"The rest you know," he continued; "we went to Smith's gambling house, and there I lost the money, and then I went to my room and went to sleep. The next afternoon I read of the murder in the papers and went to Arthur's house, meaning to go in and see him, but I was so ill and nervous that I had not the courage to do it, and after staying around the place for awhile, where you saw me, I returned to my room."
He relapsed into silence and I thought he had finished what he had to say, but he had evidently only been trying to collect his thoughts, for he continued: "I cannot remember very well what I did from then until I was arrested and taken to the station house. I was too ill at the time to think much about it, and I had no idea that there was any belief that I had killed Arthur until the Inspector accused me of it, and I hardly realized it then." He stopped but neither Miles nor I said anything, wishing him to volunteer all he had to tell, and seeing our expectation he added: "That is all I know about it."
After he had finished he sat looking at me inquiringly, almost pleadingly, but I was silent, for I did not know what to say to him. I believed his story: it was simple and straightforward and told without hesitation, but I saw it afforded no satisfactory defence and when told at the trial under the strain and excitement of the ordeal, and apparently with the guidance and coaching of counsel at his elbow, would lose in great part its only strength—the stamp of unpremeditated truth.
What was I to say to this man who was pleading to me with his eyes for encouragement, for hope? I could give him none. Everything he had said but confirmed the testimony against him. His statement that he had found the money would seem puerile to a jury already convinced of his guilt, and what else but denial of the crime would they expect from the accused?
In my dilemma I looked to Miles in the hope of help, but his gaze was turned to the open window in seeming abstraction.
At last, unable to longer bear the strain of his pathetic silence, I yielded to the promptings of my feelings and putting my hand on his shoulder told him that I believed what he said and would help him if I could. The light of hope came into his face at once, and clasping my hand with both of his, he thanked me.
I had not the heart to discourage him at that moment in his new-found hope, though I felt there was little foundation for it, and so, to avoid further questions, asked him if he could suggest any lawyer whom he would like to engage to defend him. He thought a moment but shook his head.
"No," he said sadly, "I have neither friends nor money. How can I get a lawyer?"
"You have money," I told him, "though I don't know how much; for Arthur White has left you his sole heir."
"Arthur has left me his heir!" he repeated after me in a vague way and without any sign of emotion.