Whatever my inclination may have been, I had no opportunity the next day to work on the case and scarcely any for thought of it. An important business matter took me out of town by an early train and kept me away over night so that I got back only in time to attend poor White's funeral the morning following, and then to hurry to the adjourned hearing before the Coroner.
In some respects I regretted my absence, as I might have become more familiar with the case in the interim had I been at hand, but I felt fresher for the change and diversion and ready and keen to make the most of every bit of evidence.
The crowd in the little court-room was greater and the interest seemed more intense than upon the first day.
The morning papers had hinted vaguely at newly discovered important evidence and a possible clue to the identity of the murderer and a glance at the face of Inspector Dalton confirmed them. It was confident, almost triumphant, in expression, and I had misgivings that it boded no good for Winters. Indeed, I looked over my shoulder to see if the police had a prisoner, but it was not so.
Standing a little aside from the crowd were my three friends talking quietly together and nearby Benton, as also two women closely veiled and several rather seedy looking men,—witnesses, undoubtedly.
When the jurors were all in their seats the Coroner requested Dalton to proceed with the evidence and Van Bult was called. He advanced promptly but without haste and, taking the oath, faced the jury. He was perfectly composed, and gave his testimony in a clear low voice without hurry and without hesitation. It differed very little from that of Davis and Littell and threw no new light on the case.
When he concluded he turned to the Inspector for further questions. Dalton asked him what were the denominations of the bills he had left on White's table and if he remembered where he had obtained them. He answered they were fifty-dollar bills and that they were new ones which he had obtained from the American National Bank where he had drawn five hundred dollars in fifties.
On being asked if he had any of them with him, he took one from his pocket-book and handed it to me. The Inspector here turned to one of the policemen and despatched him on some errand. He then asked the witness where he had been at the time of the preceding hearing, and was answered that he had gone to Buffalo by an early train the morning of the murder and returned only the succeeding evening, too late to attend.
Dalton asked him if his trip had not been a sudden one, and what had taken him. He replied that his trip was not unexpected and that it had been on personal business. The Inspector seemed inclined to push his questions but changed his mind and allowed him to leave the stand. I felt relieved, for I had seen by Van Bult's expression that he was not disposed to submit to further questions concerning himself and I knew his temper would not brook insistence from the Inspector.
The night-officer, the substance of whose testimony had been told to me in the Inspector's office as I have related, then testified. He gave his account of the happenings of the night just as I had heard them and in answer to a few direct questions stated positively that it was not later than a quarter after one o'clock when White left the house that night wearing the cap and ulster, that he had seen him wear them more than once and knew them. That it was about a half-hour later when he had seen a man looking in White's window and some little time later, probably still before two o'clock, when the same man came out of the vestibule and hurried away, turning up Sixth Avenue. That he wore a light coat and brown derby hat and that he thought he could recognize him if he saw him again.
The witness impressed me as honest and painstaking in his work but not as especially clever. The effect of his evidence upon the jury and all present was plain. They had hung on his every word with breathless attention. To them it evidently seemed, as to the police, that they had fixed upon the criminal.
At my request the Inspector asked the officer if the man he had seen leaving the vestibule had White's ulster with him, and he answered positively that he had not.
My intention, of course, was to call to the notice of the jurors its unaccounted-for disappearance. I was not, however, encouraged to hope I had been successful, for from the indifferent expression with which the answer was received by most of them at least, they apparently thought it gratuitous and I realized that it would require a lucid argument to awaken them to its importance.
As the officer left the stand, I wondered whom the next witness would be, and if I was ever to hear anything further of the ulster or if its disappearance was to remain unexplained, to be ignored! I remembered, however, Detective Miles's promise, "We will find it if it is not destroyed," and felt sure he would keep his word, and this expectation was promptly confirmed.
"Call Mrs. Bunce!" and one of the ladies I had previously observed came forward. She was past middle age and plain but respectable looking.
"Where do you live?" she was asked. She gave her residence—a house on Nineteenth Street, west of Sixth Avenue, on the north side and only a block west of White's house.
She kept a lodging-house, she said.
An officer, by order of Dalton, now unwrapped a large package and produced the ulster. Miles smiled at me and I nodded my approval. The witness was asked if she knew anything about it. She identified it immediately and explained that she had found it lying over a chair in her front hall when she came down early the morning of White's death. She did not know how it came there; it was not there when she retired about eleven o'clock. No inmate of the house owned such an article that she knew of. In fact no one lived in the house but herself and one other lady—and she looked toward her companion,—and a servant girl. The Inspector asked her nothing further, and Miss Stanton was then called.
When Mrs. Bunce left the stand, a slight, graceful woman came quickly forward and took her place and as she lifted her veil to take the oath, a very pretty face was disclosed. She was young, not much more than twenty, I should say, and had the dark hair and the blue eyes of the Irish type. The gray hat she wore with the big tilted brim had a jaunty look, while it cast a softening shadow over her face, and a close-fitting tailor gown of gray home-spun fitted well her trim figure. Altogether she was a very attractive-looking woman. When she spoke her voice was low and not unrefined, but there was a slight metallic tone to it and a lack of sensitive modulation that was a bit disappointing. Her eyes, too, when she looked at you, though undeniably handsome, were too direct and persistent in their glance to be altogether pleasing; there was also a little hard look about the mouth that should not have been there in a woman. I had never seen her before, but I knew of her quite well as the somewhat questionable friend of White's of whom we had been talking on the night of his death, and I took perhaps a greater interest in her on that account than I might otherwise have done. I noticed, too, that Davis, Littell, and Van Bult were also observing her closely, the latter with his monocle critically adjusted. So far as I was aware, however, none of them knew her except by reputation.
I was amused to see the Inspector straighten up and unconsciously plume himself a little as he prepared to question her and his voice was gentler and his manner more deferential than it had been.
"This is Miss Stanton, I believe, Miss Belle Stanton?" and he smiled encouragingly.
"Yes, Inspector," she answered.
"We will not detain you any longer than necessary, Miss Stanton, and you must not be nervous," he continued, still with the same reassuring manner, and she smiled sweetly at him in return.
I felt myself getting out of temper. What business had Dalton indulging in gallantry and platitudes when engaged on an official investigation that involved life and death? I fear my manner or expression must have suggested my feelings, for he resumed his business-like tone and conducted his examination from then on more tersely, though he could not quite abandon a little gallantry of manner.
"I believe, Miss Stanton, that you reside with Mrs. Bunce?" The answer was in the affirmative.
"And have you any knowledge of the finding of that ulster?"
"I understand from Mrs. Bunce that it was found in her hallway, though I did not see it there till later in the morning, and I do not know how it came there," was the answer.
"Did you ever see it before or have you any knowledge of its owner?"
"Yes," she said, "I have seen it a number of times when worn by Mr. Arthur White."
"Then you knew Mr. White," Dalton asked.
"Yes, I have known him for about a year"; and the questions and answers continued in rapid succession:
"Was he a particular friend of yours?"
"He was."
"Was he in the habit of visiting you and sometimes in the evening, rather late, perhaps?"
"He was."
"As late as one o'clock?"
"Yes, sometimes, not often."
"Did Mr. White have a latch-key to the house?"
"He did."
"Had you seen him on the evening or night before the ulster was found?"
"I had not, nor for a couple of days."
"Have you any knowledge of Mr. White or of any one else having been at your house late that night or any knowledge of how the ulster came there?"
"I have not."
"It was through you, was it not, that its discovery was reported to the police?"
"It was; I heard of Mr. White's death, and considered it my duty to have so curious a coincidence reported."
"Thank you, Miss Stanton. I think that is all; we won't trouble you any longer," Dalton concluded.
The witness smiled her thanks brightly to her interrogator as she left the stand, but I thought she seemed troubled and somewhat sad too in spite of her apparent indifference. As she rejoined her companion she replaced her veil and, turning her back to the room, stood looking pensively out of the window.
The Inspector evidently considered that he had exhausted the witness, but I was far from satisfied and I meant sometime to see more of Miss Stanton; I felt that through her might yet be found a clue that would explain the presence of the ulster in that house.
Miss Stanton was succeeded on the stand by a flashy-looking man of the gambler type who gave his name as James Smith, and his occupation as dealer at a faro lay-out on Sixth Avenue near Twenty-seventh Street.
He was asked if he had charge of the game on the previous Monday night and said he had. The Inspector then handed him a fifty-dollar bill and asked if he had seen it before and, if so, under what circumstances. Smith carefully examined the bill, reading off it the name of the bank—the American National—and the number. He then answered that he had given that same bill the previous night to the Inspector, who had come to his place to get it.
In answer to another question, he said that he had obtained the bill about two o'clock or a little later Tuesday morning from a man who had lost it at his game. He stated further that the man was unknown to him, but that he thought he could recognize him should he see him again. Then pointing to one of the witnesses, he said:
"That man was with him!"
All eyes were turned in the direction he indicated where a shabby, dissipated looking young fellow was standing by himself pulling at his mustache with an air of assumed bravado.
"That will do," said Dalton, and the witness stepped hurriedly down, looking relieved over his dismissal.
The bill the witness had identified, together with the one Van Bult had given me, were then compared by the officials and the jury, and they proved to be of the same bank issue and series. I saw the jurors looking with admiration at the Inspector, and I felt myself that much credit was due him.
The police work had been quickly and well done. Their case was indeed thoroughly "worked up," and I had to confess to myself, despite my disapproval of the method, that if they had not started with the assumption that Winters was the guilty man, they would not have found the money or secured any evidence to direct the verdict of the jury; but the question still remained, was its conclusion to be the true one? Time would tell.
Almost before the sensation created by the last evidence had subsided, Dalton called to the stand the man pointed out by the witness. He came forward slouching and ill at ease and the looks cast upon him from all sides were not reassuring. Having taken the oath, he stood sullenly awaiting the questions.
In answer to the usual question he gave his name as Lewis Roberts.
"You were in Smith's place Tuesday morning," the Inspector stated, rather than asked him.
"I was," he answered.
"You were with another man," he continued in the same peremptory tone.
"I was."
"Did you see him lose that fifty-dollar bill," pointing to the one Smith had identified.
"I saw him lose a fifty-dollar bill—I do not know that it was that one."
This was plainly a difficult witness. The Inspector leaned toward him, looking him straight in the eyes, and put his next question slowly and with emphasis on each word.
"Who was that man?"
Just as slowly and firmly came the answer, each word falling distinctly in the stillness.
"I do not know."
It was almost a sigh of relief that escaped from the audience, but Dalton continued:
"Then how did you meet him and when?"
"That night in a saloon on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-Fourth Street; we got to drinking together there."
"And where did he get this money?"
The witness seemed inclined to answer more freely now, and replied that it was suggested that they go and play the bank, but neither of them had any money, and then his companion said he knew where he thought he could get some and went off saying he would be back before long.
"What time was that?" the Inspector interrupted.
The witness thought "it was some time after one o'clock," and continuing said, "the man was gone about half an hour and then returned with the fifty dollars and we went to Smith's place and lost it."
"And what did you do next?" he was asked.
"We had no more money and so we left. We parted outside and I did not see him again."
"And so," said the Inspector, "you don't know him? Do you think you would know him if you saw him again?"
"I do not know."
"That is all," said Dalton; "go back to your place. We may want you."
The tone implied a threat and the witness answered it with a defiant look. He had evidently been lying, but not to shield himself, I thought. I wondered who the next witness would be; there did not seem occasion for many more for already the police had pretty nearly put the noose around the neck of their man.
Turning, after a few minutes delay, to Dalton to see what might be the cause of it, I saw he was in earnest conversation with a sergeant. He was evidently receiving some important report, for he listened attentively and gave an order in response which despatched the officer rapidly from the room. Then giving his attention again to the proceedings, he called another witness.
It was the paying teller of the American National Bank. His evidence required but a few minutes. He stated he had paid Mr. Van Bult five hundred in "fifties" on the morning before White's death, and that they were new bills just received by the Bank from the Sub-Treasury. On being shown the bill produced by Van Bult and that recovered from the gambling house, he identified them as two of the bills thus received by the Bank, though he said he could not state positively they were the same drawn by Van Bult as a few others had also been paid out. However, it was hardly necessary that he should do so as every one was satisfied the bill obtained from the gambling house was one of those left by Van Bult on White's table.
It only remained now for the man who had lost it to explain how he came by it. Would the explanation be satisfactory? That was the one material point.
When the paying teller had concluded it was late in the afternoon. It was dark out-of-doors and the gas had been lighted within, but the crowd had not diminished; on the contrary, it had been steadily augmented wherever a new spectator had found a chance to wedge his way into the throng. So intense was the interest that neither the Coroner nor a juror had suggested any recess. They sat scarcely moving in their seats, intent only on the words of each succeeding witness. All felt something final must come soon. The evidence was logical and dovetailed perfectly; it all pointed to one man. Who was he? The police must know, they could not have failed in this one vital particular after succeeding so fully in all others. I could read these thoughts in the faces of those about me, in their expectant attitudes; and I felt they were not to be disappointed. The police had done their work thoroughly and the Inspector had submitted its results with telling effect. If it were his purpose to work his evidence up to a climax he had succeeded and the moment had now come for the crowning of his success,—the identification of the man. After that there would be little left apparently for the lawyers of the State to do; but I felt there might be something for some one to undo.
There was a slight disturbance among the spectators at one side of the room near the door; "another spectator struggling for a nearer view," I thought to myself; and then amid an expectant hush the night-officer was recalled to the stand.
"Officer," said Dalton, "you said you thought you would recognize the man you saw that night if you should see him again; look about you now! Do you see him?"
The officer let his gaze pass over the jury and witnesses and slowly on to where the spectators were gathered at the farther end of the room,—men retreating before the searching glance as from the eye of fate,—and then he leaned forward and fixed his look on a man standing where the retreating crowd had left him almost alone:
"That is the man," he said.
I looked; it was Winters! He wore the light coat and was fingering nervously the brown derby hat which he held. His head was bent, but one could see that his face was very pale and his eyes dull and heavy from drinking. It was a pitiful sight, this helpless accused man, seemingly unconscious of his position, and I turned away; but the crowd stared as though fascinated even while they shrank from him.
The Inspector next recalled the witness Smith.
"Can you identify among the persons present the man who lost the fifty-dollar bill at your gambling table?" he asked.
Without hesitation he also pointed to Winters and said that he was the man.
There was a moment's delay, and I knew Dalton was hesitating to put his question of identification to the witness Roberts, for fear of damaging his case by a denial, but professional duty prevailed, and he called him up and asked him pointedly if that was not the man who was with him Tuesday morning and lost the fifty-dollar bill.
The witness at first seemed disposed to evade the question, but his courage failed him and in a low voice he admitted that it was. Then Dalton turned slowly and faced Winters and said:
"Henry Winters! You are under suspicion of having killed Arthur White. Have you anything to say?"
I looked at Winters again. He had not changed his position, but his glance was turned to Dalton with a look of dumb appeal and then it went wandering round the room as if he were struggling to understand it all, but he made no answer, and after a moment his eyes fell again and he relapsed into his former insensibility. At a signal, an officer who had been standing back of him advanced, and handcuffing him, led him without resistance from the room.
The crowd had been silent during this scene, but when he was gone there was that stir among them that is heard when people rouse themselves after an ordeal.
By an effort I recovered my self-possession in time to give appropriate attention to the closing proceedings. The Inspector was announcing in his former business-like tone, that the evidence was all in and the jury at liberty to find their verdict.
There was no doubt as to what it would be. They withdrew and were gone a few minutes for form's sake only and on returning the foreman announced the verdict:
"The jury find that Arthur White came to his death on the morning of January the —, 1883, in the city of New York, through a wound deliberately inflicted by Henry Winters."
That was all.
The jury was dismissed, the crowd dispersed, and the first stage of the case had closed.
Upon the conclusion of the hearing I left at once and, avoiding any chance of interruption, went directly to my rooms. Once there I pulled my chair up to the fire, lighted my pipe, and sat down to think it all over.
If I were going to work intelligently upon this case I must understand it, and if I meant to proceed upon the theory that the accused was innocent and try to establish that fact, I must have good reason for such course. Hasty conclusions would not do. They must be deliberate and be logically deduced from the evidence.
I realized that I was now in possession of sufficient facts to draw some conclusions if only, tentative ones, and I felt, indeed, that there was great doubt if any further light would be thrown upon the case before the trial, so that I might as well study the situation as it was.
The police believed they had established their case against Winters and all their future efforts would be directed against him. If, therefore, his conviction was to be avoided, it would most likely have to be through such analysis of facts arrayed against him as should demonstrate the possibility of another theory of murder and not by direct evidence of his innocence, for such would probably not be forthcoming.
Could I do this? Would an analysis of the facts and testimony afford the opportunity? I could but try.
My thoughts were in confusion, and I was unable for a time to direct them or to clearly define for contemplation the different elements in the case. After a while, however, as the personalities of the different witnesses faded from my mind and the vivid impression I had brought away from the scene of the court-room grew dim, I succeeded in concentrating my attention on the subject in the abstract. I now concluded to review the whole case and to determine upon what, if any, reasonable theories Winters could be innocent.
The strength of the case against him was plain. The Inspector's method of procedure had been such as to present it strongly and allow of no part being overlooked; and I recognized also that the evidence had probably all been true and that any effort to reach a different conclusion would have to be premised upon an admission of his facts and be made consistent with them. I had set myself a hard task, but its very difficulties only incited me to greater effort.
While the evidence against Winters was very strong it was not conclusive. This much I felt, and I, therefore, meant to proceed upon the theory of his innocence.
The facts were that he had been at White's house that night and that he had possession of one of the bills Van Bult had left on the table, but it did not necessarily follow from them that he had killed White. He might have taken the money, while he slept, and without disturbing him. Such an hypothesis was consistent at the same time with the facts and with Winters's innocence.
Such being the case why should he not be innocent? These two facts, his presences at the house and possession of the bill, were in reality all that had actually been proved against him, although as the evidence had been presented at the hearing, it had seemed almost conclusive of his guilt.
Having reached this conclusion it still remained necessary, in order to make his innocence a reasonable hypothesis, to demonstrate in some way that some one else had probably been there that night also; and thus make possible another theory of the murder.
There was one fact in the case that I thought did suggest—sufficiently at least for argument—the presence of a second person on the scene.
Van Bult had left four fifty-dollar bills on the table, and of these only one had been traced to Winters, and the remaining three were missing and unaccounted for. If it could be demonstrated with reasonable certainty that Winters had not taken them, it must follow that some one else had done so, and the presence of this other party would thus be established.
Under these conditions, until such person could be found, and his innocence shown, the chances of Winters's guilt or innocence of the murder would be equally divided.
Of course I recognized the fact that Winters might have taken them all, but it seemed very unlikely. It was clear from the evidence that between the time the officer saw him leaving the vestibule and the time he rejoined his friend in the saloon on Sixth Avenue but a very brief period could have elapsed, not enough under any ordinary circumstances to account for the disposal of a hundred and fifty dollars. There was no suggestion that he had spent any while with his friend before they visited the gambling house, and he had lost but one of the bills there. If, then, he had secured more than one of them, he must have kept the balance in his possession; but to admit this was to conclude that he had abandoned his gaming while he had plenty of money in his pocket, which was highly improbable in a man of Winters's habits and temperament; such was not the way with his kind. I concluded, therefore, that it was not unreasonable to assume that he had not taken all the bills and that some one else had probably been on the scene that night, in which case the police must either negative this assumption or find that other person, and establish his innocence, before they could with any certainty establish Winters's guilt. At least so I reasoned.
As I further reflected, however, there occurred to me another explanation of the disappearance of the money that did not involve the intervention of a third party. White had apparently gone out that night. Why should he not have disposed in some way of all but the one bill during his absence? It was possible, just as possible as any other hypothesis, and would undoubtedly suggest itself to the prosecution when the question arose. There would still, of course, remain some doubt as to the true explanation of their disappearance; and every doubt, no matter how small, was a cloud upon the State's case; but I felt it would be insufficient to weigh against the other evidence unless corroborated by additional facts. I was thus compelled to look further for the evidence I sought.
The only other tangible factor in the case that seemed to suggest in any way the presence of a third party was the ulster. My former theory that its absence from the scene—since it had not been taken by Winters—proved the presence of a third party, failed now since it had evidently been worn out by White himself, and apparently left by him at Belle Stanton's; but this last conclusion I was not yet quite prepared to admit. Of course, Belle Stanton's home was a place where White might well have left it, had it been likely that he would have left it anywhere; but I thought it highly improbable that any man would have walked back nearly two blocks on such a rainy night, and in evening dress, without an overcoat; that is, unless he was out of his mind, and White was certainly not that when I had parted from him less than an hour earlier. Furthermore, I reasoned, if he had done so his clothes must have shown the effect of exposure to the weather and as far as I recalled, they were immaculate when I saw him the following morning. On the whole I was not ready to admit that White had left the ulster there. Assuming, therefore, that he had not done so, I turned my thoughts to the consideration of some other means by which it could have gotten there. It must have been taken out by some one with intimate knowledge of White's habits and private life, and also by some one having access to his several establishments, to at once secure the ulster and dispose of it in a place so suggestive of the action of White. The very conditions of the problem suggested the answer. I knew of but one man who possessed the knowledge and opportunities required. That man was Benton.
With the recognition of this fact came a very disagreeable sensation. I was anxious to establish Winters's innocence, but I recoiled from the thought of hunting down another man in his place, especially when I realized that while the conclusion of my reasoning might raise a doubt as to Winters's guilt, it was entirely insufficient to do more than cast an awful suspicion upon Benton.
I sat long in reflection over the situation. I was at first inclined to abandon the whole thing, but then I recognized the obligation to fulfil a duty I had undertaken, especially since it had disclosed a theory of the murder that might be the means of saving an innocent man's life. Could I, to spare the feelings or even to spare the reputation of another man who might be either innocent or guilty, leave Winters to the fate I felt must overtake him if I did not interfere?
My duty was plain; miserable as was the task, I must go on with it to a conclusion one way or the other, but I determined that so long as I could, I would pursue the investigation alone, and thus spare Benton trouble and mortification if it should develop that he was innocent. Time enough to submit it to the police when I had something more tangible to go upon than mere speculation based on the fitting of acts to opportunities. Furthermore, I knew the police would not be grateful to me for upsetting or even casting doubt upon their well-worked-up case, and would depart upon the investigation of a new clue with very little enthusiasm for the work.
At this point my reflections were interrupted by a servant who came to tell me that Benton would like to see me.
I almost jumped from my chair. What irony of fate had brought this man—the one I wished least of all to see—to me at this moment? I felt guilty at the mention of his name. How should I treat him? What should I say to him? At first I was inclined to refuse to see him, but then I reflected that it was as well to have an interview with him now as another time. I need ask him no direct questions, do nothing to alarm him, but could listen to what he might have to say. The interview being unsolicited, on my part, he could have no idea of my suspicion and might therefore be led to talk freely. My determination thus taken, I told the servant, who had been patiently waiting on me, to bring Benton to my room. By the time he appeared I had composed myself and was prepared to take advantage of any opportunity that might offer to further my investigation.
On entering he was so eager to impart his news that barely waiting for me to signify my readiness to hear him, he began telling it in a hurried and nervous manner.
"I came, Mr. Dallas," he said, "because after I saw at the trial this afternoon that the police had caught Winters and that he was the man, I thought I ought to tell you at once what I know about it. I would have told it when I testified, but did not think of him at all then. Mr. Winters," he continued, "was always coming to Mr. White's rooms, at all times of the day and often late in the evening, too, and he always wanted money, and Mr. White always gave it to him; sometimes a good deal, and sometimes a little, just according to what he had with him; and he had generally been drinking, more or less, and sometimes he would beg and cry, and sometimes, when Mr. White didn't have as much money to give him as he wanted, he would get mad, and say it was all his money by right anyhow, and that Mr. White had as good as robbed him of it and such like; but Mr. White would never say much to him, but just give him the money and be kind to him, and tell him to come again when he needed more; and indeed it seemed to me he was always coming, sir, and it used to bother Mr. White, I am sure, for he seemed worried and out of sorts after Mr. Winters had been there." He paused for a moment and then went on. "That is all I wanted to say, but I thought I ought to tell you, sir. I tried to see you after the trial, but you got away too soon, and so I thought I would wait until you got through your dinner, and had time to see me. So I came around now."
He had rattled on till he was out of breath, and now stood in some embarrassment waiting for what I might have to say.
I sat looking at him. I was puzzled as to his character. Either the man was simple and straightforward in nature and worked up at the moment to a high pitch of nervous and pleasurable excitement over the murder, as is apt to be the case with his class; or else he was a worse man and a deeper one than I had conceived him to be.
"Sit down, Benton," I said at last, pointing to a chair opposite me; "what you have told me is of much importance, and I want to talk to you further about it."
"Yes, sir," he said, and sat down obediently. I felt I had a delicate task in hand. I must on no account alarm him or in any way arouse his suspicion, and yet the opportunity of questioning him was too good to lose.
"It is very important," I continued, "that I should learn all I can of Mr. White's habits. I knew him well, of course, but as his servant, you knew more about him than any one else. How long, now, had you lived with him?"
"More than a year," he answered.
"Did you know this Miss Stanton, who testified to-day?" I continued.
"Yes, sir, I did; he had been going with her ever since I knew him."
"Do you know whether he was in the habit of visiting her house often late in the evening?"
"I think so, sir, but I do not know just how often. I used to take notes for him to her house, and sometimes she would come to his rooms and take supper with him."
"Did she have any key to his rooms?" was my next question.
He said he did not think so, because she always rang for admission when he was there.
I inquired then if he knew of any one who had keys to White's room.
He said he did not think any one had except, probably, the landlady and himself.
"I think," I said, "you testified that you found the door unlatched when you went to the rooms the morning of Mr. White's death. How do you mean it was unlatched?"
"I mean," he answered, "that the catch was so fixed that it could be opened from the outside without a key. This was hardly ever the case that I remember, and never before over night."
I asked him how the catch was fixed when he left, and he answered that he could not say because the door was open, and Mr. Davis still in the room.
"And you did not go back that night?" I asked.
"No, sir," he answered promptly, "certainly not. You saw me going home yourself."
"So I did," I admitted; "and how about the front door when you left, was that unfastened, too?"
He said that he had closed the door after him when he went out, but did not know whether it was fixed to open from the outside or not as he had not tried it, but that it was fastened when he returned in the morning because he had to use his key to get in.
"Had Winters a key?" I asked.
"No," he admitted, "I am very sure he hadn't."
"Then in case the door was locked," I said, "how could he have gotten in?"
He looked puzzled for a moment, but brightened up, and suggested that Mr. White might have let him in, as he never refused him admission.
"But in that case," I suggested, "Mr. White would have been awake and he was apparently asleep when he was killed." He had nothing to say to this, except to suggest rather doubtfully that Mr. White might have laid down and gone to sleep again while Winters was there.
"Do you think that likely?" I inquired.
"No," he said, "I do not."
"Then," I continued, "why do you feel so sure that Winters killed him?"
After looking at me in a surprised way, he asked:
"If he didn't kill him, sir, who did?"
I admitted I did not know, but suggested that we ought not to be too hasty in our conclusions.
"Well, sir," he answered, "perhaps he didn't, but everybody thinks he did, and I think so too."
I felt that the examination was at an end, and that I had not made very much of it. If Benton was guilty he had successfully avoided giving evidence of it, and if he was innocent, then his attitude was a pretty fair sample of the estimate the average man or juror would be apt to place upon my conjectures and theories.
"You may go," I told him; "I am much obliged to you for coming, and you must tell me anything more you may learn or that occurs to you about the case."
"I will, sir. Good-night, sir," he answered, and went out promptly and quietly, like the well-trained servant he had always been.
If it had not been for my horrible suspicions I should have liked to engage him myself. A man such as Benton is a great comfort to a bachelor—that is, under ordinary circumstances—but not when you think he may have murdered his last master.
When he was gone I looked at the clock, and saw it was after eleven. I had been in my room with my thoughts and with Benton for three hours, and I could not say that either companionship had been altogether pleasant. I determined to go downstairs now and see what was going on. It was the time of the evening when the club was likely to liven up with men returning from the theatre or other places of amusement for an hour of cards or gossip, and I hoped to find diversion in their society.
As I descended the stairs, Ned Davis was standing in the hall, and he immediately locked his arms in mine and began talking of the case.
"Extraordinary, isn't it," he said, "that Winters should have done it? Awful clever of the police, too, to ferret it out so soon, don't you think so?"
I was annoyed at this unhesitating assumption of Winters's guilt, and somewhat out of humor also, I have no doubt, and I asked him sharply:
"How do you know Winters did it?"
"Why, you haven't any doubt about it, have you?" he asked.
"Certainly," I said, "it isn't proven yet."
"Well, if it isn't proven, I never saw a case that was."
"Look here, fellows!" he called out to a lot of men who were seated nearby talking and who looked up inquiringly at his hail; "Dallas don't believe Winters did it."
I realized at once that a man holding my office could not afford to be quoted as an exponent of Winters's innocence, and therefore disclaimed any such expression of opinion.
"No," I said; "I merely decline to accept his guilt as a fact until he shall be convicted."
"That's all right, Dallas," one of them answered, "we all understand you mustn't express an opinion under the circumstances of course, but we all know what you really think, and we hope you will go in and convict the fellow quickly. Sit down and take a drink with us, we were just talking about the case."
I declined the invitation, pleading some excuse, and leaving Davis to accept it, walked on to the billiard-room, in the hope of escaping the subject in a game, but it was of no avail, for there, too, it held the floor.
As I entered the room I observed collected at one end a group, the personnel of which I at once recognized. It was made up of a class of men such as are to be found in every club, men to whose words attaches no responsibility and who are accustomed to express themselves on all subjects, particularly sensational ones, in exaggerated language. They are of the sort that become especially enthusiastic over a jockey, a prize-fighter, or a detective, and on any provocation will indulge in flights of hero-worship. In such a clique are always to be found certain leaders who assert themselves and their opinions in aggressive tones and to whom the others render admiring homage. It was so now; one of the Solons was on his feet engaged in an argumentative review of the evidence in the case to an admiring audience. The tables were deserted, except for an old gentleman, who always played his "evening game for a little exercise before bed," but who now stood disconsolately leaning on his cue while his partner hung absorbed over the group of listeners.
"Now see here, Dallas," said the speaker on observing me, "wasn't that about the finest worked-up case you ever saw? Here was an instance where the police had absolutely nothing to go on but some missing money and a glimpse at a man peering in at a window on a dark night, and yet within forty-eight hours they run down their man and have him safe in jail. There is no doubt of it, we have the finest police force in the world, and I always have said so. That man Dalton is a wonder."
"Yes," chimed in another before I had time to assent or dissent, "and what an eye he has; it pierces you like an eagle's when he looks at you. He understands his business."
"Indeed he does," the first speaker continued, "and he leaves nothing undone. Did you read the testimony in the 'Extra' this evening? He has seized and exhausted each clue systematically. He hasn't left a loophole of escape for Winters." To which ultimatum, all assented heartily.
"So you think there is no doubt of his guilt?" a mild little man, anxious for a word, next ventured to ask in a deferential tone.
"Doubt of his guilt!" repeated the first speaker, in a tone of pitying indulgence; "why, man, the case is all over."
"Of course, the evidence proves that," the little man hastened to explain apologetically, "I only asked to get your opinion."
"That's all right," continued the speaker, mollified; "I am glad you asked. There can be but one opinion. Winters was a bad lot anyhow and bound to come to a bad ending."
"How soon do you suppose he will be tried?" he added, turning to me again.
I said I did not know, but I thought very soon. At which they all expressed satisfaction.
Then he began once more: "There is nothing like swift and sure justice," he announced, "and there now remains in the Winters case only the formality of a trial. The work of the Inspector has left nothing more to be found out."
He would apparently have gone on in this strain indefinitely, had he not been interrupted by Littell, who had come in unobserved, and now quietly asked the speaker's opinion as to what the Inspector might have done with the other three fifty-dollar bills that had been left in the room.
"And pray what has the Inspector to do with them?" was the rejoinder.
"I don't know, I'm sure," Littell answered, "but you said the Inspector had exhausted every clue and left nothing more to be found out and I thought perhaps that if the tracing of one bill was sufficient to convict a man, the whereabouts of the other three might be of importance, too. When found, you see," he continued, "they might convict three more men."
A dead silence followed this explanation, and I fear I rejoiced maliciously over the evident discomfiture of the crowd while at the same time I was gratified by the apparent confirmation of my own views.
"Then you don't think Winters guilty?" some one timidly asked, after a while. I listened eagerly for the answer.
"I didn't say that," Littell replied, "I only wanted to find out if there might not possibly be something that the Inspector did not know."
He refused to be drawn into further discussion, rather suggesting by his manner that he did not think it worth while; and after an awkward pause, the party moved across the room to a more congenial atmosphere, whence in a few minutes I heard them with recovered assurance again telling one another all about it. Evidently side remarks were not in order, particularly if they savored of incredulity.
After they had gone I took the opportunity to ask Littell if he thought the missing bills a serious defect in the case.
"I think it is important that they should be found, if possible," he said, "though I doubt if it would alter much the present status of the case. I only suggested their absence to these men, to show them how little they really knew about it, and that the police are not infallible."
I turned away disappointed: even Littell did not consider the missing bills of much real importance. Their absence might do to juggle with as a lesson to superficial talkers, but from a practical standpoint, it was immaterial.
The next day was Sunday, and I passed it in restless impatience over the enforced idleness, occupying myself as far as I could with the newspaper reports of the Coroner's hearing.
I found much to read, but little to please me in them. With few exceptions they accepted the police version of the case, treating Winters almost as a convicted criminal and praising unstintedly, in some cases fulsomely, the work of the Inspector's department.
It was only necessary to scan their columns to learn that:
Winters bore a bad reputation, and had long been known to the police; that:
It was one of the most brutal murders in the annals of crime; that:
"The assassin coolly scanned his sleeping prey"—with an illustration of Winters peering in the window at White asleep on the divan; that:
"The foul deed was perpetrated while the unconscious victim slept"—with illustration; that:
"The prisoner stood mute under the fearful accusation"—with illustration; that:
It would be the first execution by the new sheriff, etc.
The maxim of the law—"that each man shall be deemed innocent till proved guilty"—was entirely disregarded by these tribunes of the people. Like bloodhounds on the trail, they gave tongue to notes that incited all men to the chase, including those who were to sit as judges without prejudice on the life of the quarry: they assumed Winters guilty till proved innocent and the possibility of such a contingency they did not even suggest.
I finally pushed the papers away from me in angry protest and spent the remainder of the day in vain effort to forget the subject.
Early Monday morning I hurried to the office eager to resume my work on the case.
I found awaiting me there a member of a law firm who gave me the not very welcome news that White had made me the sole executor of his will, a copy of which he handed me. I made an appointment with him to submit it for probate, and he left me to its perusal.
A few minutes sufficed for this, as it was simple and brief. After the usual clause, providing for payment of his debts, etc., he left all the rest of his property unconditionally to his cousin, Henry Winters, and then followed the unusual explanation that he did so, "as a late and imperfect reparation of a wrong."
In reflecting over this statement, I recalled that it had occurred to me on several occasions when White seemed worried and anxious to make a confidant of me that he was possibly remorseful over the injustice he fancied had been done Winters by the unequal division of his father's property, but for such striking evidence of the feeling as this expression evinced, I was not prepared.
This phase of the matter was of short interest to me, however, when I considered how seriously the words might affect Winters's chances of acquittal. In an apparent confession by the victim of a wrong done to the accused was furnished the strong motive of revenge, and if knowledge of the contents of the will could be brought home to him, the additional incentive, to the crime, of a much larger gain than a few hundred dollars.
Little had poor Arthur thought when he made that will, honestly trying, I was sure, to repair what he felt to be an injustice, that its consequences might prove so fatal to the man he meant to help. I put the paper away with a sigh: it was no time for unavailing regrets, if Winters was innocent and was to be saved, action was needed.
I received a summons at this moment from the District Attorney and went to his office in response. I found closeted with him Inspector Dalton and Detective Miles. A consultation over the case, which had now become of chief concern to the office, was in progress.
"Dallas," the District Attorney said to me, "I have just been congratulating the Inspector upon the excellent work of his department in the White murder case. I have read the report of the evidence before the Coroner's jury and find it very complete and strong. The Inspector tells me," he continued, "that the case is practically ready for trial, as seems true, and he urges prompt procedure. I have, therefore, ordered the case sent to the Grand Jury to-morrow, and we must then bring it to trial without unnecessary delay. In cases as serious as this one," he concluded, "the public as well as the reputation of this office demand quick justice and I mean to make an example of it."
"Winters," I suggested, "should be allowed a reasonable time in which to engage counsel and make preparation for his defence."
"Preparation for his defence," he answered, "can only mean the manufacturing of one, for he is evidently guilty: and while of course he must have time to secure a lawyer, it is not worth while to afford him time to work up an alibi or other plausible lie. A fortnight, I think, will be more than enough for all his purposes and I will arrange for such date with the court."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I was not entirely satisfied of Winters's guilt and would not be until at least all the missing money should be accounted for, but I remembered the deprecating indulgence with which he had received a similar suggestion about the ulster and refrained from commenting on it to him, I did, however, ask the Inspector how he accounted for the three missing bills.
He looked surprised at the question and a little taken aback, I thought, but replied confidently that White had most probably put them in the pocket of his ulster and left them with it at Belle Stanton's house.
"But," I said, "I did not understand from the testimony that they had been found there."
"No," he answered, "the housekeeper denied any knowledge of them when questioned on the subject, but that is hardly surprising and I think they will yet be traced to some inmate of that house."
"Well," said the District Attorney, "that seems reasonable enough, and I have no doubt will prove the case: and now, Dallas, if you will take hold of the case in conjunction with the police department and prepare it for trial, I will look after its early assignment and be ready to conduct the prosecution. You will of course assist me in it."
I said, "Of course," nothing else occurring to me at the moment, but I had grave misgivings regarding the duty.
I then suggested that I see Winters and warn him to be prepared. This was agreed upon, and the Inspector, Miles, and myself departed together, leaving the District Attorney to give his time to some one of a hundred other important matters that demanded his attention.
The Inspector parted from us outside; Miles, at my request, accompanying me on my visit to Winters at the Tombs.
I wanted Miles with me, because I wished to consult him about some features of the case that I considered important, and which were not yet clear to me, and I meant to discuss them with him as we proceeded. I had been impressed not only with the natural cleverness of this man, but also with his disposition to be fair, and I felt sure that if he had observed the details that I had overlooked, no matter what their bearing might be on the case, he would give me truthful and unreserved answers.
I had the incident of the ulster in mind and thought if it should appear, as I expected, that White had worn it home that night when he returned after going out as the officer testified that I would then have gone a long way toward creating a doubt of Winters's guilt. So much indeed seemed to depend upon the answers to my questions that I put them with some trepidation as to the results.
After consideration I concluded it was best to let the detective see what was my purpose, so I opened the conversation by calling his attention to the fact that in the event that White, by any chance and contrary to the accepted opinion, had worn the ulster upon his return to the house, then some one else than he must have taken it to Belle Stanton's. I saw at once that Miles had grasped the full purport of the suggestion, and that it was unnecessary to enlarge upon it, so I continued:
"It was raining and if White returned without any outer covering it should have been evident from the condition of his clothes. How about them?" I was watching the detective while I talked and saw that he was giving me close attention and had anticipated my question.
After a moment's thought, he said: "What you have been saying, Mr. Dallas, had occurred to me too and I did observe his clothes as I always do in such cases, and they showed no signs of exposure to the weather. In fact, I did not believe he had been out that night without some protection. Knowing, therefore, that though he had worn the ulster when he went out, he had apparently not worn it when he returned, I examined his umbrella, which stood near the door. This though unwrapped, suggesting recent use, was dry, but as it probably would have dried in the meanwhile in any case, I could draw no conclusions from the fact."
I interrupted him here to ask if White had had the umbrella with him when the night-officer saw him, and he said the officer reported that he had been in the act of raising an umbrella as he passed him.
After a pause, he continued: "I did not stop, however, with the examination of his clothing and umbrella, but looked at the light patent-leather shoes he had on. They were new and the soles not even soiled. They had not, I am sure, been worn on wet streets. Next I looked for and found his overshoes nearby the umbrella: they had evidently been worn in rough weather and had not since been cleaned, but they too were dry and so did not prove anything."
"But," I asked, "what bearing could that have on the question any way? He had certainly been out that night, for the officer saw him."
"Yes, the officer thought he saw him," he replied, "but officers are sometimes mistaken."
I saw his drift and also his oversight, as I thought.
"I am afraid you are off the track a bit, Miles," I said, "when you try to reason that the officer was mistaken and that White was not out that night. We have both for a moment overlooked a factor in the case that proves the contrary. Admitting," I continued, "that the officer might possibly have been mistaken as to the identity of the man he saw leave the house, he was not mistaken about the ulster for it was taken by some one to Belle Stanton's, but whoever wore the ulster also wore the cap that matched it for the officer saw that too, and as the cap was back in the room in the morning, the wearer of it must have returned."
Miles nodded his assent. "Such being the case," I concluded, "the wearer must have been White, because no one else, certainly not the murderer, would have returned to the scene."
"That is true," Miles admitted; "I had forgotten about the cap."
"That being so then," I said, "I also maintain that he wore not only the cap, but the ulster when he returned, and that the ulster must therefore have been taken to Belle Stanton's by some one else, and at a later hour."
The detective shook his head. "I hardly think you have satisfactorily established the last proposition," he said, "for he might have returned with the cap though without the ulster."
"Well, we will see who is right," I answered, for I was not willing to abandon my theory.
Nothing more was said, and during the remainder of our journey I was absorbed in the intricacies of the case, and I think Miles was similarly engaged, for he seemed in a deep study. I was glad to think it so, for I wanted to thoroughly engage his interest, as I had determined to make him an ally. I felt that I could not handle the matter alone, for while I was willing and able, as I thought, to reason out all the abstractions involved, I must have expert assistance in the detective work to furnish me the material of facts with which to really accomplish anything.
I had no hesitation in using Miles in this way, for while I realized that its end was to establish, if possible, the innocence of the accused, which was contrary to the usual attitude of a prosecuting officer, I, nevertheless, felt at that time and feel now that it is not the single duty of the prosecution to convict, but also, and even more importantly, its duty to see that each accused have every opportunity to prove his innocence and that there be no conviction if there be reasonable doubt of guilt. Sentiment has no place with the prosecution: charity should be dealt out with a sparing and discriminating hand, but justice should always be guarded, and above and before all, no innocent man should be convicted.
Upon arriving at the Tombs we were promptly admitted, and saw the superintendent, who at my request directed that Winters be brought from his cell to the private office for our interview with him.
While we waited, I confess to a feeling of some doubt and apprehension as to the result of the interview. I was inclined to think the man innocent, I hoped he was so, and the confirmation or disappointment of my hopes depended to a great extent upon his own statement of the case. Could he and would he explain the circumstances of his part in that night's tragedy consistently with his innocence, or would he establish his guilt by some palpable fabrication, or it might even be by a confession! I felt anything was possible.
We were kept waiting only a short while before one of the guards conducted Winters into our presence.
He showed the severe strain of his recent dissipation, and forty-eight hours of confinement: but he was sober and in the full possession of his senses, as his look of intelligent recognition when he saw me proved. His physically exhausted condition I did not altogether regret, for I felt it made it next to impossible for him to manufacture any plausible story in his defence or to successfully evade direct questions. I shook hands with him and introduced Miles in his proper capacity, and then, as he had dropped wearily into a chair, suspended my questions, intending to give him a moment to recover his strength. He anticipated me, however, by asking abruptly if I believed he had killed Arthur.
I made no direct answer, but replied evasively that I had come to see him to hear what he might have to say on the subject in case he felt disposed to talk.
He rested his head in his hands for a few minutes, apparently reflecting, and then said:
"I did not realize my position or understand the evidence against me until I read of it all in the papers." Then raising his head and looking at me, he continued in a despondent tone:
"I did not kill Arthur and I know nothing about his death, but everything those witnesses testified to concerning me was true just the same. I did go to his house that night, and I went there to try and get money from him. I had been drinking as usual and had no money, and I wanted it to drink and gamble with. Arthur had given me money before, when I asked him for it," he continued, "and I knew if I could find him, he would again. So I went to his house and seeing a light in his room, looked in the window to find out whether he was there and alone or not. I saw him asleep on the sofa—or perhaps he was dead then, I do not know." He stopped a moment to recover his breath, and then went on. "I was about to ring the bell when I saw a policeman observing me, and as it was late I thought I had better wait until he was gone and so went away. After awhile I returned again and started to enter the house when I saw something lying on the flagging in the vestibule. I picked it up, and finding it was a fifty-dollar bill, put it in my pocket and hurried back to the saloon where I had left my friend.
"The rest you know," he continued; "we went to Smith's gambling house, and there I lost the money, and then I went to my room and went to sleep. The next afternoon I read of the murder in the papers and went to Arthur's house, meaning to go in and see him, but I was so ill and nervous that I had not the courage to do it, and after staying around the place for awhile, where you saw me, I returned to my room."
He relapsed into silence and I thought he had finished what he had to say, but he had evidently only been trying to collect his thoughts, for he continued: "I cannot remember very well what I did from then until I was arrested and taken to the station house. I was too ill at the time to think much about it, and I had no idea that there was any belief that I had killed Arthur until the Inspector accused me of it, and I hardly realized it then." He stopped but neither Miles nor I said anything, wishing him to volunteer all he had to tell, and seeing our expectation he added: "That is all I know about it."
After he had finished he sat looking at me inquiringly, almost pleadingly, but I was silent, for I did not know what to say to him. I believed his story: it was simple and straightforward and told without hesitation, but I saw it afforded no satisfactory defence and when told at the trial under the strain and excitement of the ordeal, and apparently with the guidance and coaching of counsel at his elbow, would lose in great part its only strength—the stamp of unpremeditated truth.
What was I to say to this man who was pleading to me with his eyes for encouragement, for hope? I could give him none. Everything he had said but confirmed the testimony against him. His statement that he had found the money would seem puerile to a jury already convinced of his guilt, and what else but denial of the crime would they expect from the accused?
In my dilemma I looked to Miles in the hope of help, but his gaze was turned to the open window in seeming abstraction.
At last, unable to longer bear the strain of his pathetic silence, I yielded to the promptings of my feelings and putting my hand on his shoulder told him that I believed what he said and would help him if I could. The light of hope came into his face at once, and clasping my hand with both of his, he thanked me.
I had not the heart to discourage him at that moment in his new-found hope, though I felt there was little foundation for it, and so, to avoid further questions, asked him if he could suggest any lawyer whom he would like to engage to defend him. He thought a moment but shook his head.
"No," he said sadly, "I have neither friends nor money. How can I get a lawyer?"
"You have money," I told him, "though I don't know how much; for Arthur White has left you his sole heir."
"Arthur has left me his heir!" he repeated after me in a vague way and without any sign of emotion.
"Yes," I said, "and as I am the executor of his will, I will see that a good lawyer is retained for you."
He made no answer, and I added: "If you need anything, let me know and I will attend to it for you."
"I shall not need anything," he replied, "but won't you come and see me sometimes?—I am lonely."
I promised to do so, and feeling that nothing more could be done for him then, closed the melancholy interview by recalling the warden for his prisoner.
I shook hands with him upon leaving, and as I reached the door was glad to see Miles, as he followed me, do the same. Winters kept his eyes fastened on me alone, however, and they had in them a child's look of trust and dependence. Truly I had assumed a sad and heavy burden.
As the great doors and gates closed in turn behind us with a thud and thang and we stood in the bright sunshine once more and amid the busy throng of the streets, I drew a long breath of relief, but my heart ached for the lonely man behind those prison walls.
Neither Miles nor myself had much to say for awhile as we took our way back toward our own section, but finally I broke the silence by asking him how he was impressed with Winters's statement. He replied:
"It won't acquit him unsupported, but I think he told the truth."
"What are we to do about his case then," I asked. "Certainly you do not intend to continue your search for evidence against him?"
"No," he answered, "it is not necessary that I should do that. I will do what I can to get more information about the case generally, which, if he is innocent, can only help him."
"Then," I said, "I may depend upon your help in my work." He promised it, and I asked him to find out for me first, if possible, what had become of the missing bills.
He smiled a little before he answered. "I am afraid I can find them all too easily for your purposes"; and then added, "come with me now if you have the time and I will show you how we sometimes accomplish our ends by playing a bluff game."
"Where are you going," I asked. He replied, "To Belle Stanton's for the missing bills," and hailing an uptown car, boarded it, I getting on after him.
Indeed, I thought, if this man's expectations prove true and he traces the money to that house, our first service will have proved of a kind Winters could better have dispensed with. Perhaps we would be unsuccessful, though, and then on the other hand we would have accomplished something worth while.
When we reached our destination, Miles rang the bell and the door was opened by the landlady herself. She evidently recognized us and looked none too agreeably surprised, but asked us into the big bare parlor, quite politely.
I took a seat, but the detective, declining her invitation, turned to her very quickly, and said:
"Mrs. Bunce, we find there were three fifty-dollar bills in the pocket of Mr. White's ulster when it was left here the night of his death and we need them, so I came around to ask you to get them for us."
"Do you mean to say," she answered in an indignant tone, "that you think I took them?"
"No," he said, "I know of course that you did not, but they were taken, or possibly lost, out of the pocket somewhere in this house, and I want to find them."
"They were neither lost nor taken in this house," she answered shortly, and my hopes rose as I began to feel more confident that Miles was mistaken. The detective, however, showed no signs of discouragement, but continued in the same urbane tone:
"You think they were not, madam, I am sure; but we know they were. You have a maid-servant here," he went on; "please send for her."
"What for?" Mrs. Bunce asked with some symptoms of alarm, I thought. "Do you wish to question her?"
"No," Miles answered. "She took the bills and I must arrest her."
Mrs. Bunce hesitated for awhile and seemed uncertain of her course, but at last said:
"I don't want anybody arrested in my house—it will hurt its reputation, you know—and if you will wait I will see her about it myself."
"Very well, we will wait, but you must tell her to give up the bills, as otherwise we must arrest her. This is a very serious matter. You can say to her," he continued, "that if we get the bills there will be no more trouble about it."
The woman left us and was gone for about five minutes, during which Miles said to me that she would bring back the money with her. I was not so sure of it and said nothing, but when she returned she handed him three fifty-dollar bills, saying:
"You were right, she did have the money, the hussy; and here it is."
"Thank you," said Miles; "were they found in the pocket of the ulster, do you know?"
"Yes, the outside pocket," she answered.
Miles looked at her severely.
"Mrs. Bunce," he said, "if I were you I would admit I found the bills myself, otherwise it may be awkward for you when we have to put you and your servant on the stand to prove where they were found. This gentleman and myself will not say anything about this conversation and there will be no trouble if you simply tell the truth about it."
The woman broke down finally and began whining something about a poor woman not being allowed to keep what she found in her own house and what belonged to her by right, but Miles did not wait to listen but left the house, I following him.
Once alone with him again I could not restrain the expression of my disappointment.
"That was a very clever piece of work, indeed," I said, "but unfortunately does the case of Winters harm instead of good."