“Naw,” he whispered.

“Get on into the room,” Lawson said, shoving him again.

He stumbled forward, then drew back. Lawson gripped his arms and held him. The horrible sight smote him at close range and his knees gave. He attempted to wrench his arm free, but Lawson clutched him tightly. The blood-spattered room, lit to glaring distinctness in the sunlight, made his head throb.

“Come on, boy. Show us what you did!” Lawson said.

Johnson caught hold of his coat and tried to pull him to the center of the room; he gave a wild jerk and before the policemen knew what was happening, he had hurled himself through the doorway and into the hall.

“Stop, boy!” Lawson shouted.

Murphy sprinted after him and flung his weight against him and bore him to the wall.

“Hold ’im!” Lawson yelled.

Panting, he looked at Lawson, who had drawn and leveled a gun at him.

“That was a dangerous thing to do, running that way,” Lawson said with sober quietness.

Johnson led him back into the room. Over and over they asked him to tell what he had done, to show how he had done it. Several times he tried to open his lips to speak, but his jaws seemed locked. Finally, he made no attempt to speak at all; he merely shook his head when they talked to him. As he stood there gazing about in fear, the full seriousness of his predicament became plain. If he were being accused of a crime as horrible as this, then he was in deep danger. He quailed inwardly as he remembered that he had actually signed a paper without having read it! He should have known better than that. Perhaps he had only dreamed he had signed a paper. Yet, he must have signed it, for this bloody room was proof that he had committed himself in some way. Oh, God! But he had been tired to the point of death when he signed it; then they ought not hold him responsible. How could he get out of this? He clenched his fists in a maddening frenzy of helplessness; he held himself in this attitude until his muscles ached, then he relaxed, surrendering to fatigue. He wanted to fall to the floor right now and sleep until he had his strength back, until he was fresh and keen again; and then he would be able to cope with this horrible thing, would be able to clear himself of this blood and this accusation of guilt. Nothing seemed to come plain to him as he stood there, everything was foggy, gummy, blurred. He whirled and faced Lawson, his lips moving silently; finally his words broke forth.

“Please, mister . . . I don’t know nothing about all this . . . You-all got me wrong!”

His right hand waved itself weakly through the air, as though to sweep the room of its crushing sense of condemnation from sight. The eyes of the policemen were upon him steadily.