"Then he was the man who killed Mr. Puckett?" Sargent asked quickly.
"There's no doubt of it. The hounds tracked him to the canebrake on Puckett's place. It's wonderful—the first time he was ever captured in his whole career!"
"And now that we've got him," commented Mr. Suggs, joining the group, "I don't see why he should have any trial. We all know what he's done, and I say there's no excuse for waiting: I say string him up to-night! But!—Judge Houston says not. He says the man must be tried—that we are barbarians no longer. So the trial is to come off next week."
"A trial!" exclaimed Pintard. "What good is a trial without a defence, and who would defend Phelps? I'll wager you could not find a man in the county who would take the case."
"Not so fast, my friend," drawled Mr. Suggs. "Somebody has been found to defend him."
The crowd gathered closer. Suggs always carried startling tidings; it was part of his profession.
"Who?" demanded the half dozen listeners.
"Mr. Lemuel Jervais!" Mr. Suggs pronounced the name quietly, with the enjoyment of one who delighted in throwing bombs.
"Lemuel Jervais! You don't mean it! It's a damned lie! Why, he wouldn't dare! He couldn't afford it!"
Mr. Suggs drew himself to his full height, swelling portentously beneath his linsey waistcoat, and looked each man squarely in the eye.