“But my dear friend, don't you realize that mere statements unadorned and uncorroborated won't get you anywhere in court?”
“All right, don't try to defend me then. Let the thing go as it will. That is all I have to say.” And from this decision no one had been able to shake him. His lawyer was nearly crazy. He had raked the county for witnesses. He had dug into the annals of that night in every possible direction. He had unearthed things that it seemed no living being would have thought of, and yet he had not found the one thing of which he was in search, positive evidence that Mark Carter had been elsewhere and otherwise employed at the time of the shooting.
“Don't bother so much about it Tony,” said Mark once when they were talking it over, or the lawyer was talking it over and Mark was listening. “It doesn't matter. Nothing matters any more!” and his voice was weary as if all hope had vanished from him.
Anthony Drew looked at him in despair:
“Sometimes I almost think you want to die,” he said. “Do you think I shall let you go when you pulled me back from worse than death? No, Mark, old man, we're going to pull you through somehow, though I don't know how. If I were a praying man I'd say that this was the time to pray. Mark, what's become of that kid you used to think so much of, that was always tagging after you? Billy,—was that his name?”
A wan smile flitted across Mark's face, and a stiff little drawing of the old twinkle about eyes and lips:
“I think he'll turn up some time.”
The lawyer eyed him keenly:
“Mark, I believe you've got something up your sleeve. I believe that kid knows something and you won't let him tell. Where is he?”
“I don't know, Tony” and Mark looked at him straight with clear eyes, and the lawyer knew he was telling the truth.