What was to be done now? He had failed to find Rhyming Joe, he had
failed to find Lawyer Sharpman. The early morning train would carry
both of them beyond his reach. Suppose it should? Suppose the case at
Wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should
bring in their expected verdict, what then?
Why, then the law would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son; the
title, the position, the fortune would all be his; Mrs. Burnham would
take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this
unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. Ah! there was a
thought. Suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go
on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had
stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would
ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the
verdict was unjust? He might yet have it all, all, if only he would
hold his tongue. His heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath
came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. But that
would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of
shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside.
No, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that
was to tell what he had heard.
If he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the
better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge
to himself--the story must be known.
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