“You must answer the prosecuting attorney’s question,” said Judge Maxwell sternly. “No matter what motive of honor or fealty to the dead, or thought of sparing the living, may lie behind your concealment of these facts, the law does not, cannot, take it into account. Your duty now is to reply to all questions asked, and you will be given another opportunity to do so. Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor.”
Hammer had given it up. He sat like a man collapsed, bending over his papers on the table, trying to make a front in his defeat before the public. The prosecuting attorney resumed the charge, framing his attack in quick lunges. He was in a clinch, using the short-arm jab.
“After Isom Chase came into the room you had words?”
“We had some words,” replied Joe slowly, weary that this thing should have to be gone over again.
“Were they loud and boisterous words, or were they low and subdued?”
“Well, Isom talked pretty loud when he was mad,” said Joe.
“Loud enough for anybody upstairs to hear–loud enough to wake anybody asleep up there?”
“I don’t know,” said Joe coldly, resentful of this flanking subterfuge.
He must go through that turmoil of strain and suffering again, all because Morgan, the author of this evil thing, had lacked the manhood to come forward and admit his misdeeds.
The thoughts will travel many a thousand miles while the tongue covers an inch; even while Joe answered he was thinking of this. More crowded upon him as he waited the prosecutor’s next question. Why should he suffer all that public misjudgment and humiliation, all that pain and twisting of the conscience on Morgan’s account? What would it avail in the end? Perhaps Ollie would prove unworthy his sacrifice for her, as she already had proved ungrateful. Even then the echo of her testimony against him was in his ears. 293