"Father,"--the tone quieted me, for I knew from its gentleness
that he was hesitating to speak more on his own account than on
mine--"you are not looking well; this thing worries you. I hate to
see you like this. Is it just the loss of your old friend, or--or-
-"
He faltered, not knowing how to proceed. There was nothing strange
in this. There could not have been much encouragement in my
expression. I was holding on to myself with much too convulsive a
grasp.
"Sometimes I think," he recommenced, "that you don't feel quite
sure of this man Scoville's guilt. Is that so? Tell me, father."
I did not know what to make of him. There was no shrinking from
me; no conscious or unconscious accusation in voice or look, but
there was a desire to know, and a certain latent resolve behind it
all that marked the line between obedient boyhood and thinking,
determining man. With all my dread--a dread so great I felt the
first grasp of age upon my heart-strings at that moment--I
recognised no other course than to meet this inquiry of his with
the truth--that is, with just so much of the truth as was needed.
No more, not one jot more. I, therefore, answered, and with a show
of self-possession at which I now wonder:
"You are not far from right, Oliver. I have had moments of doubt.
The evidence, as you must have noticed, is purely circumstantial."
"But a jury has convicted him."
"Yes."
"On the evidence you mention?"
"Yes."
"What evidence would satisfy YOU? What would YOU consider a
conclusive proof of guilt?"
I told him in the set phrases of my profession.
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