“By Heavens, I believe you will stick to it!” said the Judge, greatly disappointed. “Had you couched your refusal in some swelling phrase—and I can think of a dozen sonorous platitudes to fit the case—I might yet have hopes of you. I believe, sir, that you are a stubborn fellow. The man is nothing to you!”
“The man is much to me,” returned Jeff. “He is innocent.”
“So, I believe, are you. How will it help him for you to die? And so obscurely, too! I think,” said the Judge gently, flicking at his cuff, “that you mentioned a wife? Yes? And children? Two, I think. Two boys?”
His elbows were upon the table, his white hands were extended upon the table, he held his head a little to one side and contemplated his fingers as they played a little tune there, quite as if it were a piano.
Jeff’s face worked; he rose and paced the floor. Mac, by the door, regarded him with something very like compassion in his hard face. The Judge watched him with feline amusement.
When he came back he passed by his chair; he stood beside the table, resting his fingers lightly on the typewriter frame. “Life is dear to me,” he said, with a slight break in his voice. “I will make this one concession. More I will not do. Tillotson’s trial is half over; the verdict is certain; there are powerful influences at work to insure the denial of an appeal and to hasten his execution. If you can keep me here until after his execution I will then—to save my life, for my wife’s sake, for my children’s sake—keep silence. And may God forgive me for a compromiser and a coward!” he added with a groan. “But if, before that, I can make my escape; if, before that, I can in any way communicate with the outside world, I will denounce you, at any cost to myself.”
The Judge would have spoken, but Jeff held up his hand. “Wait! I have listened to you—listen now to me. You have forgotten that there are two sides to every bargain. You sit directly between me and Mac, your hands are upon the table, your feet are beneath the table, the typewriter is at my hand. Do not move! If Mac stirs but an inch, if you dare raise a finger, until you have agreed to my proposition, by the God that made me, I will crush your skull like an egg!”
“Had ye wrung his neck off-hand, as I urgit upon ye frae the first——” The words came bitterly from Mac, sitting rigid in his corner—“this wadna have chancit.” His tones conveyed a singular mixture of melancholy and triumph; the thickening of his Scotch burr betrayed his agitation. “Be guidit by me noo at the last, Judge, and tak the daft body’s terms. In my opeenion the project of smashin’ your head wi’ the machine is enteerly pract’ecable, and I think Mr. Bransford will e’en do it. Why should he no? A dead man has naught to fear. My gude word is, mak treaty wi’ him and save your——”
“Neck. For this time,” hinted Jeff delicately.
The Judge did not shrink, he did not pale; but neither did he move. “And your presentiment that you would see me hanged? You have abandoned that, it seems?”