“It is no use,” he explained. “He won’t accept bail, and I can’t even get him to consent to employ counsel.”
“But, my dear sir, that is sheer folly! Indeed, in this case it is worse than folly—it is suicide.” So said the judge, and so he fully believed.
“I know it; that is just what I tell him. But he is as stubborn as a mule.”
The lawyer in the judge awoke at this, and he became interested at once on the part of the mulish one. “What reason does he give, pray?”
Forsyth hesitated, not knowing precisely how far he might confide in the questioner. So he felt his way:
“He doesn’t give any reason; he simply refuses to talk. But I have my own theory. We are all friends of his, I take it, and I may speak plainly?”
“Certainly; go on.”
“Well, he is a singular fellow in some respects, and you can’t apply the law of averages. I believe he did the thing deliberately, and for some reason which does not appear on the surface. And, having done it, he means to let the law take its course without opposition—to take the consequences.”
“H’m,” said the judge reflectively; then he remembered how easy it would have been for Brant to have shifted suspicion to Will, and his heart warmed toward the culprit. “We mustn’t allow that, Mr. Forsyth. Of course, the court will assign him counsel at the trial whether he wants it or not, but we mustn’t let it come to that. Do you see him again, and endeavour to make him listen to reason.”
Forsyth promised to do what he might toward that desirable end, and the judge and his son left the courtroom together. The editor followed with Antrim, and when the Langfords were out of earshot the chief clerk put in his word: