Carson restrained himself by an effort as he went on, still calmly, with the penetrating insistency of grim justice itself. “Then do you know anything about it?” he asked;--“_anything at all?_” “Nothing I could swear to, Marse Carson,” Pete replied, wiping his eyes on his torn and sleeveless arm. “Do you suspect anybody, Pete?” “Yasser, I do, Marse Carson. Somehow, I b'lieve dat Sam Dudlow done it. I b'lieve it 'ca'se folks say he's run off; en what he run off fer lessen he's de one? Oh, Marse Carson, I 'lowed I was havin' er hard 'nough time lak it is, but ef _you_ gwine jine de rest uv um en--” “Stop; think!” Carson went on, almost sternly, so eager was he to get vital facts bearing on the situation. “I want to know, Pete, why you think Sam Dudlow killed the Johnsons. Have you any other reason except that he has left?” Pete hesitated a moment, then he answered: “I think he de one, Marse Carson, 'ca'se one day while me'n him en some more niggers was loadin' cotton at yo' pa's warehouse, some un was guyin' me 'bout de stripes Johnson en Willis lef' on my back, en I was--I was shootin' off my mouf. I didn't mean er thing, Marse Carson, but I was talkin' too much, en Sam come ter me, he did, en said: 'Yo' er fool, nigger; yo' sort never gits even fer er thing lak dat. It's de kind dat lay low en do de wuk right.' En, Marse Carson, w'en I hear dem folks was daid I des laid it ter Sam, in my mind.” “Pete,” Dwight said, as he rose to leave, “I firmly believe you are innocent.” “Thank God, Marse Carson! I thought you'd b'lieve me. Now, w'en you gwine let me out?” “I can't tell that, Pete,” Dwight answered, as cheerfully as possible. “You need a suit of clothes. I'll send you one right away.” “One er yo's, Marse Carson?” The gashed face actually glowed with the delight of a child over a new toy. “I was going to order a new one,” Carson answered. “I'd ruther have one er yo's ef you got one you thoo with,” Pete said, eagerly. “Dar ain't none in dis town lak dem you git fum New York. Is you quit wearin' dat brown checked one you got last spring?” “Oh yes, you can have that, Pete, if you wish, and I'll send you some shoes and other things.” “My God! will yer, boss? Lawd, won't I cut er shine at chu'ch next Sunday! Say, Marse Carson, you ain't gwine ter let um keep me in here over Sunday, is you?” “I'll do the best I can for you, Pete,” the young man said, and when the jailer had opened the door he descended the stairs with a heavy, despondent tread. “Poor, poor devil!” he said to himself. “He's not any more responsible than a baby. And yet our laws hold him, in his benighted ignorance, more tightly, more mercilessly than they do the highest in the land.” CHAPTER XXIV. [Illustration: 9212]