Then Harry King sat down and looked off through the open window, and paid no heed to what the men were doing. They might turn his large valise inside out and read every scrap of written paper. There was nothing to give the slightest clew to his identity. He had left the envelope addressed to the Elder, containing the letters he had written, at the bank, to be placed in the safety vault, and not to be delivered until ordered to do so by himself.
As they finished their search and restored the articles to his valise, he asked again that the handcuffs be left off as he walked through the streets.
“I have no desire to escape. It is my wish to go with you. I only wish I might have seen the––my father first. He could not have helped me––but he would have understood––it would have seemed less––”
He could not go on, and the sheriff slipped the handcuffs in his pocket, and they proceeded in silence to the courthouse, where he listened to the reading of the warrant and his indictment in dazed stupefaction, and then walked again in silence between his captors to the jail in the rear.
“No one has ever been in this cell,” said Mr. Kellar. “I’m doing the best I can for you.”
“How long must I stay here? Who brings accusation?”
“I don’t know how long: as this is a murder charge you can’t be bailed out, and the trial will take time. The Elder brings accusation––naturally.”
“When is he expected home?”
“Can’t say. You’ll have some one to defend you, and then you can ask all the questions you wish.” The sheriff closed the heavy door and the key was turned.