Surely he will get no hearing from unprejudiced and
intelligent men."
"The police have listened to him. Mr. Andrews, who is one of the
gentlemen present, has heard his story and you see that he stands
here silent, my son. And that is not all. Mrs. Scoville, who has
loved you like a mother, longs to believe in your innocence, and
cannot."
A low cry from the hall.
It died away unheeded.
"And Mr. Black, her husband's counsel," continued the father, in
the firm, low tones of one who for many long days and nights had
schooled himself for the duty of this hour, "shares her feeling.
He has tried not to; but he does. They have found evidences--you
know them; proofs which might not have amounted to much had it not
been for the one mischievous fact which has undermined public
confidence and given point to these attacks. I refer to the life
we have led and the barriers we have ourselves raised against our
mutual intercourse. These have undone us. To the question, 'Why
these barriers?' I can find no answer but the one which ends this
struggle. Succumbing myself, I ask you to do so also. Out of the
past comes a voice--the voice of Algernon Etheridge, demanding
vengeance for his untimely end. It will not be gainsaid. Not
satisfied with the toll we have both paid in these years of
suffering and repression,--unmindful of the hermit's life I have
led and of the heart disappointments you have borne, its cry for
punishment remains insistent. Gentlemen--Hush! Oliver, it is for
me to cry DON'T now--John Scoville was a guilty man--a murderer
and a thief--but he did not wield the stick which killed Algernon
Etheridge.
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