Gordon readily recalled the case as a famous one. He had followed it with some care and was sure from the evidence that the young man was guilty.
For a half hour she poured out her mother's soul to him in piteous accents.
"My dear madam," he said at last, "I cannot possibly undertake such work."
"Then who will save him? I've tramped the streets of New York for six months and appealed to every man of power. Your voice raised in protest against this shameful and unjust death will turn the tide of public opinion and save him. You can't refuse me!"
"I must refuse," he answered firmly.
She turned pale, and her mouth twitched nervously. He looked into her white face with a great pity and a feeling of horror swept his heart. The pathos and the agony of the tragedy filled him with strange foreboding. In his imagination he could hear the click of handcuffs on his own wrists and feel the steel of prison bars on his own hands as he peered through the grating toward the gate of Death.
But he was firm in his refusal, and she left with words of bitterness and reproach.
After a long procession of people, sick, and most of them out of work, he was surprised to see one of his own deacons approach with a look of dejection.
