Max had finished his speech, which covered the whole ground, and advanced a step towards Paul still clinging to the wheel into the spokes of which he had thrust his arm as he listened. At the beginning of Max’s story he had held his head high, conscious of his own innocence and that no evidence could be brought against him. But as Max went on he felt the ground slipping from under his feet and saw by inspiration the chain of circumstances which was to encircle him.
“Elithe saw me shoot, and Miss Hansford hid my revolver! Oh, Max,—Oh, Tom, what does it mean?” he said, shaking until his knees bent under him.
“Don’t blame the old lady,” Max said. “She’s madder ‘n a hen, and ready to fight everybody. Last night at prayer meetin’ she hollered so loud for the Lord to save the innocent, you could hear her all over the island. Some thought ’twas a fire alarm and was goin’ to call out the department. They say the amens was powerful. As for the little girl, what she seen slipped out before she thought, and you can’t get a word from her now. I’ll bet there’s been forty reporters there to see her. She’s cryin’ her eyes out, they say, and won’t see a soul.”
Here was a grain of comfort and Paul pulled himself up, but put out a hand to Tom. “Did you know all this?” he asked, and Tom replied, “I knew something of it, but don’t take it so hard. You shall not be harmed. Lean on me and sit down on the steps.”
He passed his arm around his master, who was weak as a baby and glad to sit where Tom put him.
“Does father know it?” Paul asked, and Tom replied, “No, I kept it from him, hoping nothing would happen. He ought to know it now. Shall I go for him?”
“Yes, yes. Go for father. Max will wait,” Paul answered eagerly, bowing his head and resting his face in his hands.
Several boys had come close up to him, wondering why Max did not produce handcuffs, as they supposed he would. These Tom dispersed with his whip and then the two black horses went tearing across the causeway towards the Ralston House, their feet striking fire on the pavement and their mouths white with foam. Mrs. Ralston was lying down in her room with something which threatened to be the Grippe, but the judge was sitting upon the side piazza waiting for Tom. The boat had been gone nearly an hour. It was surely time unless something had happened. Perhaps they didn’t come, he was thinking, when he saw the horses running at their utmost speed, the carriage rocking from side to side, and Tom evidently having some trouble to keep his seat.
“Is he drunk, or what?” the judge said, hastening out to meet him and asking with some severity: “What’s to pay, that you are driving like this? I never saw the off-horse sweat so.”
“The Old Harry’s to pay,” Tom answered. “They are arresting Mr. Paul down by the church for shooting Mr. Percy. You must go quick and stop it.”