Assured of a witness for the defense, he greeted the woman with a smile. “Why can’t I do it?” he taunted.
She ran close to him and laid her hands on his arm. Her eyes were fixed steadily on his. “Because,” she whispered, “the man who shot that girl-is your brother-in-law, Ham Cutler!”
For what seemed a long time Wharton stood looking down into the eyes of the woman, and the eyes never faltered. Later he recalled that in the sudden silence many noises disturbed the lazy hush of the Indian-summer afternoon: the rush of a motor-car on the Boston Road, the tinkle of the piano and the voice of the youth with the drugged eyes singing, “And you’ll wear a simple gingham gown,” from the yard below the cluck-cluck of the chickens and the cooing of pigeons.
His first thought was of his sister and of her children, and of what this bomb, hurled from the clouds, would mean to her. He thought of Cutler, at the height of his power and usefulness, by this one disreputable act dragged into the mire, of what disaster it might bring to the party, to himself.
If, as the woman invited, he helped to “hush it up,” and Tammany learned the truth, it would make short work of him. It would say, for the murderer of Banf he had one law and for the rich brother-in-law, who had tried to kill the girl he deceived, another. But before he gave voice to his thoughts he recognized them as springing only from panic. They were of a part with the acts of men driven by sudden fear, and of which acts in their sane moments they would be incapable.
The shock of the woman’s words had unsettled his traditions. Not only was he condemning a man unheard, but a man who, though he might dislike him, he had for years, for his private virtues, trusted and admired. The panic passed and with a confident smile he shook his head.
“I don’t believe you,” he said quietly.
The manner of the woman was equally calm, equally assured.
“Will you see her?” she asked.
“I’d rather see my brother-in-law,” he answered