“Now, Isaac,” the lawyer began suavely, “the District Attorney has just promised to spare your life on condition that you tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—let’s have it.”
“Yassah,” the Apostle responded in humble accents. “Mr. Larkin, he tell me ter say what I did, sah.”
Larkin’s head dropped and his keen eyes furtively sought the door.
“Who gave you that knife?”
A moment of breathless suspense rippled the crowded court room and every head was bent forward.
“Mr. Larkin gimme de knife! We’se been powful good friends, sah. I show him de under-groun’ way fum de tomb inter de house. I’se de only black man dat know it—my daddy help dig it—yassah. Mr. Larkin de fust man I ebber tell dat I know ’bout it. He say he want ter beat de Ku Kluxes. He say he make’em smoke dat night, an’ he git eight men an’ dress up jes lak ‘em, an’ I show him de way ter git in froo de panel in de hall. He fool me. I didn’t know he gwine ter kill de jedge, sah, er I wouldn’t er let ’em in, nosah. I doan’ believe in killin’ nobody. He tell me ter git outen de county an’ I stay till de soldiers come back. Yassah, an’ dat’s de whole troof!”
Ackerman motioned the sergeant, a pair of handcuffs clicked on Larkin’s wrists, and the great white head sank on his breast.
Stella gazed at his pathetic figure with a strange feeling of pity and wonder, while her hand sought John Graham’s and pressed it tenderly.
The count of murder was dropped, but the charge of conspiracy was pressed with merciless ferocity. A procession of hired liars ascended the witness stand and in rapid succession perjured themselves by swearing that they had recognised the prisoner on various raids made by the Klan in the county.
The jury was out fifteen minutes.