“You take this rather coolly, I must say, Marshall,” remarked Fair when Travers had succeeded in pushing Allyne into a chair.
“I find coolness conducive to clear thinking,” replied Marshall.
“Well, then, I have nothing further to say. I have murdered a man. I have neither the heart nor the wish to set up a defense. Were I to clear myself by technicalities, it would become the duty of the police to try to establish the guilt of someone else. Would you have me sit by quietly, while they drew the net of skilfully devised circumstantial evidence around some innocent person? And to whom else could suspicion point? My servants—or, God help her, the woman who is known as my wife, and who is the noblest soul I ever met? If you cannot meet my arguments, I shall go at once to the police and surrender myself.”
“There will be plenty of time for all that,” replied Marshall, showing so little feeling that Allyne was on the point of breaking out again. “The police would not believe your story, I fear. You see, my dear fellow, your case is by no means unique. Only a very little while ago one very much like it was brought to my attention. A murder—or at all events, a death, had occurred. Suspicion pointed strongly to one of two persons—a gentleman of eccentric character, and the woman whom he had loved in early youth. Now mark the dramatic interest. Each of them confessed the crime to save the other, but, of course, as they both could not have been guilty, the court refused to entertain the charge against either. There was no evidence except the bogus confession of the two. I mention this case only to show you that too hasty action on your part now may spoil everything—and you may not be allowed the luxury of hanging.”
“But, Marshall,” said Fair, “the cases are not even remotely similar. Others will testify that I had the most powerful motives for my crime, and, unless I should be dastard enough to lie, nobody else can be suspected. Lopez knows that Mendes was my enemy. Janet knows that I was in the room when the murder was done. Travers knows that a pistol, which he identified as mine, had been discharged a few minutes before he saw me—at the very time that the servants heard the report in the library. Moreover, somebody discovered the body of my victim where I had hid it. On top of all this I confess the awful fact. What more can the law possibly require? You believe what I tell you, do you not?”
“Not one word of it!” fairly cried Marshall.
“Marshall,” Fair replied with terrible earnestness, “you say you doubt my word. Such a statement must be explained.”
“Certainly,” returned Marshall, now thoroughly in control of his feelings. “I will explain. I doubt your story because of its inherent improbability. Further, I doubt it because I knew your father, because I know yourself, and am aware that not even a shameful death on the gibbet could deter you from any purpose which you had come to think your destiny. Again, I doubt it because I know who the real murderer of Mendes is.”
The three men who heard these last slow, calm words sprang to their feet together, Fair quivering with a nameless horror, and his two friends delirious with joy.
Fair steadied himself against the lawyer’s table and said: “Marshall, this is not the time when you can play with me. I tell you to your face, that when you say that you know who the murderer is, you lie.”