I had tried to complete the lines that were mutilated, but some of them were so incomplete and susceptible of so many different interpretations that the results were not sufficiently reliable to be useful or safe to work upon. I did, however, satisfy myself that the substance of the first seven lines had been something like the following (the words in parentheses are supplied):
"longer, my conscience will not"
(let) "me rest—I must, I will"
(do) (so-) "mething about it in"
(spite of) or (stead of) or
(place of) "you;—If you will"
(oppose) or (thwart) or
(not help) "me, then I will"
(ask some one) or (appeal to some one)
or (confide in some one) or
(tell some one) "else—We"
(have been together in) "all this"
Further than this it was useless to try to fill in the broken sentences.
This much was all we had accomplished and the situation was critical. With the day set for the trial less than a week distant, I had not only failed to find definite evidence that could direct attention to any one else than the prisoner, but so far had even failed to secure the services of a lawyer to defend him. There were plenty to be had among those who made a specialty of criminal practice, but I did not consider such qualified for the service: the best of them were so well known in that capacity that their methods and arguments were received with incredulity by the average juror: while of those who were engaged in civil practice, I found none of such parts as I sought inclined to take the case.
Whoever defended Winters would have an uphill fight to make. The prosecution would be supported by the press and by public sentiment and the jurors would probably take their seats in the box with every disposition to deal fairly by the prisoner, but with an underlying conviction that he was guilty and the trial but a legal formality.
To successfully combat such odds, to even command a serious hearing, would require not only a lawyer of ability and standing, but a man possessed of the quality of personal magnetism: for it is this that is most potent in saving desperate cases. To find that man, however, seemed next to hopeless.
Such, then, was the status of things at the hour of which I write, when having submitted the facts and the difficulties, together with my theories of the case, to my companions, I sat waiting expectantly for some expression from them on the subject: but there ensued only discouraging silence. Littell sat tipped back in his chair, smiling a little to himself and reflectively watching the smoke curl slowly up from the cigar held daintily between his fingers: while Van Bult, leaning forward, contemplated the tips of his shoes, elevated apparently for the purpose, and whistled a plaintive tune.
My position was not an agreeable one. I felt my friends were trying to determine in their own minds just how best to deal with a man whom they considered suffering from temporary mental aberration, and as I waited for the decision, the silence seemed to grow thick around that melancholy ditty of Van Bult's. At last, unable longer to stand it, I said with sharp interrogation: "Well!"
It had the desired effect, and relieved the situation, at least for me. Van Bult ceased whistling and Littell put his cigar back in his mouth and both looked at me.
"I really don't see, Dallas," Van Bult said at length, "why you are bothering yourself about this man's fate. It cannot differ so much from many other cases you have come in contact with."