“Edmund Moor,” said he, quietly.
For a time Will glared at him with wide-opened eyes and mouth. “Tom,” said he, at last, in a low voice, “what makes you say such a thing as that? What leads you to make so horrible an accusation against such a man as Mr. Moor?”
“That horrible accusation was made against me.”
“But the circumstances were strong against you.”
“I think the circumstances are strong against him.”
“I don’t see it.”
Tom sat down on the edge of the table facing the other. “Look here, Will;” said he, “suppose that a man bearing testimony against another accused of murder should give evidence that was faulty in nearly every point; wouldn’t your first thought be that he knew more of the real story than he was inclined to tell, and that he was willing to let the accused suffer for it?”
“That’s what Mr. Moor did; you didn’t hear his evidence before the magistrate, but I did, and what’s more, I remember every word of it. This is what he said: That he was riding out the turnpike for pleasure, and that he saw Isaac Naylor turn into Penrose’s road; that he stopped his horse to water it at the shallow beside the bridge; that he saw me run out of the mill road and up the turnpike, and that he did not know who I was; that he heard no sound of any kind to make him suspect that something was going wrong; that he thought nothing more about Isaac Naylor, but went along the turnpike without looking up the road where Isaac had gone. Now, Will, is there nothing that strikes you as strange in all that?”
“Well, no; I can’t see anything strange in it. It sounds straightforward enough to me.”