“There’s plenty can tell her, and she’ll hear it sooner or later.”
Miles Calhoun looked at his son with dejection.
His eyes wandered over the grimly furnished cell. His nose smelled the damp of it, and suddenly the whole soul of him burst forth.
“You don’t give yourself a chance of escape, Dyck You know what Irish juries are. Why don’t you tell the truth about the quarrel? What’s the good of keeping your mouth shut, when there’s many that would profit by your telling it?”
“Who would profit?” asked Dyck.
“Who would profit!” snarled the old man. “Well, you would profit first, for it might break the dark chain of circumstantial evidence. Also, your father would profit. I’d be saved shame, perhaps; I’d get relief from this disgrace. Oh, man, think of others beside yourself!
“Think of others!” said Dyck, and a queer smile lighted his haggard face. “I’d save myself if I honourably could.”
“The law must prove you guilty,” the old man went on. “It’s not for you to prove yourself innocent. They haven’t proved you guilty yet.”
The old man fumbled with a waistcoat button. His eyes blinked hard.
“You don’t see,” he continued, “the one thing that’s plain to my eyes, and it’s this—that your only chance of escape is to tell the truth about the quarrel. If the truth were told, whatever it is, I believe it would be to your credit—I’ll say that for you. If it was to your credit, even if they believe you guilty of killing Erris Boyne, they’d touch you lightly. Ah, in the name of the mother you loved, I ask you to tell the truth about that quarrel! Give it into the hands of the jury, and let them decide. Haven’t you got a heart in you? In the name of God—”