S the prisoner's counsel, Carson had no difficulty in seeing him. At the outer door of the red brick structure, with its slate roof and dormer windows, Dwight met Burt Barrett, the jailer, a tall though strong young man, who had once lived in the mountains and had been a moonshiner, and was noted for his grim courage in any emergency.

“I understand the trial is set for to-morrow,” he remarked, as he opened the outer door which led into a hallway at the end of which was the portion of the house in which he lived with his wife and children.

“Yes,” Carson replied; “the judge has telegraphed that he will come without fail.”

The jailer shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I feel a sight better over it than I did last night. I understand that the mob is going to let us alone till they can catch Sam Dudlow; if they lay hands on that scamp they certainly will barbecue 'im alive. As for Pete, I can't make up my mind about him; he's a trifling nigger and no mistake. He's got a good, old-time mammy and daddy, and none of Major Warren's niggers have ever been in the chain-gang, but this boy has talked a lot and been in powerful bad company. If you can keep him out of the clutch of the mob you may save his neck, but you've got a job before you.”

“I want to ask what you think about putting a guard round the jail,” Carson said, when they were at the foot of the stairs leading to the cells on the floor above.

“As far as I'm concerned, I hope you won't have it done,” said Barrett. “To save your neck, you couldn't summon men that wouldn't be prejudiced agin the nigger, an' if the report went out that we had put a force on at the jail it would only make the mob madder, and make them act quicker. A hundred armed citizens wouldn't stop a lynching gang—not a shot would be fired by white men at white men, so what would be the use?”

“That's what the sheriff thinks exactly, Burt,” Carson replied. “I presume the only thing to do is to treat the arrest as usual. I'm doing all I can to assure the people that there is to be a fair and speedy trial.”

They had reached the top of the stairs and were near Pete's cell, when the jailer turned and asked, in an undertone, “Are you armed?”

“Why, no,” Carson said, in surprise.

“Good Lord! I wouldn't advise you to go inside the cell then. I've known niggers to kill their best friends when they are desperate.”

“I'm not afraid of this one,” Dwight laughed. “I must get inside. I want to know the whole truth, and I can't talk to him through the grating. Is he in the cell on the right?”

“No, the first on the left; it's the only doublebarred one in the jail.”

In one corner of the fairly “well lighted room stood a veritable cage, the sides, top and bottom consisting of heavy steel lattice-work. As the jailer was unlocking the massive door, Carson peered through one of the squares and a most pitiful sight met his eye, for at the sound of the key in the lock Pete, in his tatters and gashed and swollen face, had crouched down on his dingy blanket and remained there quaking in terror.

“Get up!” the jailer ordered, in a not unkindly tone; “it's Carson Dwight to see you.”

At this the negro's face lighted up, his eyes blazed in the sudden flare of relief, and he rose quickly. “Oh, Marse Carson, I was afeared—”

“Lock us in,” Dwight said to the jailer; “when I'm through I'll call you.”

“All right, you know him better than I do,” Barrett said. “I'll wait below.”

“Pete,” Carson said, gently, when they were alone, “your mother says she wants me to defend you under the charge brought against you. Do you wish it, too?”

“Yasser, Marse Carson; but, Marse Carson, I don't know no mo' about dat thing dan you do. 'Fo' God, Marse Carson, I'm telling you de trufe. Lawsy, Marse Carson, you kin git me out o' here ef you'll des tell 'em ter let me go. Dey all know you, Marse Carson, en dey know none er yo' kind er black folks ain't er gwine ter do er nasty thing lak dat. Look how dey did las' night! Shucks! dey wouldn't er lef' enough o' my haar fer er hummin'-bird's nest, ef I hadn't got ter you in de nick er time. Dat pack er howlin' rapscallions was tryin' ter tear me ter mince-meat when you fired off dat big speech en made 'em all feel lak crawlin' in holes. You tell 'em, Marse Carson—you tell de jailer ter le' me out. Dat man know you ain't no fool; he know you is de biggest lawyer in de Souf. Ain't I heard old marster say you gwine up, en up, en up, till you set in de jedge's seat in de cote? Las' night, when you 'gun on 'em, en let out dat way, I knowed I was safe, but I don't see what yo'-all waitin' fer; I want ter go home ter mammy, Marse Carson. Look lak she been sick, en she cried en tuck on here, en so did young miss. Marse Carson, what's de matter wid me? What I done? I ain't er bad nigger. Unc' Richmond, on de farm, toi' me 'twas' ca'se I made threats ergin dat white man 'ca'se he whipped me. I did talk er lot, Marse Carson, but I never meant no harm. I was des er li'l mad, en—”

“Stop, Pete!” There was a crude wooden stool in the cell and Carson sat down on it. His heart was overflowing with pity for the simple, trusting creature before him as he went on gently and yet firmly: “You don't realize it, Pete, but you are in the most dangerous position you were ever in. I am powerless to release you. You'll have to be taken to court and seriously tried by law for the crime of which you are charged. Pete, I'm going to defend you, but I can't do a thing for you unless you tell me the whole truth. If you did this thing you must tell me—me, do you understand. We are alone. No one can hear you, and if you confess it to me it will go no further. Do you understand?”

Dwight's glance was fixed on the floor. To this point he had steeled himself against a too impulsive faith in the negro's words that he might logically satisfy himself beyond any doubt as to the innocence or guilt of his client. There was silence. He dared not look into the gashed face before him, dreading to read what might be written there by the quivering hand of self-condemnation. The sheer length of the ensuing pause sent cold darts of fear through him. He waited another moment, then raised his eyes to the staring ones fixed upon him. To his astonishment they were full of tears; the great, heavy lip of the negro was quivering like that of a weeping child.

“Why, Marse Carson!” he sobbed; “my God, I thought you knowed I didn't do it! When you tol' 'em all las' night dat I wasn't de right one, I thought you meant it. I never once thought you—you was gwine ter turn ergin me.”

Carson restrained himself by an effort as he went on, still calmly, with the penetrating insistency of grim justice itself.

“Then do you know anything about it?” he asked;—“anything at all?”

“Nothing I could swear to, Marse Carson,” Pete replied, wiping his eyes on his torn and sleeveless arm.

“Do you suspect anybody, Pete?”

“Yasser, I do, Marse Carson. Somehow, I b'lieve dat Sam Dudlow done it. I b'lieve it 'ca'se folks say he's run off; en what he run off fer lessen he's de one? Oh, Marse Carson, I 'lowed I was havin' er hard 'nough time lak it is, but ef you gwine jine de rest uv um en—”

“Stop; think!” Carson went on, almost sternly, so eager was he to get vital facts bearing on the situation. “I want to know, Pete, why you think Sam Dudlow killed the Johnsons. Have you any other reason except that he has left?”

Pete hesitated a moment, then he answered: “I think he de one, Marse Carson, 'ca'se one day while me'n him en some more niggers was loadin' cotton at yo' pa's warehouse, some un was guyin' me 'bout de stripes Johnson en Willis lef' on my back, en I was—I was shootin' off my mouf. I didn't mean er thing, Marse Carson, but I was talkin' too much, en Sam come ter me, he did, en said: 'Yo' er fool, nigger; yo' sort never gits even fer er thing lak dat. It's de kind dat lay low en do de wuk right.' En, Marse Carson, w'en I hear dem folks was daid I des laid it ter Sam, in my mind.”

“Pete,” Dwight said, as he rose to leave, “I firmly believe you are innocent.”

“Thank God, Marse Carson! I thought you'd b'lieve me. Now, w'en you gwine let me out?”

“I can't tell that, Pete,” Dwight answered, as cheerfully as possible. “You need a suit of clothes. I'll send you one right away.”

“One er yo's, Marse Carson?” The gashed face actually glowed with the delight of a child over a new toy.

“I was going to order a new one,” Carson answered. “I'd ruther have one er yo's ef you got one you thoo with,” Pete said, eagerly. “Dar ain't none in dis town lak dem you git fum New York. Is you quit wearin' dat brown checked one you got last spring?”

“Oh yes, you can have that, Pete, if you wish, and I'll send you some shoes and other things.”

“My God! will yer, boss? Lawd, won't I cut er shine at chu'ch next Sunday! Say, Marse Carson, you ain't gwine ter let um keep me in here over Sunday, is you?”

“I'll do the best I can for you, Pete,” the young man said, and when the jailer had opened the door he descended the stairs with a heavy, despondent tread.

“Poor, poor devil!” he said to himself. “He's not any more responsible than a baby. And yet our laws hold him, in his benighted ignorance, more tightly, more mercilessly than they do the highest in the land.”