It was Deborah's.
But the judge was deaf to the warning. Deborah's voice had but
reminded him of Deborah's presence. Its tone had escaped him. He
was too engrossed in the purpose he had in mind to notice shades
of inflection.
But Mr. Black had, and quick as thought he echoed her request:
"He is forgetting himself. Let him go, Judge Ostrander."
But that astute magistrate, wise in all other causes but his own,
was no more ready now than before to do this.
"In a moment," he conceded. "Let me first make sure that this man
understands me. I have said that there exists no evidence against
my son. I did not mean that there may not be supposed evidence.
That is more than probable. No suspicion could have been felt and
none of these outrageous charges made, without that. He was
unfortunate enough not only to have been in the ravine that night
but to have picked up Scoville's stick and carried it towards the
bridge, whittling it as he went. But his connection with the crime
ends there. He dropped this stick before he came to where the wood
path joins Factory Road; and another hand than his raised it
against Etheridge. This I aver; and this the lady here will aver.
You have probably already recognised her. If not, allow me to tell
you that she is the lady whose efforts have brought back this case
to the public mind: Mrs. Scoville, the wife of John Scoville and
the one of all others who has the greatest interest in proving her
husband's innocence.
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