I replied,
mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must
have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with
him, adding, 'Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.' I was much
annoyed that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar
rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us.
The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk's office, and
having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house
about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out
of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him,
turning into a by-road which led toward my own house--and knew nothing
of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.
"That is much like the special pleading of a criminal--is it not,
colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my
method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several
witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to
high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the
court-house at dusk--I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck
into a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I assure you,
even to myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then,
when I was a man charged with murder--who would naturally try to frame
such a statement as would clear him--and when a large portion of the
community were excited and indignant at the murder.
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