Some one killed him, evidently while he was wandering around, looking for me.
The mallet dropped by his side.

It had blood on it--and they accused me.

It looked right--there was every form of circumstantial evidence against me.

And," the breath pulled hard, "what was worse, everybody believed that I killed him.

Even my best friends--even my father." "Ba'teese no believe it." "Why ?" Houston turned to him in hope,--in the glimmering chance that perhaps there was something in the train of circumstances that would have prevented the actuality of guilt.