"Certainly. Old Perdue is a justice. We'll go over there."
The moon was still high as I galloped toward town with the statement in my pocket. I went straightway to Conkwright's house and with the door-knocker set every dog in the town to barking.
"Why, what on earth is the matter?" the Judge asked as he opened the door. "Oh, it's you, is it, Bill? I've got a negro here somewhere, but Gabriel might blow a blast in his ear and never stir his wool. Come into the library."
He lighted a lamp, and I handed him the doctor's statement. He read it without the least show of surprise; and, putting the paper into his pocket, he sat down, closed his eyes, and with his thumb and forefinger pressed his eye-lids.
"Etheredge is going to leave in the morning," I said.
"He ought to be sent to the penitentiary. But let him go. Penitentiary is better off without him. In the morning we will have several of our leading doctors exhume the body to verify the statement. I'll attend to it. Yes, sir. A certain form must be observed. A jury will be impaneled, the statement will be read, and the judge will, in a sort of a charge, declare that the prisoner is innocent. Some things are strange after all. A venomous scoundrel, but let him go. Yes, I'll attend to everything in the morning. You'd better sleep here."
"No, I'm going to the jail and then to the telegraph office."
CHAPTER XXI.
CONCLUSION.
How soft had been the day, how tender the tone of every voice. The road under the moon was white and from a persimmon tree in an old field came the trill of a mockingbird. Two happy men were riding toward an old home.