“He couldn’t.” Jim was finding his chum’s manner more puzzling every minute. “He didn’t say he did. He only said he saw you open the drawer and get the bunch of keys. The rest he just heard.”
Clem shrugged as he closed the door again and went back to his chair. Jim was watching him anxiously, disturbed by something he couldn’t define. “Over there at the police station,” said Clem, after a moment’s silence, “the Captain told us that your—friend said he got the money from you.”
“Yes,” agreed Jim, frowning.
“And you said so, too, didn’t you?”
“Of course! What else could I say? I had to lie, Clem. If I hadn’t they’d have accused him of theft. I thought you understood why I was doing it!”
“Oh! Yes, I see.”
Suddenly Jim realized. Indignation sent the blood flooding up into his cheeks and for an instant his hands clutched the back of the chair on which they rested until the knuckles showed white. He stifled the exclamation of angry dismay that rushed to his lips, and in the moment he realized that, on evidence alone, Clem was fairly entitled to his belief. Yes, circumstances undoubtedly pointed to him rather than to Webb as the culprit! But the thought that Clem could believe him a thief, on any sort of evidence save that of his own eyesight, hurt him horribly. He felt almost sick for a minute.
Clem’s eyes were on the book opened before him, but I doubt that he saw the words there. He was secretly at odds with himself. He had returned to the room determined to make no reference to the affair of the stolen money. It had not occurred to him that Jim had sought to protect Webb. It did not occur to him now, seriously. Webb had demanded more money, Jim had known about the twenty-two dollars and had yielded to a sudden temptation. That was how Clem figured it. The mere act of thievery didn’t seem so bad to him, nor did the loss of the money—if it proved a loss—trouble him at all. But he felt terribly injured, spiritually bruised, by the revelation that Jim could do so small and mean an act. He had, almost without realizing it, grown very fond of Jim, and now the discovery that the latter was not worthy of the affection wounded him sorely. But he had meant to keep all this to himself; Jim, he had thought, would be glad to say no more of the affair; and he would have done so if Jim had not made matters worse by attempting to shift the blame to Webb. That had turned Clem’s sorrow to disgust and, finally, to something close to anger. To him, accusing Webb was far worse than taking the money. The latter was capable of palliation if one granted sudden temptation, but to seek to clear himself at the expense of another, one who could not testify on his own behalf, was indefensible; it was the worst of all offenses to Clem’s eyes, it was poor sportsmanship!
Jim’s voice broke the silence finally. It was harsh and strained, for he was trying desperately to hide his hurt, and it was so low that it scarcely carried across the table.