“I wouldn’t swear to that; but they was a five dollar bill, a two dollar bill, and quite a lot of coin.”
“Did you find anything else?”
“Yep; a letter—that is, a sort of a letter, writ in lead pencil and apparently scratched off in a mighty hurry.”
“Is this it?” The sheet on which Ben had written his hasty farewell to Mrs. Jones was taken from the table and handed to the deputy sheriff for inspection.
“Sartin, that’s it,” declared the officer. “I read the most of it, though part was scrawled so that I couldn’t make it out.”
“Your Honor,” said the prosecuting attorney, “the chirography is that of a person writing in great haste, and therefore somewhat difficult to read. I am sure, however, that I can read it; and with your permission I will do so.”
The judge gave consent, and Mr. Frances read the note slowly and distinctly, placing particular emphasis on certain phrases. Listening, Ben Stone was astounded and almost appalled as he realized that to most persons that brief note must sound like a confession of guilt.
Pickle went on to tell how, urged by Bern Hayden and his father, he had set out at once to trace the fugitives, and had finally succeeded, through the discovery of the blind boy’s little dog, in apprehending Ben some miles beyond Barville.
“Course,” concluded the officer, “we give the feller warnin’ that anything he said might be used as evidence ag’in’ him, and I ruther guess he kept it in mind; for, ’though we talked with him considerable on the way back to Oakdale, he didn’t make no slip-ups, and he pertended all the time not to know nothin’ at all ’bout the robbery. I says to Constable Hubbard, says I, ‘He’s a slick critter, an——’”
“Never mind that,” interrupted Judge Trueworthy. “Your opinions of the prisoner’s conduct are not desired.”