How, then, could he prove his innocence? To be sure, he had powerful friends who stood ready to help him, but all the friends in the world could not clear his name from disgrace unless this horrible charge against him could be disproved. Supposing it should not be? Why, his whole life would be ruined, that was all. Who would care to associate with a thief, or even one suspected of being such? Who would give him employment? Yes, his career was blasted. He might as well, or better, be dead. What would they say at home? Would it kill his mother? As yet they had no suspicion of this overwhelming disgrace. How could he dash their fond hopes by letting them know of it? He could not. And yet, suppose they should hear of it through some other channel!
Thus the poor boy thought and puzzled and despaired over his situation until it seemed as though there was no hope nor happiness left in the world. He felt like one already tried, found guilty, and sentenced to a lifetime of disgrace. At last, about midnight, he fell into a troubled sleep. When he next awoke the detective was bending over him and saying that Mountain Junction was in sight.
The train had hardly stopped at the well-remembered station before there was a commotion at the car-door, and a little man, whose presence seemed in a moment to pervade the whole car, rushed in, elbowing his way with remarkable dexterity through the crowd of passengers who were leaving it. They growled at him, but they gave way and made room for him to pass, as all crowds will before any one who has the self-assurance to push himself forward. In a moment he caught sight of Myles, and called out:
“Good enough, old man! You’re a trump to come back and face the music. Now we will have some fun.”
Here the detective stepped in front of Myles, and said sternly:
“That will do, sir. I can’t allow any communication with my prisoner.”
“Your prisoner!” cried Billings—for of course it was he. “Well, that’s a go! What is he your prisoner for, I’d like to know? And what’s the matter with my interviewing him? Is he an anarchist or a horse-thief? Whatever he is you can’t stop me from talking to him unless you muzzle me, and you can’t muzzle me, for I represent the press, and it’s against the law to muzzle the press in this country. Oh, no, my friend, if you think you are in Russia you are mightily mistaken. You are in a country of freeborn American reporters, and when one of them sets out to interview your prisoner, or even yourself, you’ve got to submit quietly to the process, or else you’ll find yourself up a pretty tall tree in less than no time. So step to one side, if you please, and let me speak to this gentleman.”
Bewildered and overwhelmed by this torrent of words the detective actually did step aside, muttering if the gentleman was a reporter of course that made a difference.