“Dan,” said he, lowering his deep bass, “where’s that woman?”
Daniel started.
“Up at the house, I reckon,” he said. “She was locked in her room this morning.”
“Who’s going to get her story out of her?” asked the judge. “William?”
Daniel stared out of the window in silence.
“That indictment has got to be either murder or manslaughter. It depends on the story. Who’s going to get it? I reckon William can.”
“I’ll see,” said Daniel quietly. “I’m going up home now. Can you”—he hesitated—“can you keep father here?”
The judge nodded. They both glanced at the man sitting in the judge’s big swivel chair. Mr. Carter was leaning back dejectedly, with both hands clenched on the arms of the chair, and his head bent forward. He was staring fixedly at the blotting-paper on the judge’s desk, his mouth hanging open. Daniel picked up his hat and quietly left the room.
He did not walk home. He was worn out and he hailed a taxi. He had already telephoned the verdict of the coroner’s jury to his mother, and he knew they were, in a measure, prepared for the worst; but his heart sank as he ascended the familiar old steps. Even the rose-bush beside the door seemed to bewail the thought of the youngest boy, the mother’s pet, being in jail.
Emily opened the door for him. Her nose was still red, and she was trying vainly to wink back her tears.