The Silent Hour by Elisabeth Grace Foley Page A

Mrs. Meade quickly.
    Randall explained. “Jim sent Old Ted last
night to find Tom Hall and ask him to come bail him out, but Old
Ted got drunk or something and never found Hall till this morning.
So Jim had to spend the night in jail.”
    “Dear me,” murmured Mrs. Meade, almost too
low to be heard, “that is very…interesting.”
    She looked up at Randall. “What of this
cowboy called Gennaro? You doubtless know more of the men who work
out there than I could—”
    “Well, he’s not the most pleasant character,”
said Randall. “Drinks too much sometimes, and that puts him in an
ugly mood. Most of the time he does his job. But he irked Major
Cambert, and the Major decided to make an example of him and docked
his pay. That’s what Gennaro hated; he thought he was being made a
laughing-stock in front of the other boys. He’s sure not the only
one who’s gotten drunk now and again, but he’s the one Major
Cambert came down on.”
    Mrs. Meade had listened to this chronicle of
masculine vice with deep scientific interest, as one might to the
doings of the inhabitants of another planet. “I see,” she said.
    She got up from the sofa, straightened out
her knitting and placed it and its ball of yarn on the nearby
table. “And yet I do not see. There is a pattern here
somewhere, just as surely as there is in these stitches, but I have
not found it yet.”
    Randall considered for a minute. “I’d say it
was—humiliation,” he said. “Major Cambert sure had a knack for
that. He humiliated Jim by telling him he wasn’t man enough to
marry—Miss Ruskin by calling her a fortune-hunter. He made a
laughing-stock out of Gennaro, or at least Gennaro thinks he
did—and he humiliated Old Ted by throwing a dollar at him to get
rid of him whenever—”
    Mrs. Meade gave a little cry of triumph.
“ There it is! Thank you, Randall.”
    “Not at all,” said Randall automatically.
“There— what is?”
    “The pattern I was looking for. And it does
make a difference—oh, yes, it does. But the fact remains, out of
all these people with motive, all had an equal opportunity. That
hour, that hour for which none of them can produce a witness.
That—” Mrs. Meade stood with arms folded, the fingers of one hand
drumming on the other elbow, her brows knitted in thought. “That
remains our barrier.”
     
    * * *
     
    Jim Cambert was walking with his head down a
little—a habit newly formed on him these last few days. But that
did not prevent Randall Morris, who always went straight to the
point, from recognizing him and hailing him just as he turned a
corner off the main street. Jim halted, reluctantly, as Randall
caught up to him.
    To anyone who knew him, the change in Jim
could hardly have been more marked. No trace of the firm, youthful
confidence remained; his whole attitude spoke defeat and dejection,
and he avoided others’ eyes almost furtively. Randall hesitated a
second as he reached him, as if a little taken aback; and then he
took him resolutely by the arm. “I’ve been looking for you,” he
said. “There’s something I want to talk to you about. No, it’s
important, Jim. Come with me and I’ll tell you what I mean.”
    Rather unwillingly Jim accompanied him. It
was not far to the livery stable, and Randall did not speak again
until they reached the doors. Once or twice he glanced over his
shoulder, surveying the street as if to see whether they were
observed.
    “I heard the trial is set to start Saturday,”
Randall said, once inside the shadow of the stable. He beckoned Jim
to the far end of the aisle, near the stall where Randall’s own
horse stood. “Listen, Jim, I don’t like it. I don’t think the
sheriff’s dug half as deep as he could have. They’re rushing you
through this without half enough evidence gathered.”
    Jim shifted his shoulders uneasily, and tried
to make it a shrug. “Tom Hall says it’s not a very strong
case.”
    “Well, sure he’d say that—he’s a friend, and
he’s