“I’ve hurried here, Judge Maxwell, to do what I can in the name of justice and humanity,” Morgan said. “That boy, Joe Newbolt, on trial here before you for the murder of old man Chase, is innocent. That boy is telling the truth, Judge, and I’ll stake my neck on that. I’ve got a story to tell you that will clear up all he’s holding back, and I’ll tell it, if I swing for it!”
Morgan was greatly agitated. He stopped there, looking earnestly into the judge’s face. 347
“Why have you waited so long?” asked the judge, sternly.
Morgan leaned over, clutching at the judge’s arm.
“Am I too late–is it over–have they convicted him?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s over,” nodded the judge, studying Morgan’s face narrowly.
“Merciful heavens!” said Morgan, springing to his feet, looking around for his coat and hat. “We must stop this thing before it’s too late, Judge–I tell you we must stop it! Isn’t there some way–have they convicted Joe?”
“Sit down, Morgan, and calm yourself. Hold your feet out to the blaze and dry them,” the judge admonished, kindly.
“What’s happened?” asked Morgan, wildly, not heeding the command.
“You shall hear it all in time,” promised the judge. “Sit down here and tell me what you’ve been doing all these weeks. Where have you been?”