Rennie dropped back in his chair, as though the lawyer had struck him.
“Twenty years!” he repeated; “twenty years! That’s a main lang time; I canna stan’ that; I canna live through it. I’ll no’ plead guilty. Do what ye can for me.”
But there was little that Pleadwell could do now. His worst fears had been realized. He knew it was running a desperate risk to place on the witness-stand a boy with a conscience like Tom’s; but he knew, also, that if he could get Tom’s story out in the shape he desired to, and keep back the objectionable parts, his client would go free; and he had great faith in the power of money to salve over a bruised conscience.
He had tried it and failed; and there was nothing to do now but make the best of it.
He resumed his calm demeanor, and turned to Tom with the question,—
“Did you ever tell to me the story you have just now told on the witness-stand, or any thing like it?”
“I never did,” answered Tom.
“Did you ever communicate to me, in any way, your alleged knowledge of Jack Rennie’s connection with this fire?”