“You may say what you please, Forsyth, but I am not going to believe that Brant did it till he admits it himself.”
“But, my dear boy, hasn’t he as good as admitted it already?”
“No. In what little he has said he has dodged that point very cunningly.”
“Of course he has; that is the proper thing to do. He is not obliged to criminate himself.”
“It is proper enough, as you say, but, don’t you see, it doesn’t fit into your theory. If he killed the man and is determined to take the consequences, why on top of earth shouldn’t he plead ‘Guilty’ and be done with it?”
That was a logical question, and Forsyth was unable to answer it. When he had said as much the inevitable alternative suggested itself, and he spoke of it:
“If you exonerate Brant, you put the boy in a bad box.”
Antrim had thought about that. “I can’t help it,” he said promptly. “The tree will have to lie where it falls. If you go back to motives, you will have to admit that, according to his own story, the thing looks bad for Will. He was the one who was quarrelling with Harding.”
“Yes, but—pshaw! I can’t believe it, Antrim. Why, he is only a boy!”
“That is true. But it is also true that he is a young tough, hot-headed and quick-tempered. I have known him all his life, and neither the thing itself nor the denial of it is much beyond him.”