“Whose instructions?”

“Colonel Ingram.  He outlined the evidence I was to give.”

“And it lost Jackson’s case for him.”

He nodded, and the blood began to rise darkly in his face.

“And Jackson had a wife and two children dependent on him.”

“I know,” he said quietly, though his face was growing darker.

“Tell me,” I went on, “was it easy to make yourself over from what you were, say in high school, to the man you must have become to do such a thing at the trial?”

The suddenness of his outburst startled and frightened me.  He ripped* out a savage oath, and clenched his fist as though about to strike me.

* It is interesting to note the virilities of language that were common speech in that day, as indicative of the life, ‘red of claw and fang,’ that was then lived.  Reference is here made, of course, not to the oath of Smith, but to the verb ripped used by Avis Everhard.

“I beg your pardon,” he said the next moment.  “No, it was not easy.  And now I guess you can go away.  You’ve got all you wanted out of me.  But let me tell you this before you go.  It won’t do you any good to repeat anything I’ve said.  I’ll deny it, and there are no witnesses.  I’ll deny every word of it; and if I have to, I’ll do it under oath on the witness stand.”

After my interview with Smith I went to my father’s office in the Chemistry Building and there encountered Ernest.  It was quite unexpected, but he met me with his bold eyes and firm hand-clasp, and with that curious blend of his awkwardness and ease.  It was as though our last stormy meeting was forgotten; but I was not in the mood to have it forgotten.

“I have been looking up Jackson’s case,” I said abruptly.

He was all interested attention, and waited for me to go on, though I could see in his eyes the certitude that my convictions had been shaken.

“He seems to have been badly treated,” I confessed.  “I—­I—­think some of his blood is dripping from our roof-beams.”

“Of course,” he answered.  “If Jackson and all his fellows were treated mercifully, the dividends would not be so large.”

“I shall never be able to take pleasure in pretty gowns again,” I added.

I felt humble and contrite, and was aware of a sweet feeling that Ernest was a sort of father confessor.  Then, as ever after, his strength appealed to me.  It seemed to radiate a promise of peace and protection.

“Nor will you be able to take pleasure in sackcloth,” he said gravely.  “There are the jute mills, you know, and the same thing goes on there.  It goes on everywhere.  Our boasted civilization is based upon blood, soaked in blood, and neither you nor I nor any of us can escape the scarlet stain.  The men you talked with—­who were they?”

I told him all that had taken place.