good light–so that I can see your feet.”
A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the march began, the guest
looking on with an iron attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified
success. Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed down
intently at each pair of feet as it passed. Fifty men tramped
monotonously by–with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was
beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked, with suave irony:
“Assassins appear to be scarce this evening.”
The house saw the humor if it, and refreshed itself with a cordial laugh.
Ten or twelve more candidates tramped by–no, danced by, with airy and
ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators–then suddenly Stillman
put out his hand and said:
“This is the assassin!”
“Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!” roared the crowd; and at once
let fly a pyrotechnic explosion and dazzle and confusion of stirring
remarks inspired by the situation.
At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched out his hand, commanding
peace. The authority of a great name and a great personality laid its
mysterious compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed. Out of the panting
calm which succeeded, the guest spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:
“This is serious. It strikes at an innocent life. Innocent beyond
suspicion! Innocent beyond peradventure! Hear me prove it; observe how
simple a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie. Listen. My
friends, that lad was never out of my sight yesterday evening at any
time!”
It made a deep impression. Men turned their eyes upon Stillman with
grave inquiry in them. His face brightened, and he said:
“I knew there was another one!” He stepped briskly to the table and
glanced at the guest’s feet, then up at his face, and said: “You were
with him! You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the candle that
by and by fired the powder!” (Sensation.) “And what is more, you
furnished the matches yourself!”
Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the public. He opened his
mouth to speak; the words did not come freely.
“This–er–this is insanity–this–”
Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He held up a charred match.
“Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel–and there’s another one
there.”
The guest found his voice at once.
“Yes–and put them there yourself!”
It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.
“It is wax–a breed unknown to this camp. I am ready to be searched for
the box. Are you?”
The guest was staggered this time–the dullest eye could see it. He
fumbled with his hands; once or twice his lips moved, but the words did
not come. The house waited and watched, in tense suspense, the stillness
adding effect to the situation. Presently Stillman said, gently:
“We are waiting for your decision.”
There was silence again during several moments; then the guest answered,
in a low voice:
“I refuse to be searched.”
There was no noisy demonstration, but all about the house one voice after
another muttered:
“That settles it! He’s Archy’s meat.”
What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It was an embarrassing situation
for the moment–merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpractised minds were not prepared
for it, and had come to a standstill, like a stopped clock, under the
shock. But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their heads together and
privately buzzed over this and that and the other proposition. One of
these propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer upon the
assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint Buckner, and let him go.
But the cooler heads opposed it, pointing out that addled brains in the
Eastern states would pronounce it a scandal, and make no end of foolish
noise about it. Finally the cool heads got the upper hand, and obtained
general consent to a proposition of their own; their leader then called
the house to order and stated it–to this effect: that Fetlock Jones be
jailed and put upon trial.
The motion was carried. Apparently there was nothing further to do now,