"But that's what he did. In fact, that was what first set the police to watching him. Perhaps you haven't happened to hear of such things, but there is a morbid form of egotism that makes people accuse themselves of crimes just for the sake of the notoriety. The handwriting of those letters was disguised, but the police were satisfied that Henry wrote them. They watched him for weeks, and though, as I say, they never caught him at anything really incriminating, they came so close on his trail several times that he evidently got scared and quit. Watson, the chief of police here, told me about it afterwards, and he is not sensational. Quite the contrary."
"How old was Henry at that time?"
"About nineteen."
"No wonder that he has grown into a morose man," said Burton thoughtfully. "It would be hard for any one to keep sweet-tempered against the pressure of such a public opinion."
Ralston shrugged his shoulders. "Public opinion is a brute beast, I admit, but still Henry has teased it more than was prudent. However, he has his picturesque sides. Did you hear about the rescue of the Sprigg baby?"
"Being knotted in among the lilac bushes for safe keeping? Yes, I have even seen the bushes."
"He probably knew that the others would be able to escape and so looked after the only helpless one,--which seems to have been more than the baby's mother did. That should count in his favor with a jury."
"Well, they certainly can't bring him to trial unless they get more evidence against him than they have at present," said Burton.
Ralston's reply was interrupted by a telephone call. He went to the office to answer it, and when he returned his face was grave.
"It looks as though they really had got something like direct evidence at last," he said. "They have found Henry Underwood's knife under the window where the incendiary must have got in."