“Mr. Tate,” said the governor unhurriedly, “if I’m not mistaken, you are George Avery’s brother-in-law.”
Tate turned quickly, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes,” he answered in slow, even tones; “Avery married my sister.”
“Mr. Tate, I have in my pocket a pardon all ready to sign, giving Avery his liberty. His case has troubled me a good deal; I don’t want to sign this pardon unless I’m reasonably sure of Avery’s innocence. If you were in my place, Mr. Tate, would you sign it?”
The color went out of the man’s face and his jaw fell; but he recovered himself quickly.
“Of course, governor, it would be a relief to me, to my sister, all of us, if you could see your way to pardoning George. As you know, I’ve been doing what I could to bring pressure to bear on the Board of Pardons: everything that seemed proper. Of course,” he went on ingratiatingly, “we’ve all felt the disgrace of the thing.”
“Mr. Tate,” the governor interrupted, “I have reason to believe that there was a third man at Avery’s bungalow the night Reynolds was killed. I’ve been at some pains to satisfy myself of that. Did that ever occur to you as a possibility?”
“I suspected that all along,” Tate answered, drawing his handkerchief slowly across his face. “I never could believe George Avery guilty; he wasn’t that kind of man!”
“I don’t think he was myself,” the governor replied. “Now, Mr. Tate, on the night of the murder you were not at home, nor on the next day when your sister called you on the long-distance telephone. You were in Louisville, were you not?”
“Yes, certainly; I was in Louisville.”