The rather absurd confidence about the colored boys relieved his mind so thoroughly that he was chatting amiably as the car chugged into town and Nesbit obligingly turned off and set him down at his own door. It was almost bravado that led him to say, with the wad of money that he had taken from Grahame’s body pressing delightfully against his chest:
“I wish I’d thought of it before, Mr. Nesbit. I hear you’re a mighty good shot. I’d have asked you to make a third with Grahame and myself.”
Nesbit managed to mumble something politely, without looking at Colby. He would never shine in society, would Nesbit. Then he said heavily:
“Maybe nex’ time. I’d like to talk to Mistuh Grahame. I—uh—I think I know him.”
His tone seemed peculiar to Colby; and as the sergeant drove off, Colby found his heart pounding in a sudden paralyzing suspicion.
III
One phrase made Colby descend alive into hell, where he remained for seven days and nights: “I—uh—I think I know Grahame.”
In seven days he aged five years, and all the time he spent desperately in an effort to seem exactly as usual. The phrase might mean anything or nothing. Nesbit might know everything, or nothing at all, or he might merely be suspicious. It depended on the colored boys, perhaps; but mostly it depended on how well he knew Grahame.
Colby was seeing him now and then, and he was waving abstracted, meaningless greetings and disappearing amid the tinny rumblings of his ancient car.
Colby tried to assure himself that he was safe. There was no evidence anywhere to prove him a murderer. If the colored boys had had a tale to tell—and most likely they had not—there might be suspicion of him, but he could never be convicted. After he had burned the boots worn the day of the murder, even footprints from the stream edge cast in plaster would not incriminate him. Nesbit could not find proof that he was a murderer. There was no proof!