“Look here!” I said. “What’s that about—a warrant? Are you sure they’ll
get a warrant? I’m sorry uncle; but what have you done?”
“Haven’t I told you?”
“Yes, but they won’t do very much to you for that. They’ll only bring
you up for the rest of your examination.”
He remained silent for a time. At last he spoke—speaking with
difficulty.
“It’s worse than that. I’ve done something. They’re bound to get it
out. Practically they _have_ got it out.”
“What?”
“Writin’ things down—I done something.”
For the first time in his life, I believe, he felt and looked ashamed.
It filled me with remorse to see him suffer so.
“We’ve all done things,” I said. “It’s part of the game the world makes
us play. If they want to arrest you—and you’ve got no cards in your
hand—! They mustn’t arrest you.”
“No. That’s partly why I went to Richmond. But I never thought—”
His little bloodshot eyes stared at Crest Hill.
“That chap Wittaker Wright,” he said, “he had his stuff ready. I
haven’t. Now you got it, George. That’s the sort of hole I’m in.”