”
Saxon nodded. He fancied he saw the drift of the argument. It was to culminate in the same counsel that Steele had given. He would be advised to allow the time to reach the period when his other self should be legally dead.
Mr. Pendleton paced the floor for a space, then came back and halted before the cot, on the edge of which the prisoner sat.
“I have been at this post only two years, but I am, of course, familiar with the facts of that case.” He paused, then added with irrelevance: “It may be that you bear a somewhat striking resemblance to this particularly disreputable conspirator. Of course, that’s possible, but—”
“But highly improbable,” admitted Saxon.
“Oh, you are not that man! That can be mathematically demonstrated,” asserted Mr. Pendleton suddenly. “I was only reflecting on the fallibility of circumstantial evidence. I am a lawyer, and once, as district attorney, I convicted a man on such evidence. He’s in the penitentiary now, and it set me wondering if—”
But Saxon stood dumfounded, vainly trying to speak. His face was white, and he had seized the envoy by the arm with a grip too emphatic for diplomatic etiquette.
“Do you know what you are saying?” he shouted. “I am not that man! How do you know that?”
“I know it,” responded Mr. Pendleton calmly, “because the incident of the firing-squad occurred five years ago—and the embezzlement only four years back.”
Saxon remained staring in wide-eyed amazement. He felt his knees grow suddenly weak, and the blood cascaded through the arteries of his temples. Then, he turned, and, dropping again to the edge of the cot, covered his face with his hands.