Willard had hooked his thin hands around the rungs of his chair and was staring at the attorney with horror in his eyes.
“I know why you want to be re-elected town treasurer,” went on the Squire. “You want to cover up the fact that you’re an embezzler of almost forty thousand dollars of the town’s funds——-Oh, I know what you are going to say,” he cried, holding up his hand; “you are going to say that you’ve only hired this money on town’s notes and are going to pay it back, and that if you can be re-elected no one will be the wiser. You are begging for time, Judge. But I tell you”—he stood up and pounded the table—“you have stolen that money! You cannot pay it back. It’s no use for you to deceive me by stories. Every dollar of property you have in the world is mortgaged for every cent it is worth, and that money and the money you have stolen from this town have gone—gone down into that hole of speculation, to the side of which King Bradish led with his devilish arts and promises. You’re ruined, Judge Willard, you’re ruined—and God only knows how many other poor people you will drag down with you in this town—people whose little capital is all in your hands! I curse Bradish, first, for I believe if it hadn’t been for him no Willard would have turned out of the straight path his ancestors always followed. But I curse you, Judge Willard, for having allowed yourself to be inveigled into dishonesty and the betrayal of the great trust that has been placed in your hands. You have called me various names in the past,” he went on, his eyes flashing and the passionate anger of the Look temperament getting the better of his self-control; “I simply want to say to you now that you”—he leaned forward, supporting himself by his knuckles on the table—“are as miserable a thief as I ever knew. For when you fall—a man trusted by all—you have taken away Palermo’s strongest prop of good example from the poor, weak devils who are trying to be honest in their poverty.”
For a long time the two men looked at each other, the Squire stern and angry, the Judge writhing in his self-abasement.
Then the old man’s secret passed from his desperate clinch on it. He trembled like a leaf, but there was a certain air of relief in his confession and appeal.
“God help me, Squire,” he wailed. “No, God cannot help me. But you can. I am in awful trouble, Squire Look—awful! But it mustn’t be exposed now, it mustn’t. If I can only tide it over this town meeting I can work out of it. We got caught on the wrong side, King and I. It happened that way right along until I knew it was wrong for us to work at arm’s length from the market. But now that King is up there where he can study things, we’re coming out all right. We can’t help coming out all right. I have sat up night after night for weeks, Squire, and figured. I haven’t slept for weeks and weeks. I have raked and scraped together all I could and now we are going to win. King has it in his hands. It’s going to win, I tell you! Only help me to tide it over this town meeting, Squire. It was a mistake going into it. I realise it now. But I had to stay in. I was tied up with King. But this time we are going to win. We can’t help winning. Here’s King’s letter explaining the last deal.”
He tore at the breast of his frock coat and pulled out a crumpled envelope.
“Oh, it’s got to come out right now,” the old man mumbled on appealingly. “I have sat up nights at my desk till my eyes were almost burned out, planning and figuring. Here’s the letter, Squire. I’m going to be honest with you at last. You can help me. You’ve got to help me!”
His trembling fingers pulled the letter from the envelope, but the lawyer motioned it back.
“Excuse me, Judge,” he said, “but I don’t want to touch it. I’d rather take hold of an adder from Watson’s bog. There’s less poison in the adder. He has poisoned you through and through, Judge. I know more of King Bradish in New York than you do. I——”
“It’s your brother that has come back and lied about him!” cried the old man with reviving passion. “It’s all lies! Lies!”