“Yes, and thought that now that he was under the sod Carson would surely—”
“The death was not an accident, Mr. Dwight,”
Garner interrupted, and his eyes rested steadily on the old man's face.
“You mean that Willis killed himself—that he—”
“I mean that he forced Carson to kill him, Mr. Dwight.”
The old merchant's face was working as if in the throes of death; he leaned forward, his eyes wide in growing horror.
“Don't, don't say that, Billy; take it back!” he gasped. “Anything but that—anything else under God's shining sun.”
“You must try to be calm,” Garner said, gently. “It can't be helped. After all, the poor boy was forced to do it to save his life.”
Old Dwight lowered his face to his hands and groaned. The negro at the head of the gang of truckmen approached and leaned in the doorway. He had come to ask some directions about the work, but with widening eyes he stood staring. Garner peremptorily waved him away, and, rising, he laid his hand on Dwight's shoulder.
“Don't take it so hard!” he said, soothingly. “Remember, there is a lot to do, and that's what I came to see you about.”