The Second Confesion

“Well-you're a little late with it, aren't you?” “I certainly am.” Kane did not look happy, but he was bearing up. The fact that he let his hair do as it pleased was of some advantage to him, for it made it seem less unlikely that a man with the head and face of a young statesman-that is, young for a statesman-would make such a fool of himself. He hesitated and then went on, “I am keenly aware that my conduct was indefensible. I can't even explain it in terms that make sense to me now. Apparently I'm not as good in a crisis as I would like to think I am.” “But this wasn't much of a crisis, was it? An unavoidable accident? It happens to lots of people.” “I suppose it does-but I had killed a man. It seemed like a hell of a crisis to me.” Kane gestured. “Anyhow, you see what it did to me. It threw me completely off balance.” “Not completely.” Archer glanced at the paper. “Your mind was working well enough so that when Goodwin went to the car and drove away, down that same drive, only fifteen minutes after the accident, you thought there was a good chance that it would be blamed on him. Didn't you?” Kane nodded. “I put that in the statement deliberately, even though I knew it could be construed like that. I can only say that if that thought was in my mind I wasn't conscious of it How did I put it?” Archer looked at the paper. Tike this: “His going away in the car seemed somehow to make up my mind for me. I went into the house and up to my room,” and so on.”