"How can I help it? Isn't the evidence strong enough?"
"Circumstantial, doctor, circumstantial. It seems hard to believe Charley Marsh a murderer."
"So it does, but Scripture and history, ever since the times of King David, are full of parallel cases. Think of the proof—think of this note, and tell me what you infer candidly yourself."
"The note is a staggerer, but still—Oh, hang it!" cried Mr. Blake, impatiently, "I won't believe him guilty as long as I can help it. Does he say nothing in is own defense?"
"Not a syllable, and the coroner and jury are all in his favor, too. He stands there like a sulky lion, and says nothing. They'll bring him in guilty without a doubt."
"Who have been examined?"
"All who saw Lady Leroy that day—Miss Marsh, Midge, myself, Lawyer Darcy, and Tom Oaks, who swore roundly when asked that Marsh knew of his paying the money that day, for he had told him himself. He also swore that he knew Charley to be over head and ears in debt—debts of honor, he called them. Debts of dishonor, I should say."
"I think I'll go in! Can we speak to Charley, I wonder?"
"Of course. He is not held precisely as a prisoner, as yet. They have Midge up again. I never knew her name was Priscilla Short, until to-day."
"What do they want with her a second time?"