“Do I understand that ye surrinder yourself as the murtherer of this man?” he demanded, with a jerk of his thumb toward the limp figure on the floor.
In the hush that followed Jarvis’s pencil paused, and the reporter thought it a measure of Brant’s fortitude that he could smile.
“I am not required to criminate myself before witnesses,” was the reply. “I neither deny nor affirm; but I am ready to go with you and to answer to the charge at the proper time and place.”
He held out his wrists for the handcuffs, but the sergeant ignored the gesture and contented himself with searching his prisoner for weapons.
“You come along wid us quietlike, and there won’t be no use for the darbies,” he said. “Officer Connell, ye’ll bring the b’y.”
But Brant protested quickly. “What for?” he demanded.
“As a matther of discreetion. I know fwhat I’m doing,” retorted the sergeant. “Come on wid you.”
“Not a step till you turn the boy loose,” said Brant firmly; “at least, not peaceably. I appeal to the crowd. You have just as good reasons for arresting every person in this room as you have for taking this young man. You may say he is a witness; but in that case I ask who gave you the authority to arrest witnesses?”
It was a bold stroke and the argument was altogether specious, but Brant knew he could count upon the moral influence of the onlookers, and in this he was not disappointed. A murmur of encouragement answered the appeal, and when the sergeant hesitated Jarvis put in his word.
“You know me, McCafferty,” he said. “I’ll vouch for the young man. He is the son of Judge Langford, and you can find him when you want him.”