“It was his son, Eli Godfrey, Junior, his partner in the firm,” declared Mr. Foxman, lying beautifully and convincingly. “That’s who it was. The father had nothing to do with it; the son everything. You got the whole thing twisted. I’ve snatched the forms back and I’m throwing the story out of the second edition and filling the hole with a Washington story that we happened to have handy. So your story probably won’t be in the edition that you will see. But that doesn’t help much—if any. We’ve kept the libel out of our local circulation, but it’s already in the early mails and we can’t catch up with it or stop it there. It’s too late to save us or to save you.”
“To save me?”
“That’s what I said. I guess you don’t know what the laws against criminal libel in this state are? The Clarion will be sued to the limit, that’s sure. But, as the man who wrote [355] the story, you can be sent to the penitentiary under a criminal prosecution for criminal libel. Do you understand—to the penitentiary? I’m liable, too, in a way of course—anybody who had anything to do with uttering or circulating the false statement is liable. But you are in worse than the rest of us.”
In his room at the other end of the wire panic gripped poor Singlebury. With a feeling that the earth had suddenly slumped away from under his feet he clung desperately to the telephone instrument. He had accepted this terrifically startling disclosure unquestioningly. Why should he question it?
“But if—if there was no malice—if the mistake was made innocently and in ignorance——” he babbled.
In his place in the club telephone booth Mr. Foxman, interpreting the note of fright in the reporter’s voice, grinned to himself. Singlebury, it was plain, didn’t know anything about libel law. And Singlebury, it was equally plain, was accepting without question or analysis all that he was hearing.
“Lack of malice doesn’t excuse in this state!” Mr. Foxman said, speaking with grim menace; “you haven’t a leg to stand on. There’ll be warrants out before breakfast time in the morning; and by noon you’ll be in a jail cell unless you get out of this town to-night before they find out the name of the man who wrote this story. Have you got any money?”
[356]
“I’ve—I’ve got some money,” answered Singlebury, shaping the words with difficulty. “But, Mr. Foxman, if I’m responsible I can face the consequences. I’m willing to——”
“Singlebury, I’m telling you that you haven’t a chance. I sent you out on this story—that was my mistake—and you got your facts twisted—that was your mistake. Even so, I don’t want to see you suffer. I tell you you haven’t a show if you stay in this state ten hours longer. You’ll wear stripes. I’m warning you—giving you this chance to get away while there’s still time—because you’re a young man, a stranger in this community, with no influence to help you outside of what The Clarion could give you, and that would be mighty little. The Clarion will be in bad enough itself. The man who owns this paper would sacrifice you in a minute to save himself or his paper. He can’t afford to throw me to the lions, but with you it’s different. If you beat it he may make a scapegoat of you, but it’ll be at long distance where it won’t hurt you much. If you stay you’ll be a scapegoat just the same—and you’ll serve time besides. Because I can’t help feeling sorry for you I’m offering you a chance by giving you this warning.”
“I’ll go then—I’ll go right away, I’ll do as you say, sir. What—what would you suggest?”