"Was he so harmful? Had he killed any one before? There seemed no proof of it."
"Did you not prove that he had killed one man? Is that not enough?"
"I did not prove anything—legally."
Felix Houston's brows drew together slowly. It was a signal of the end of his patience.
"What did you do then, Sargent?"
"I played a trick on him—the meanest, lowest, most dastardly trick one man ever played on another. There wasn't any law in it. I set myself to work on the man's sympathies; I studied his face all that first day in the courtroom, hunting for the vulnerable point in which to attack him. All that day I could see nothing else but his face, yet I could not find what it was that was there, that I did not recognize. And when I rode home that evening with Natalia, I was telling her about the case, and how hopeless it seemed, and what do you suppose she told me to do? The very thing that I did—make the man confess, himself! She said that I could do that if I wanted to. All that night I lay awake, thinking and thinking of how I could persuade the man to tell his secret. I kept repeating it to myself all through the long hours that I would make him tell, seeing his face before me, always with that inscrutable expression that meant that there was a vulnerable point. I must find it, I kept on saying. I must find it! Then I thought out my speech, realizing as I went over it, that if I went into every detail of the murder, that somewhere in the recital I would find the spot in the man's nature. I found it—you know when. He has a mother. I made him think of her! After the first admission of my power I knew I had the man in my hands. It was all very easy after that. But it was not law, you must admit that. It was playing upon sentiments that are sacred to every human being. I took that advantage of him while he was held before me—forced to listen. He couldn't escape my words. I forced them into his brain. I drove all the vital force that was in me into that man's conscience, and made him speak out. He could not help it—he was powerless. But that is not law, I say. I have no right to send him to the gallows on such a confession. You should have seen that—you will now, I know. It rests with you to help me make my reparation. I used this man to further the gratification of revenge. I would not have gone into the case with such vehemence if the defeat of Jervais had not been back of it. Oh, you do see, then! The sin of it, don't you? But it is true—every word of it. I am keeping back nothing from you. You have told me that you loved me almost as much as you did your son, and you know that I have returned that feeling, aye, more than I ever loved the man who created me only continually to wound me! Will you prove to me that your love is as great as you say? Will you grant me one request that will mean everything to me?"
With his growing excitement, Sargent rose from the chair and placed both hands on Judge Houston's. The old man met his wild, beseeching look calmly. He knew now that he was brought face to face with a situation that might end disastrously, but he did not shirk it. He was calmer than he had ever been in his life.
"I will grant you any request—if it is right, and in my power."
Sargent took a long breath, though not yet one of relief. When he spoke, the words came in a whisper, as if he feared an eavesdropper.
"Release Jacob Phelps!"