“My friend—his work—his murderer.”
“Have you got the man who murdered Henry Wilton?”
“No.”
“Have you got a man who will give a word against—against—you know who?”
“I have not a scrap of evidence against any one but the testimony of my own eyes,” I was compelled to confess.
“And you can't use it—you dare not use it. Now I'll tell you, dearie, I know the man as killed Henry Wilton.”
“Who was it?” I cried, startled into eagerness.
“It was Black Dick—the cursed scoundrel that's done for me. Oh!” she groaned in pain.
“Maybe Black Dick struck the blow, but I know the man that stood behind him, and paid him, and protected him, and I'll see him on the gallows before I die.”
“Hush,” cried Mother Borton trembling. “If he should hear you! Your throat will be cut yet, dearie, and I'm to blame. Drop it, dearie, drop it. The boy is nothing to you. Leave him go. Take your own name and get away. This is no place for you. When I'm gone there will be no one to warn ye. You'll be killed. You'll be killed.”