"Oh, no, I hope not; only I hate to see mistakes made too often. Poor devil!"
And Oakes patted the boy on the back.
With a pathetic, dog-like expression, sobbing with joy, the befriended negro seized the man's right hand and, kneeling, showered kisses upon it.
Checkmated
The negro was led away. He was in better spirits now, and smiling as only a negro can. That extraordinary genius—the mystic Oakes—had, by a process of reasoning that Joe himself was able to follow, not only cleared him of suspicion, but made a hero of him. The innate vanity of the race was reacting on the boy, and coming to the rescue of his nervous system, recently so severely strained.
When he had gone, Oakes turned to us and, interrupting our exclamations, remarked:
"Now that we are all here together, it would be wise perhaps briefly to review what clues we have obtained and their probable significance."