There was a long, fluttering sigh, and Matthews opened his eyes; then a moment’s silence; and then he spoke, with an effort, with long pauses between the words: 

“Am—­I—­to—­go—­now?”

The words seemed to ring absolute terror in the old lady’s ears.  She turned, and dropped to her knees on the floor.

“Mr. Kline, Mr. Kline,” she sobbed out, “oh, for God’s love, don’t take him!  Let him off, let him go!  He’s my boy—­all I’ve got!  You’ve got a mother, haven’t you?  You know—­” The tears were streaming down the sweet, old face again.  “Oh, won’t you, for God’s dear name, won’t you let him go?  Won’t—­”

“Stop!” the man cried huskily.  He was mopping at his face with his handkerchief.  “I thought I was case-hardened, I ought to be—­but I guess I’m not.  But I’ve got to do my duty.  You’re only making it worse for Sammy there, as well as me.”

Her arms were around his knees now, clinging there.

“Why can’t you let him off!” she pleaded hysterically.  “Why can’t you!  Why can’t you!  Nobody would know, and I’d do anything—­I’d pay anything—­anything—­I’ll give you ten—­fifteen thousand dollars!”

“My poor woman,” he said kindly, placing his hand on her head, “you are talking wildly.  Apart altogether from the question of duty, even if I succeeded in hushing the matter up, I would probably at least be suspected and certainly discharged, and I have a family to support—­and if I were caught I’d get ten years in the Federal prison for it.  I’m sorry for this; I believe it’s your boy’s first offence, and if I could let him off I would.”

“But you can—­you can!” she burst out, rocking on her knees, clinging tighter still to him, as though in a paroxysm of fear that he might somehow elude her.  “It will kill him—­it will kill my boy.  And you can save him!  And even if they discharged you, what would that mean against my boy’s life!  You wouldn’t suffer, your family wouldn’t suffer, I’ll—­I’ll take care of that—­perhaps I could raise a little more than fifteen thousand—­but, oh, have pity, have mercy—­don’t take him away!”

The man stared at her a moment, stared at the white face on the reclining chair—­and passed his hand heavily across his eyes.

“You will!  You will!” It came in a great surging cry of joy from the old lady.  “You will—­oh, thank God, thank God!—­I can see it in your face!”

“I—­I guess I’m soft,” he said huskily, and stooped and raised Mrs. Matthews to her feet.  “Don’t cry any more.  It’ll be all right—­it’ll be all right.  I’ll—­I’ll fix it up somehow.  I haven’t made any arrests yet, and—­well, I’ll take my chances.  I’ll get the plate and turn it over to you to-morrow, only—­only it’s got to be destroyed in my presence.”

“Yes, yes!” she cried, trying to smile through her tears—­and then she flung her arms around her son’s neck again.  “And when you come to-morrow, I’ll be ready with the money to do my share, too, and—­”