He was mopping his wet face with his soiled hands and leaving streaks of dirt on it while Paul looked at him in amazement and Tom stood looking on as if ready to strike when the time came.
“For Heaven’s sake, Max, what are you talking about. Come to the point. I’m in a hurry,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Tom growled. “Come to the point and not act like a cat playing with a mouse.”
“I wish I was a cat, or anything but the blooming fool I am,” Max gasped, and then nerving himself with a mighty effort, he said, “I’ve orders to arrest you. Oh, my Lord, my Lord.”
The last words were wrung from him by the pallor on Paul’s face, as he grasped the carriage wheel for support.
“Arrest me! For what?” he asked, his voice sounding to himself a hundred miles away.
“You see,” Max continued, still husky and shaky, “it’s for shooting Mr. Percy.”
He did not use the ugly word murder and it was a singular fact that it was never used during the trying scenes which followed Paul’s arrest. It was sometimes killing, oftener shooting, but never murder. One could not associate that word with Paul, whose face was spotted with astonishment, but not with fear. How could he be afraid, knowing his own innocence? It had never occurred to him that Jack came to his death by any other hand than his own, and the intimation that he was to be arrested struck him like a thunderbolt.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Jack shot himself. The coroner’s inquest said so. I didn’t do it. I was not near there. I didn’t know it till some one told me. Who was it, Tom? Do you remember?”
His chin and lips quivered as he asked the question and he leaned more heavily against the wheel of the carriage. Tom did not reply, and Max went on: “Lord bless you, that’s so. You didn’t do it, but somebody did, and the law must be vin-di-ca-ted, they say. Somebody must be arrested, and so they took you. You see, it’s this way. That coroner didn’t know beans, nor the jury neither, hurryin’ up things before anybody had time to think, or tell what they seen and heard. When they did begin to talk, didn’t it go like chain lightnin’;—the inquest and verdict was knocked into a cocked hat,—more’s the pity; better of let it stood and not get me inter this scrape, arrestin’ you. This is what they say. Mr. Percy knocked you down, and made you mad. You was heard to say you’d like to kill him. You was lookin’ for him. The folks at Miss Hansford’s seen you go by. Miss Elithe seen you shoot and throw the pistol away and cut for the woods. Seth Walker found it with your initials on it and give it to Miss Hansford the mornin’ Mr. Percy died. She hid it in her chist with sheets and things. Seth told his wife and she told all creation and they’ve made the old lady give it up, and the bullet fits it exactly. Quite a case of circumstantial, but I don’t believe a word of it. Nobody does. Mebby you shot him, but ’twas an accident, and all you have to do is to say so and explain. Folks thought you would when you got back. Anyway I’ve got to do my duty and it makes me sweat like a butcher. Oh, Lord, Lord!”