“Yes, I could probably fill the place he is now about to fill. I am not looking for the job, indade I am not.”
“Pat, you are worried to-night. So much excitement the last three or four months has upset you. It will have to be settled—all will be settled after Pearson gets located, and now it is late, and we must retire. Good night.”
“Good night, officer.”
Pat muttered: “As I hear the big iron door slam after me it makes me blood run cold. I am in a fix. What is money for? To make criminals, I belave. I belave every convict under this blooming roof is here for or on account of money. The vile stuff! We get a living, and have to work, or should if we don’t, and it only keeps us out of mischief—and then it don’t. I am in it now, and I have been working too, but there it leads up to money, for the fine clothes and the gentleman, and the good times that would go with it. I would be able to go and lay me head down on me pillow to-night and slape if it wasn’t for money. Instead of that, I have to pace around this place all the night. Yes, here it is nearly morning, and not a wink of slape. I’d just as soon be guilty, as so near and not, for I am taking on the same guilty condition. I belave I’ll walk around and see if me friend is worrying over me as much as I am meself. What? I hear him talking to the new prisoner. I’ll see if he is telling him how to behave himself. I don’t belave they placed the new man in 78—yes, indade, they did. I remember, he said the real murderer would be occupying Clarence’s cell and Clarence would have his freedom. Well, he is talking very nice to the new man. I will see what the conversation is about.”
“Tell me about it,” said Pearson. “How did you come to confess that you were the real murderer of this woman? They had a man serving time for the crime.”
“Yes; that is why I confessed, and for other reasons.”
“What were the other reasons? Would you mind telling me?”
“I am trying to forget it. I will tell you, and then I shall never repeat it again. It is too horrid; I can not stand it to talk about it. I was married only a short time, and a difference arose, one day, between my dear wife and myself. I became angry, and was talking loudly, when the door opened and this fellow who was serving time here for the crime came rushing in unannounced, and asked my wife if he could assist her. She was afraid of me, but she declined to accept his help. He left with apologies for intruding. I grew more excited, and in a fit of uncontrollable temper I choked her to death. I came to myself and found her lying at my feet dead. Oh, man! can you picture the agony I was in? I thought of that man, and how I could lay the murder on him. I ran from the house and met an officer. I told him my wife was just murdered by a man whom I had just seen leave the house. The officer rushed up the street, and I recognized the man as the same who had offered to help my poor wife, and I shouted, ‘There he is!’ and to jail the officer took him. At the trial I swore that he was the murderer, knowing that I myself was the guilty one, and he was the man who was given his freedom to-day. I will tell you all, as I have started. I know that all the time he was here I suffered more than he ever could.”
“In what way, Devenart?—is that your name?”