“Oh, I don’t know how I can tell you! But I must, and I will. That’s why I came here. I should have told you long ago. You were right, professor—you were right when you said it was a cowardly thing for the one who was to blame to keep silent. I didn’t understand then, but now I do—now that it’s too late!”
“Too late!” breathed Professor Richardson, intensely moved. “Too late! Do you mean that Roy is——”
“He’s dead,” said Shultz.
Groping for a chair, the old man grasped it and sank upon it.
“Dead!” he echoed, running his thin hands through the white locks upon his temples. “This is terrible news, indeed! I’ve been hoping they would find him and bring him back all right. It will be a dreadful blow to his poor parents. How do you know? Are you sure—are you sure he’s dead?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And I killed him!”
A few moments of absolute silence followed this declaration. Grasping the arm of the chair, the professor leaned slowly forward, his lips parted a bit, his eyes fastened upon the face of the boy. One hand was partly extended as he whispered:
“You—you killed him? What are you saying, Charley Shultz? Are you crazy?”
“No, no; but it’s a wonder I’m not. Listen, professor, and I’ll tell you the whole story. It started over a game of cards. He accused me of cheating. I struck him. I knocked him down. As he fell his head hit against a marble mantelpiece. That was what ailed him. No one else did a thing, professor; no one else is to blame. They wanted me to tell, but I refused. One fellow insisted that I should tell.”
“But why didn’t they tell, themselves?”