The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

The jury, with quick meaning glances at one another, with a new interest, leaned forward in their seats. There was a tense moment—a sort of bated silence in the courtroom. And then, as Mother Blondin answered, some one tittered audibly, the spell was broken, the point made by the defence swept away, turned even into a weapon against itself.

“If you will give me a stick of wood and come closer, close enough so that I can hit you over the head with it,” said Mother Blondin, and cackled viciously, “you will see how well I can see!”

Madame Blondin stepped down.

And then there came upon Raymond a thrill, a weakness, a quick tightening of his muscles. The clerk had called his name. He walked mechanically to the witness stand. It was coming now. He must be on his guard. But he had thought out everything very carefully, and—no, almost before he knew it, he was back in his seat again. He had been asked only if he had followed the road all the way from the station, to describe how he had found the man, and to identify the prisoner as that man. He was to be recalled. Le-moyne had not asked him a single question.

“Mademoiselle Valérie Lafleur!” called the clerk.

“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” she whispered tremulously. “I—I do not want to go. It—it is such a terrible thing to have to say anything that would help to send a man to death—I—-”

“Mademoiselle Valérie Lafleur!” snapped the clerk. “Will the witness have the goodness to——”

Raymond did not hear her testimony; he knew only that she, too, identified the man as the one she had seen lying unconscious in the road, and that the note she had found was read and placed in evidence—in his ears, like a dull, constant dirge, were those words of hers with which she had left him—“it is such a terrible thing to have to say anything that would help to send a man to death.” Who was it that was sending the man to death? Not he! He had tried to save the man. It wasn't death, anyway. The man's guilt would appear obvious, of course—Lemoyne, the lawyer, could not alter that; but he had still faith in Lemoyne. Lemoyne would make his defence on the man's condition. Lemoyne would come to that.

“My son!” croaked old Mother Blondin fiercely, at his side. “My son! What I know, I know! But the law—the law on the man who killed my son!”

“Pull yourself together, you fool!” rasped that inner voice. “Do you want everybody in the courtroom staring at you. Listen to the incomparable Dupont telling how clever he was!”