That this
had been done, he went on to review the testimony.
"And, finally," he said, "you can't get around Bella's last words. We
know nothing of our own direct knowledge. We've been feeling around in
the dark, clutching at little things, and trying to figure it all out.
But, gentlemen," he paused to search the faces of his listeners, "Bella
knew the truth. Hers is no circumstantial evidence. With quick,
anguished breath, and life-blood ebbing from her, and eyeballs glazing,
she spoke the truth. With dark night coming on, and the death-rattle
in her throat, she raised herself weakly and pointed a shaking finger
at the accused, thus, and she said, 'Him, him, him. St. Vincha, him do
it.'"
With Bill Brown's finger still boring into him, St. Vincent struggled
to his feet. His face looked old and gray, and he looked about him
speechlessly. "Funk! Funk!" was whispered back and forth, and not so
softly but what he heard. He moistened his lips repeatedly, and his
tongue fought for articulation. "It is as I have said," he succeeded,
finally. "I did not do it. Before God, I did not do it!" He stared
fixedly at John the Swede, waiting the while on his laggard thought.
"I . . . I did not do it . . . I did not . . . I . . . I did not."
He seemed to have become lost in some supreme meditation wherein John
the Swede figured largely, and as Frona caught him by the hand and
pulled him gently down, some man cried out, "Secret ballot!"
But Bill Brown was on his feet at once.
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