“It worries me, Phoebe, to think that you—a mere child—have found out what I don’t want found out. If my secret is so loosely guarded, it may not be a secret for long, and I can’t let others know all that I know. The truth is, Phoebe, that I don’t know for certain sure who took the box, not seein’ it taken with my own eyes; but I’ve a strong suspicion, based on facts, as to who took it. In other words, I’ve made up my mind, firmly, as to the thief, and for that reason I don’t want any detective work done—any pryin’ into the secret—by you or anyone else; for I mean to let Toby Clark take the punishment and serve his term in prison for it.”
“And Toby innocent!”
“And Toby as innocent as you or I.”
“But that’s a dreadful thing to do, Sam!”
“It is, Phoebe; it’s dreadful; but not so dreadful as telling the truth. I’m only a plain man, my child, without education or what you call ‘gloss’; I’m just a village constable, an’ likely to be that same until I die. But I’ve got a heart, Phoebe, an’ I can feel for others. That’s the only religion I know; to do to others as I’d like ’em to do to me. So I figure it out this way: To bring the—the—person—who took Mrs. Ritchie’s box to justice, to tell the whole world who the criminal is, would bring grief an’ humiliation to some of the kindest and truest hearts in all Riverdale. It would bow them with shame and ruin their lives—not one, mind you, but several lives. It wouldn’t reform the—the one—who did it, for the—the person—wouldn’t do such a thing again; never! It was a case of sudden temptation and—a sudden fall. Prison would wreck that life beyond redemption, as well as the lives of the relations and—and friends, such as I’ve mentioned.
“On the other hand, evidence points to Toby Clark, and unless the real—person—who took the box is discovered, Toby will be convicted on that evidence. That’s the horror of the thing, Phoebe; but horror is sure to follow crime, and a crime has been committed that some one must suffer the penalty for. Who is Toby Clark? A poor boy without a single relative in the world to be shamed by his fate. Friends, yes; a plenty; you and I among ’em; but no friend so close that the prison taint would cling to ’em; not even a sweetheart has Toby. So it’s Hobson’s choice, seems to me. I’m dead sorry for the lad; but it’s better—far better—an’ more Christianlike to let him suffer this fate alone, than to condemn many others to suffering—people who have done no wrong, no more ’n Toby has. He’s just one, an’ a boy; the others are—sev’ral, and I consider it best to let Toby redeem ’em. That’s all, Phoebe. Now you understand me, and I know you’ll stand by me and say I’m right.”
The girl had followed these arguments in wonder and perplexity. She felt that Sam Parsons might be right, in a way, but rebelled against the necessity of letting the innocent suffer.
“I know Toby,” she said softly; “but the others I don’t know.”
“Yes; you do,” he contended. “You know ’em, but you don’t know who they are. What diff’rence does that make?”
“Who took the box, Sam?”