"A mere automaton!" repeated Barnes.
At this last sally the Doctor burst out into uncontrolled laughter, so much heartier than before that it was plain that his previous laughing had been but a part of his scheme to overawe the strong young will of his companion, by raising up the affrighting echoes. The sleeper joined in with this laughing, imitating it almost note for note, and the answering echoes adding to the bedlam, made the place indeed like some dwelling-place of evil spirits. The Doctor's hilarity passed, and placing one hand upon Barnes's shoulder, in a voice of command he cried!
"Silence!" At once the stillness of death ensued, as though each gibbering demon had scurried back into his hiding-place. The Doctor took the young man's head in both hands, the palms open against the temples, and a thumb over each eye. Rubbing the closed lids gently, at the same time pressing the temples, he spoke in deep resonant tones.
"Sleep! Sleep more deeply! Sleep unconscious! Sleep oblivious! Sleep as though dead, but awaken when I call upon you to awaken!"
He continued his manipulations a few moments, and then removed his hands. The eyelids released, slowly opened, and the sleeper gazed at him. Then as slowly they closed again, and being shut, twitched and fluttered as the heart of a dying bird might do. More and more quiet the movements became, till at length all was still. Then the erect head sank gently down, until it rested upon the breast, and the body swayed, and slipped by easy stages from the stone to the floor, where, as it turned over and lay prone upon the face, a long-drawn sigh escaped, and Barnes lay as one dead. The Doctor gazed silent, satisfied, yet as though awed by his own work. Then he lost himself in reverie.
"And this thing is a man. A strong healthy body encasing a powerful will. Yet where now is that will? What has become of the soul that tenants this shell, which now seems empty, dead. Escaped, gone, and at my bidding! 'He sleeps, he is not dead,' says the scientist. What wily excuses men make for their ignorance. If he sleeps, he is dead, for sleep is death, different only because there is an awakening. Yet in the true death is there not an awakening? All analogy cries out 'Yes!' Now this man sleeps, and I have made him thus temporarily dead. Except at my bidding there can be no awakening on this earth. Then if I do not bid him rise, am I a murderer? The law would say so. The law! The law! Pah! The law that says that, is but a written token of man's ignorance. For if I leave him here, he still must awaken. And who can say that if I leave him to awaken in another world he might not thank me so much, that his spirit in gratitude would become my attendant guardian, until his foolish fellow-men, having hanged my body to a gibbet, by a rope, should send my soul into eternity beside him. My soul! Have I a soul? Yes! and not yet is it prepared to pass beyond the limit of this life. No, despite the laws, and the minions of the laws, I will live to reap the harvest which my great ancestor has garnered here. So this fellow must be awakened and restored to his place amongst his kind! Will it be safe? I have made his mind a blank. But will it so remain? His will is strong. He offered more resistance than any upon whom I have tried my power. Had I not first numbed his brain by twisting it into knots, I doubt that I should have controlled him. So if I release him, to-morrow in his waking senses he will perceive that several hours of his life are as a blank. He will realize that during that time something must have occurred that he has forgotten, and all his energy will be aroused to force remembrance. There is a vivid danger should he recall his experience, before my trial occurs and ends. And with our stupid laws who may say when that may be? Ah! I have the trick. His mind is now a blank, and these few hours will be a void. I have charged him to forget. Now I must bid him to remember, and furnish him with the incidents with which to account for the lapse of time. I will take him near the truth. So near that fluctuating recollection will be unable to disentangle fact from fiction. Thus what he recalls will bear no menace to my safety, and yet will so satisfy his will to know what has passed, that no great effort will be made to delve deeper into the records of this day. But first I must take him from this sacred place. It will be safer."
He opened the iron door, lifted the body of the sleeper in his arms and bore it into the passage at the foot of the stairs. Immediately opposite, there was another door, dimly shown by the light from the swinging lamp. This he kicked open with his foot, without dropping his burden. He walked straight across, through the darkness of this old wine cellar, towards a dim ray of light which penetrated at the opposite end, presently coming to a low arch through which he passed with lowered head, emerging into a greater light. They were now in an old cistern, and a circular opening above permitted the moonlight to enter. Here the Doctor laid the sleeper gently down, and retraced his steps. Re-entering the domed chamber, he extinguished the lamp, and then again emerged, closing the door behind him. From a corner under the stairway he procured a long-handled, heavy, iron hammer, such as men use who break large rocks. He next went into the wine cellar, closing the door behind him, and thence passed on through the archway into the cistern. Taking one glance at the still sleeping form of Jack Barnes, he threw off his coat, and attacked the brick-work of the arch, raining upon it heavy blows, each of which demolished a part of the thick wall. At the end of half an hour the opening was choked with fallen debris, and the entrance into the wine vault thus effectually concealed.
This task accomplished, the Doctor resumed his coat, and turned to examine the sleeper. He raised him up, and stood him against that side of the wall upon which the most light was shed. As the body was thus supported, the head hanging, and the weird half-light making the face more ghastly, one might readily have supposed that this was a corpse. But the Doctor presently cried out:
"Awaken! Awaken! not entirely, but so that you may hear and speak!"
In an instant the head was lifted, the eyes opened, and the voice said:
"I am awake! I can hear and speak!"
"Good!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Tell me, what do you remember?"
"You commanded me to remember nothing!"
"True! I commanded! But do you remember?"
"You are the master! I have forgotten!"
"I am the master. Now I tell you to remember!"
"It is impossible! I cannot remember what I have forgotten, unless you tell it to me again!"
"Very true. I will tell you what you have forgotten, and you will then remember it. You will remember even after you are awakened!"
"I will obey. I will remember what you tell me!"
"You left your office this afternoon to follow Dr. Medjora?"
"Yes! I followed Dr. Medjora!"
"He took a car, and you took another?"
"He took a car, and I took another!"
"He left the car, and you followed him to a house and saw him enter?"
"I saw him enter a house!"
"Then there was a fire and you watched the house burning?"
"I saw the house burning!"
"Then you rushed forward and fell into this well?"
"I rushed forward and fell into the well!"
"You will remember all this?"
"Yes, I will remember!"
"Everything else you have forgotten? Nothing else occurred?"
"Nothing else occurred!"
"Now sleep!" The Doctor passed his hands over the eyes and the deep sleep was resumed. The Doctor pressed his lips near the sleeper's ears, and said:
"You will awaken completely in two hours, climb out of this place, and return to your home!"
To this there was no reply, but the Doctor had no doubt that the injunction would be followed. He laid Barnes down upon the bottom of the cistern so that his opening eyes would gaze directly at the orifice above, and then, climbing upon a lot of loose rubbish, he easily reached the edge of the hole, and clutching it with his strong hands drew himself out.
Exactly two hours later, Barnes opened his eyes and slowly awakened to a sense of stiffness and pain in his limbs. He staggered up, and soon was sufficiently aroused to see that he must climb out of the place where he was. This he did with some difficulty, and after wandering about for nearly an hour he found his way to the bridge and crossed the river. Thence he went home, threw himself on his bed, and was soon wrapped in deep, but natural slumber.
In the morning he wondered why he had slept in his clothing. His head ached, and his limbs felt bruised. Slowly he seemed to recall his following Dr. Medjora, his tracking him across the bridge, the house afire, and his tumble into a well, from which he had climbed out late at night. In fact nothing remained in his recollection except what had been suggested by Dr. Medjora whilst he had been hypnotized. Still in a vague way he half doubted, until at breakfast he found seeming corroboration in the newspaper account, which told that the suspected man had been burned to death. How could he reject so good an authority as his morning paper?
Madam Cora Corona watched the destruction of the old mansion in which she had last seen her lover, with mingled feelings of horror and of hope. At one moment it seems impossible that the Doctor could find a means of escaping from the flames, whilst at the next she could but remember the manner of man that he was, and that having told her of his intention to surrender to the police, he would scarcely have chosen so horrible a death whilst immediate safety was attainable by simply opening the door of the passageway before the flames enveloped the whole building. Besides, how did the fire occur? He must have started it himself, and, if so, with what object, except to cover up his escape? But love, such as she bore this man, could never be entirely free from its anxiety, until the most probable reasoning should become assured facts. So, with a dull pain of dread gnawing at her heart, she drove her horses home, holding the reins herself, and lashing the animals into a swift gait, which made their chains clank as they strained every nerve to obey their mistress's behest.
Reaching her sumptuous home on Madison Avenue, she hurried to her own room, passing servants, who moved out of her way awed by her appearance, for those who dwelt with her had learned to recognize the signs which portended storm, and were wise enough to avoid the violence of her anger.
Tossing aside her bonnet and mantle, regardless of where they fell, Madam Corona dropped into a large, well-cushioned arm-chair, and gazed into vacancy, with a hopeless despair depicted on her features. The death of Dr. Medjora would mean much to this woman, and as the minutes sped by, the conviction that he must have perished, slowly burned itself into her brain.
She was the widow of a wealthy Central American. Her husband had been shot as a traitor, having been captured in one of those ever-recurring revolutions, whose leaders are killed if defeated, but made governors if they succeed; rulers until such time when another revolutionary party may become strong enough to depose the last victors. Thus the chance of a battle makes men heroes, or criminals.
She had never loved her husband, and, with a sensual, passionate temperament, which had never been satisfied by her marriage, she welcomed her freedom and her husband's wealth as a possible step towards that love for which she longed. Exiled from her own country, because of the politics of her dead husband, she had come to the United States, the home of all aliens. Her estates had not been confiscated, for fear that the fires of the revolution, smothered but not quenched, might have been again stirred by a seeming warring against the woman. But the President had said to his council:
"Madam Corona is too rich, and she talks too much." So the hint had been given to her to depart, and she had acquiesced, glad enough to retain her fortune.
In New York she had been welcomed amidst the Spanish-Americans, and with a different temperament might readily have endeared to herself a host of true friends. But her selfish desire for a despotic sway over all who came near, and her extreme jealousy of attentions to others, imbued those who made her acquaintance with an aversion which was scarcely concealed by the thin veneer of the polite formalities of social life. So she knew that in the new, as in the old home, she had no friends.
One day she was taken ill, and sent for Dr. Medjora, of whom she had heard, though she had not met him. His skill brought about her rapid recovery, and, being attracted by his fine appearance, she invited him to visit her as a friend. He availed himself of this opportunity to become intimate with a wealthy patron, and called often. Very soon she became aware of the fact that here was a man over whom she could never hope to dominate, and so, as she could not make him her slave, she became his. Her whole fiery nature went out to him, and she courted him with a wealth of passion which should have melted ice, but which from the Doctor earned but little more than a warm hand-clasp at parting. Finally, to her utter amazement, as she was about to despair of ever attracting him, he came to her and asked her to marry him. She consented joyously, and for twenty-four hours lived in rapture.
Then her morning paper told of the death of Mabel Sloane, and connected the Doctor with the tragedy. She hurried to his office and heaped upon him vituperation and reproach, such as only could emanate from a heart capable of the deepest jealousy. He met the storm unflinchingly, and turned it away from himself by reminding her that he would probably be tried for murder, and that thus she would be rid of him. At once she changed her threats to entreaties. She begged him to fly with her. Her wealth would suffice, and in some other clime they could be safe, and she would forget, forgive, and love him.
He appeared to yield, and bade her be ready to come to him at his bidding. She returned home, only to write him a long urgent letter, containing money; the letter to which the Doctor had alluded during the conversation overheard by young Barnes. Then she had been summoned and had gone to him. And now? Now the longer she thought, the more certain did it appear to her, as the hours went by, that her lover was dead. And such a death! She shuddered and closed her eyes. But she could not shut out the vision of her beloved Doctor standing bravely, with folded arms, as the flames crept upon him, surrounded him, and destroyed him. She could not shut out the sound of a last despairing cry wrung from his unwilling lips, as with a final upflaring of the flame, the whole structure fell in.
Maddened by her thoughts, at length she started up and turned towards her basin, intending to lave her fevered brow, when with a cry she sprang back, for there, in her room, with arms folded as in her vision, stood what she could but suppose to be the wraith of the dead. She shrieked, and fell forward in a swoon, to be caught in the arms of Dr. Medjora, who had admitted himself, unknown to the sleeping servants, by a latch key furnished to him by her, when she had begged him to join her in flight.
When she recovered consciousness and realized that this was no spectre which had intruded upon her, she lavished upon him a wealth of kisses and caresses, which should have assured him of the intensity of her love and joy. She laughed and cried alternately, petted him and patted his cheeks, kissed him upon the hands, upon his face, his hair, his lips. She threw her arms around him and pressed him to her palpitating heart, the while crying:
"Alive! Thank heaven! Alive! Alive!"
"And did you think me dead, Cara mia?" He folded his arms about her, touched by the evident genuineness of her feelings, and moved to some slight response.
"Yes! I thought so! No! I did not! I knew you were too clever to die so. But then the flames! They ate up the whole building, and I did not see how—I could not imagine—and I was afraid! But now you are safe again! You are with me, and I love you a million times more that I have mourned your death!"
"Come, come, dear heart! I am alive and unhurt. I never was in danger.I would not kill myself, you know. I love my life too well! And it wasI who set the fire!"
"I thought that too at times! You did it to baffle the police! I see it all! Oh, you are so clever! Now they will think you dead, and we can go away together and live without fear! Is it not so?"
"No, Cora! As I told you this afternoon, I shall give myself up to the police!"
"No, no, no! You must not! You shall not! What, risk your precious life again? You will not, say that you will not! If you love me, say it!"
She twined her arms about his neck, and held him tight as though he meditated going away at once. In the fear of this new danger, an agony welled up about her heart, and tears choked her utterance. But the Doctor remained impassive. He gently, but forcibly, disengaged himself from her embrace, and seating himself, drew her down to her knees beside him. Then he took her head in his hands, compelling her to look at him, and spoke to her in measured tones.
"Cora! Calm yourself! You are growing hysterical. You know me too well, to suppose that I would swerve from a fixed purpose. I will not leave this city. As I have told you, all my hopes for the future bind me here. Elsewhere I should be as nothing, here I will grow into greatness,—greatness which you shall share with me, if you be but brave!"
"But this trial! Suppose—suppose—oh! The horror of it!" She dropped her head upon his lap and wept. He stroked her beautiful black hair, which had become disengaged and now fell down her back, completely covering her shoulders. Presently when she was more quiet, only an occasional sob indicating that she was yet disturbed, he spoke to her, soothingly, caressingly, so that under the magic of his tones she gradually recovered her self-possession.
"My little one, have no fear! This trial is but an incident which scarcely gives me a troublesome thought. The worst is that I shall probably be in prison for some time awaiting trial. A meddlesome interference with the liberty of a man, which the law takes, offering no recompense when the accused is proven to have been innocent. This is one of the anomalies of a system which claims to administer equal rights and justice to all. I am accused of a crime. I am arrested and incarcerated for weeks, or months. I am tried and acquitted. I spend thousands of dollars in my defence. When I am released, I am in no way repaid for my loss of liberty and money. Indeed, innocent though I be, I am congratulated by a host of sympathizers because I was not hanged. But I have had full justice. I have been accorded an expensive trial, with learned talent against me, etc., etc. The law is not to blame, nor those who enforce the laws. I am the victim of circumstances, that is all. Well, so be it. A stupid doctor has warned the authorities that a woman has died of morphine poisoning, despite the fact that a more competent man has signed a certificate that she died of a natural disease. So I have been accused, and will undoubtedly be indicted and tried. But do you not see, that I have but to show that diphtheria caused death, and my innocence will be admitted?"
"Yes, but——!"
"No! There is no but? Now show me to a room, where I may rest unobserved, until the day after to-morrow. We must not rob the public of its sensation too soon. Think of it, I read my own holocaust in an afternoon paper!"
Madam Corona shivered at this, not yet fully unmindful of her own recent forebodings. Obediently she took him to a room, and left him, the single comforting thought abiding with her, that she would have him all to herself during the whole of the following day.
When Messrs. Dudley and Bliss learned from Barnes that he had followed Dr. Medjora, and had seen him go into the building which had been destroyed by fire, their hope that possibly the newspaper accounts were erroneous, was dissipated.
"I knew it!" began the junior member. "I knew that it was too good to be true. Think of that man's permitting himself to be burned to death just as we were about to get our chance. It's too exasperating."
"It is annoying, Robert, of course," said Mr. Dudley. "Yet there is some comfort in the thought that he had the courtesy to pay us a retainer. That five hundred is most acceptable."
"Oh! certainly, the money will come handy, but what is five hundred dollars to an opportunity such as this would have been?" Mr. Bliss was in a very bad humor.
"Robert," began his partner, speaking seriously, "you must not be so impatient. We are no worse off, at any rate, than before the man called upon us, so far as our profession goes, and we are better off than we would be if he had not called at all. You should be grateful for the good received, and not cry after lost possibilities."
"Oh! well! I suppose you are right!" and throwing up both arms in a gesture of disgust, he went to his desk and began writing furiously. A long silence was maintained. These two men contrasted greatly. They had met each other during their law-school days, and were mutually attracted. Mr. Dudley was a hard student who had realized early in life that the best fruit comes to him, who climbs, rather than to him who shakes the tree; whilst that man who lies at ease, basking in the sunshine and waiting for ripe plums to fall into his mouth, is likely to go hungry. He was methodical, persistent, patient, energetic. He wasted no time. Even during his office hours, if there were nothing else to occupy him, he would continue his studies, delving into the calf-bound tomes as though determined to be a thorough master of their contents.
Mr. Bliss was his antithesis, and yet he had just those qualifications which made him complement his partner, so that he strengthened the firm. He was a brilliant, rather than a deep student. He read rapidly, and had a remarkable memory, so that he had a superficial comprehension of many things, rather than a positive knowledge of a lesser number. He could be both rhetorical and oratorical, and, at a pinch, could blind a jury with a neat metaphor, where surer logic might have made a smaller impression, being less attractive. When addressing the jury, he would become so earnest, that by suggesting to his hearers that he himself was convinced of the truth of his utterances, he often swayed them to his wishes. He was quick, too, and keen, so that he eventually became justly celebrated for his cross-examinations. But at this time his greatness had scarcely begun to bud, and so he sat like a schoolboy in the dumps, whilst his graver partner, though equally disappointed at the prospect of losing a good case, showed not so much of his annoyance.
Presently Barnes entered with a telegram, which Mr. Bliss took, glad of anything to divert his thoughts. A moment after reading it he was greatly excited, and handing the message to his partner, exclaimed:
"Mortimer, in heaven's name read that!"
Mr. Dudley took the despatch and read as follows:
"Be at office District Attorney to-morrow ten o'clock. I will take your advice and surrender. Medjora."
"Well, Robert, what of it?"
"What of it? Has the Western Union an office in the other world now, that dead men may send telegrams?"
"Certainly not. Therefore this was sent before he died."
"Before he died!" This unthought-of possibility shattered the rising hopes of Mr. Bliss. He made one more effort, however, saying:
"What is the date?"
"Why, the date is to-day!" said Mr. Dudley, slowly. "Singular! But it is an error, of course."
"Why do you say 'of course'?" asked his partner, testily. "You seem to be anxious to lose this case. Now, how do you know that Medjora is dead after all?"
"Why Barnes saw him go into the building, and he could not have escaped, for the place was surrounded by the police."
"There is no telling what that man can do. I verily believe that he is more than human, after the way in which he read my thoughts yesterday. I am going to probe this thing to the bottom." And before his partner could detain him, he had taken down his hat and rushed off.
Two hours later, he returned discouraged. At the main office he had been referred to a branch, far uptown. Arriving there he found that the operator who had sent the despatch had gone off duty. The original blank upon which the message had been written was undated. So he learned practically nothing.
"Never mind," said he, doggedly, after relating his ill-success, "I will go to the District-Attorney's office to-morrow, and wait for that man whether he come, or his ghost. I firmly believe that one or the other will do so."
"I will go with you," said Mr. Dudley. "Only promise me to say nothing, unless our man turns up."
At half-past nine on the next morning, both of the young lawyers were at the appointed place. Mr. Dudley sat down and read, or appeared to read, the paper. Mr. Bliss walked about impatiently, leaving the room occasionally to go out into the hall and stand at the main doorway, looking into the street.
A few moments before ten o'clock the District Attorney himself arrived and nodded pleasantly to the young men, with whom he was acquainted.
"Waiting for me?" he asked of Mr. Dudley.
"No! I am waiting for a client," was the quiet rejoinder. Mr. Bliss started to speak, but a signal from his partner reminded him of his injunction.
"Strange news in the morning paper," remarked the District Attorney, evidently full of his topic. "That man Medjora, the fellow who poisoned his sweetheart you know, was burned to death trying to escape the detectives. Served him right, only it is a great case missed by us lawyers, eh?"
"Why do you say it served him right?" asked Mr. Bliss, quickly. He still hoped that the Doctor would appear, and it occurred to him instantly, that he might learn something from the prosecution, thus taken unawares, supposing the case to be ended.
"Oh, well!" said the old lawyer, careful of speech by habit rather than because he saw any necessity for caution in the present instance; "had the case come to trial, we had abundant evidence upon which to convict, for Medjora certainly murdered the girl."
"Your are mistaken!" said a clear voice behind them, and as the three men turned and faced Dr. Medjora, the clock struck ten. Without waiting for them to recover from their surprise the Doctor continued: "Mr. District Attorney, I am Emanuel Medjora, the man whom you have just accused of a hideous crime; the murder of a young girl, by making use of his knowledge of medicine. To my mind there can scarcely be a murder more fiendish, than where a physician, who has been taught the use of poisons for beneficent purposes, prostitutes his knowledge to compass the death of a human being; especially of one who loved him." He uttered the last words with a touch of pathos which moved his hearers. Quickly recovering he continued: "Therefore, both as a man, and as a physician, I must challenge you to prove your slanderous statement. I have come here to-day, sir, to surrender myself to you as the law's representative, that I may show my willingness to answer in person the charges which have been made against me. Messrs. Dudley & Bliss here, are my counsel."
The District Attorney was very much astonished. Not only was he amazed to see the man alive, when he had been reported dead, but he was entirely unprepared to find this suspected criminal to be a man of cultured refinement, both of speech and of manner. He was thus, for the moment, more leniently inclined than he would have been, were he alone considering the mass of evidence which his office had already collected against the Doctor. Turning to him therefore he said:
"So you are Dr. Medjora! Well, sir, I am delighted to see you. That you have voluntarily surrendered yourself will certainly tell in your favor. You must pardon my hasty remark. But I thought that you were dead, and——"
"And as you could not hurt the dead, you saw no harm in calling an unconvicted man a murderer. I see!" There was a vein of satirical reproach beneath the polished manner of saying these words, which stung the old lawyer, and restored him at once to his wonted craftiness.
"Perhaps you are right, Doctor, and I ought not to have used the words about you, dead or alive. Of course, in this office the prisoner is only the accused. Never more than that, even in our thoughts. That is an imperative injunction which I place upon all of my assistants. You see, gentlemen," he addressed them all collectively, with the purpose of bringing the Doctor to the conclusion that he was not specially thinking of him. Thus he prepared to spring a trap. "You see, the District Attorney is a prosecuting officer, but he should never persecute. It is his duty to represent and guard the liberties of the whole community. He should be as jealous of the rights of the accused, as of the accuser. More so, perhaps, for the prisoner stands to an extent alone, whilst the whole commonwealth is against him. And so, Dr. Medjora, if you are an innocent man, as you seem to be, it would be my most pleasing duty to free you from the stigma cast upon you. And should you come to trial, you must believe that the more forcible my arguments may be against you, the more do I espouse your cause, for the more thorough would be your acquittal if you obtained the verdict." Then having, as he thought, led his man away from his defence, he asked quickly, "But tell me, why have you not surrendered before?"
If he hoped to see the Doctor stammer and splutter, seeking for some plausible explanation, he was doomed to disappointment. Dr. Medjora replied at once, ignoring a signal from Mr. Bliss not to speak.
"Mr. District Attorney, I will reply most candidly. Whilst, as you have just said, it is your duty to guard the interests of the accused as well as of the commonwealth, I regret to be compelled to say that such is not your reputation. People say, and I see now that they must be wrong,"—the Doctor bowed and smiled most politely,—"but they do say that with you it is conviction at any cost. Thus even an innocent man might well hesitate to withstand the attacks of so eminent and skilful a jurist as yourself. Circumstantial evidence, whilst most reliable when thoroughly comprehended, may sometimes entrap the guiltless. So whilst my blood boiled in anger at the disgraceful charges which were made against me, my innate love of liberty, and my caution, bade me think first. Not satisfied with my own counsel, I deemed it wise to consult legal authority, which I did two days ago. Messrs. Dudley & Bliss advised me to surrender, confident that my innocence will be made so apparent that I do not materially jeopardize my life. In compliance with the understanding entered into two days ago, as these gentlemen will testify, I am at your service."
"But why did you not come here two days ago?"
"Because I had some affairs of a private nature to arrange."
"What about the incident of the fire reported in the papers?"
"Why, I see nothing in that but poor reportorial work. I did not choose to be arrested when I had decided voluntarily to surrender, as such a mischance would have injured my case. I therefore escaped during the confusion. That I was unobserved, and was reported to have perished, is not my fault certainly."
"Very well, Doctor. You have not been indicted, and there is no warrant out for your arrest; still, as you have surrendered, are you willing to be taken to prison?"
"That is what I expect. I am entirely ready."
"May I ask," said Mr. Dudley, addressing the District Attorney, "in view of the fact that our client has voluntarily surrendered himself, that his confinement in prison may be as brief as possible? We claim that the Doctor is an innocent man, deprived of his liberty whilst awaiting trial, through the blundering accusations of a stupid physician. We venture to suggest that common justice demands that his trial should be as soon as possible."
"I shall arrange to have the trial at as early a date as is consistent with my duty to the commonwealth!"
"And to the accused?" interjected Dr. Medjora, with a twinkle in his eye.
"And to the accused, of course," said the old lawyer, with a smile, unwilling to be outdone.
And so Dr. Emanuel Medjora was taken to prison to await his trial, and the public was treated to another sensation through the newspapers.
In spite of the promises of the District Attorney, several months passed before the great murder trial was commenced. The public at last were delighted to hear that their love for the harrowing details of a celebrated crime was to be satisfied. A few of the newspapers of the sensational stamp announced that they, and they only, would have the fullest accounts, illustrated with life-like portraiture of the accused, the lawyers, the judge, the jury, and the chief witnesses. This promise was so well fulfilled that on the opening day there appeared several alleged portraits of Dr. Medjora, which resembled him about as little as they did one another.
Several days were consumed before the jury was impanelled, and then at length the prosecution opened its case, which was mainly in charge of Mr. George Munson, a newly appointed Assistant District Attorney, the very man of whom Mr. Dudley had spoken, when his partner had bewailed their unfortunate lot, because they had never been intrusted with a criminal case.
Mr. Munson was a rising man. He had attracted attention, and was receiving a reward of merit by his promotion to the office which he now filled. It was hinted somewhere, that his appointment had been largely dependent upon his conduct of that murder case, during which he had shown a wonderful knowledge of chemistry, for one not actually a chemist. And his having charge of this most important case, in which chemical expert testimony seemed likely to play an important part, substantiated the statement.
He was well versed in law, was keen and quick at cross-examination, and merciless in probing the private lives of witnesses, when such action promised to aid his cause. He was not, however, a very brilliant speaker, but it was expected that the District Attorney would himself sum up. Thus the prosecution seemed to be in able hands. Opposed to them were Messrs. Dudley & Bliss, two young, unknown men, and people wondered why the Doctor, reputed to have wealth, had not engaged more prominent counsel.
Mr. Munson's opening speech was not lengthy. He confined himself to a brief statement of his case, summarizing in the most general fashion what he expected to prove; in brief, that Mabel Sloane had died of morphine poisoning, and not of diphtheria, that the poison had been administered by Dr. Medjora, and that his object had been to rid himself of a woman who stood in his path, an obstacle to the advancement of his ambition. Mr. Munson thus avoided the mistake so often made by lawyers, where, following the temptation to make a speech, they tell so much that they weaken their cause, by affording their opponents time to prepare a more thorough defence.
A few witnesses were called to establish in a general way the death of the girl, her place of residence, and such other facts as are essential in the preparation of a case, in order that no legal technicality may be neglected. But as it is manifest that I cannot, in the scope of this narration, give you a full account of the trial, I shall confine myself to compiling from the records just so much of the evidence as shall seem to me likely to attract your interest, and to be necessary to a full comprehension of the Doctor's position, and relation to this supposed crime.
The first important witness, then, was Dr. Meredith, the physician who had aroused suspicion by reporting to the Board of Health that the girl had, in his opinion, died of opium narcosis. It was apparent, when he took the stand, that he was extremely nervous, and disliked exceedingly the position in which he found himself. Indeed it is a very trying predicament for a physician to be called upon to testify in a court of law, unless he is not only an expert in his profession, but also an expert witness. He finds himself confronted by an array of medical and legal experts, all conspiring to disprove his assertions, and to show how little his knowledge is worth. Generally, he has little to gain, whereas he may lose much in the estimation of his patrons by being made to appear ridiculous on the stand.
After taking the oath, Dr. Meredith sat with his eyes upon the floor until Mr. Munson began to question him. Then he looked straight at the lawyer, as though upon him he relied for protection.
"You attended Miss Mabel Sloane in her last illness, I believe?" beganMr. Munson.
"I did."
"How were you called in to the case?"
"I was called in consultation by Dr. Fisher."
"You were sent for by Dr. Fisher! Then I am to understand that you and he were good friends?"
"The best of friends."
"And are so still?"
"I think so. Yes."
"And Dr. Medjora. Did you know him before your connection with this case?"
"Only slightly."
"Were you present when Miss Sloane died?"
"I was present for half an hour before she died."
"Exactly! And you remained with her until she was actually dead?"
"Yes, sir. I saw her die."
"Of what did she die?"
"I object!" cried Mr. Bliss, springing to his feet and interrupting the prosecution for the first time.
"State your objection," said the Recorder, tersely.
"Your Honor," began Mr. Bliss, "I object to the form of the question. The whole point at issue is contained in it, and I contend that this witness is not qualified to answer. If he were, the trial might end upon his doing so."
"The witness is only expected to testify to the best of his belief," said the Recorder.
"Very true, your Honor. I only wish it to go to the jury in the proper form. If they understand that this witness does not know of what Miss Sloane died, but simply states what he thinks, I shall be perfectly satisfied."
"You may as well modify your question, Mr. Munson," said the Recorder. Thus Mr. Bliss scored a little victory, which at once convinced the older lawyers present that, though young, he would prove to be shrewd to grasp the smallest advantage. His object had evidently been to belittle the value of the answer, before it was made, by thus calling attention so prominently to the fact that Dr. Meredith could not know positively what he was about to charge.
"In your opinion, what caused the death of Miss Sloane?" This was the new question formulated to meet the objection raised.
"She died of morphine poisoning!" replied Dr. Meredith.
"You mean you think she died of morphine poisoning?" interjected Mr.Bliss.
"Kindly wait until you get the witness before you begin your cross-examination!" said Mr. Munson, with a touch of asperity. Mr. Bliss merely smiled and kept silent, satisfied that he had produced his effect upon the jury.
"Will you state why you conclude that Miss Sloane died of morphine poisoning?" continued Mr. Munson.
"I observed all the characteristic symptoms of morphine narcosis prior to her death, and the nature of the death itself was consistent with my theory."
"Please explain what the symptoms of morphine poisoning are?"
"Cold sweat, slow pulse, stertorous breathing, a gradually deepening coma, contracted pupils, which, however, slowly dilate at the approach of death, which is caused by a paralysis of the respiratory centres."
"Did you observe any of these symptoms in Miss Sloane?"
"Yes. Practically all of them."
"And would these same symptoms occur in any other form of death, except from morphine poisoning?"
"They would not. Of course they do not apply to morphine only. They are generally diagnostic of opium poisoning."
"But morphine is a form of opium, is it not?"
"Yes. It is one of the alkaloids."
"Now, Doctor, one more question. You have testified that you attended this girl in her last illness; as a physician you are familiar with death from diphtheria; you have stated what are the symptoms of morphine, or opium poisoning, and that you observed them in this case; further, that an identical set of symptoms would not occur in any other disease known to you; now, from these facts, what would you say caused the death of Miss Mabel Sloane?"
"I should say that she died of a poisonous dose of some form of opium, probably morphine."
"You may take the witness," said Mr. Munson, as he sat down. Mr. Bliss spoke a word to Doctor Medjora, and then holding a few slips of paper, upon which were notes, mainly suggestions which had been written by the prisoner himself, and passed to his counsel unperceived by the majority of those present, he faced the witness, whose eyes at once sought the floor.
"Doctor," began Mr. Bliss, "you have stated that you are only slightly acquainted with Dr. Medjora. Is that true?"
"I said that I was only slightly acquainted with him prior to my being called to attend Miss Sloane. Of course I know him better now."
"But before the time which you specify, you did not know him?"
"Not intimately."
"Oh! Not intimately? Then you did know him? Now is it not a fact that you and Dr. Medjora were enemies?"
"I object!" exclaimed Mr. Munson.
"I wish to show, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, "that this witness has harbored a personal spite against our client, and that because of that, his mind was not in a condition to evolve an unprejudiced opinion about the illness of Miss Sloane."
"I do not think that is at all competent, your Honor," said Mr. Munson. "The witness has testified to facts, and even if there were personal feeling, that would not alter facts."
"No, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, quickly, "facts are immutable. But a prejudiced mind is as an eye that looks through a colored glass. All that is observed is distorted by the mental state."
"The witness may answer," said the Recorder.
At the request of Mr. Bliss the stenographer read the question aloud, and the witness replied.
"Dr. Medjora and myself were not enemies. Certainly not!"
"Had you not had a controversy with him upon a professional point?"
"I had an argument with him, in a debate, just as occurs in all debates."
"Precisely! But was not this argument, as you term it, a discussion which followed a paper which you had read, and in that argument did not Dr. Medjora prove that the whole treatment outlined by you was erroneous, unscientific, and unsound?"
"He did not prove it; he claimed something of the kind!"
"You say he did not prove it. As a result of his argument, was not your paper refused publication by a leading medical journal?"
"I did not offer it for publication."
"I think this is all incompetent, your Honor," said Mr. Munson.
"You may go on," said the Recorder, nodding to Mr. Bliss.
"Is it not customary for papers read before your societies to become the property of the society, and are they not sent by the society to the journal in question?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Was not your paper sent to the journal as usual, and was it not rejected by the journal?"
"I do not know that it was."
"Well, has your paper been published anywhere?"
"No."
"You said that you were present when Miss Sloane died. Now how did that happen. Were you sent for?"
"No. I had seen the patient with Dr. Fisher during the day, and she seemed to be improving, so much so that Dr. Fisher decided that we need not see her until the next morning. Later I thought this a little unsafe, and so I called during the evening."
"Oh! Dr. Fisher thought she was well enough, but you did not. Was that why you called at night?"
The witness bit his lip with anger at having made this slip.
"I live near, and I thought it would do no harm to call."
"Now when you called, you have stated that you were with her for half an hour before she died. Did she die a half hour after you entered her room?"
"In about half an hour."
"How soon after you saw her, did you suspect that she had been poisoned?"
"Immediately."
"Oh! Immediately! Then of course you made some effort to save her life, did you not? You used some antidotes?"
"It was difficult. At first of course there was merely a suspicion in my mind. I tried to have her drink some strong coffee, but deglutition was almost impossible. This is another evidence of the poison."
"Now, Doctor, be careful. You say that impaired deglutition was due to poisoning. But do you not know that deglutition is most difficult in cases of diphtheria?"
"The patient swallowed very well in the afternoon."
"But if she had grown worse, if the false membrane had increased, would she not have had greater difficulty in swallowing?"
"Yes, but——"
"Never mind the buts. Now, then, when you found that she was too ill to swallow, what else did you do?"
"I injected atropine, and sent for Dr. Fisher."
"Oh! Then you did send for Dr. Fisher?"
"Yes."
"Did he arrive before she died?"
"Yes. About five minutes."
"Did you suggest to him that the patient was dying of poison?"
"I did, but he would not agree with me. Therefore I could not do anything more, as he was the physician in charge."
"Is Dr. Fisher a skilful man?"
"Yes."
"As skilful as you are yourself?"
This was a hard question, but with Dr. Fisher present, only one answer was possible.
"Certainly, but we are all liable to make a mistake."
This was a bad effort to help his cause, for Mr. Bliss quickly interposed.
"Even you are liable to make a mistake, eh?"
"Of course, but in this instance I saw more of the case than Dr.Fisher did."
"Still, Dr. Fisher was present for several minutes before this girl died, and though you suggested that she had been poisoned, and proposed taking some action to save her from the poison, he disagreed with you so entirely that he made no such effort. Is that right?"
"Well, there was very little that he could have done anyway. It was too late. The drug had gone too far for the stomach-pump to be efficacious; the atropine had had no beneficial result, we had no means of applying a magnetic battery, and no time to get one. Artificial respiration was what I proposed, whilst waiting for a battery, but Dr. Fisher thought it a useless experiment, in presence of the diphtheria. He offered to perform tracheotomy, but as I considered that the respiratory centres had been paralyzed by morphine, I could see no advantage in that."
"So whilst you two doctors argued, the patient died?"
"It was too late for us to save her life. The coma was too deep. It was a hopeless case."
"Now, then, Doctor, let us come to those symptoms. You enumerated a list, and claimed that you observed them all. The first is cold sweat. Did you notice that specially?"
"The cold sweat was present, but not very marked. It would be less so with morphine than with other forms of opium."
"Oh! So there was not much sweat after all? Now was there more than would be expected on a warm night such as that was?"
"I think so. It is only valuable as a diagnostic sign in conjunction with the other symptoms."
"Next we have slow pulse. This was a half hour before death. Does not the pulse become slow in many cases just before death?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Not much sweat, and slow pulse does not amount to anything. What next? Oh! 'stertorous breathing.' That is not uncommon in diphtheria, is it, Doctor?"
"No."
"Just so. Now then, 'gradually deepening coma.' That is to say, a slow sinking into unconsciousness. Or I might say, dying slowly. Is a slow death of this kind only possible where opium poisoning has occurred?"
"No."
"Lastly we have the contracted pupils. That is your best diagnostic symptom, is it not, Doctor?"
"Yes. It is a plain indication of opium."
"Now then, Doctor, admitting that the contracted pupils are a sign of morphine, how did you determine, in that darkened room, that there was a contraction of the pupils?"
"I passed a candle before her eyes, and they gave no response, whilst the pupils were contracted minutely."
"How small?"
"As small as a pin's point."
"Now then, Doctor, you answered a lengthy question for Mr. Munson and you told us that these symptoms, that is, all of them occurring together, would not be found in any other condition than that which in your opinion would be the result of opium poisoning. Please listen to this question and give me an answer. Suppose that a patient were suffering with diphtheria, and were about to die of that disease, and that some time before she died morphine were administered in a moderate, medicinal dose, would it not be possible to have the contracted pupils such as you have described as a result of the morphine, whilst death were really caused by diphtheria?"
"I object!" cried Mr. Munson, quick to see the ingenuity of this question, which if answered affirmatively by the witness would leave the inference that Miss Sloane might have taken a non-poisonous dose of morphine and still have died of diphtheria.
"The question seems to me to be a proper one," said the Recorder.
"Your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "this witness is here to testify to facts. He is not here as an expert. That is a hypothetical question and does not relate to the facts in this case."
"It is no more a hypothetical question than one which the prosecution asked, your Honor. He asked if the described symptoms could occur in any other disease. The witness was allowed to answer that."
"Yes," said the Recorder, "but you made no objection. Had you done so, and claimed that this witness could not give expert testimony, I would perhaps have sustained you. I think you may leave your question until the experts are called, Mr. Bliss."
"Oh! Very well, your Honor. I should prefer to have an expert opinion upon it. If this witness is not an expert, of course his opinion would be of no value to us."
This was a rather neat manoeuvre, tending to further discredit the witness, without placing himself in opposition to the Judge, an important point always. Mr. Bliss then yielded the witness, and the Assistant District Attorney asked a few more questions in re-examination, but they were mainly intended to re-affirm the previous testimony, and so obtain a last impression upon the minds of the jury. Nothing was brought out which would add to what has already been narrated. Court then adjourned for the day.
On the following day the newspaper accounts of the trial, and especially of the sharp cross-examination of Dr. Meredith, attracted a tremendous crowd, which assailed the doors of the court-room long before the hour for opening. Every conceivable excuse to gain admission was offered. Men claimed to be personal friends of the prisoner, and women brought him flowers. Some essayed force, others resorted to entreaty, whilst not a few relied upon strategy, appearing with law books under their arms, and following in the wake of counsel. Thus when the Recorder finally entered, and proceedings were begun, every available seat, and all standing room was fully occupied by the throng, which, without any real personal interest in the case, yet was attracted through that curious love of the sensational, and of the criminal, which actuates the majority of mankind to-day.
The first witness was called promptly. This was Dr. McDougal, the Coroner's physician, to whom had been intrusted the autopsy. He gave a full account of the operations performed by himself and his assistants upon the body of the deceased. He described in detail each step of his work, and exhibited a thoroughness and caution which more than anything demonstrated that he was the expert pathologist which the prosecution claimed him to be. Indeed, it would be well in great trials, if those having charge of autopsies would emulate the example of Dr. McDougal. He explained how, before opening the body, it had been thoroughly washed in sterilized water, and placed upon a marble slab, which had been scrubbed clean and then bathed in a germicidal solution. Next new glass cans, absolutely clean, had been at hand, in which the various organs were placed as they were removed from the body, after which they were hermetically sealed, and stamped with the date, so that when passed into the hands of the analytical chemist, that gentleman might feel assured that he received the identical parts, and that nothing of an extraneous nature, poisonous or otherwise, had been mixed with them. It was evident that this careful man made a deep impression upon the jury, and that his statements would have weight with them, not alone as to his own evidence, but by strengthening the chemical report, since he had made it apparently assured that if poison had been found, it had not reached the body after death. Finally, Mr. Munson brought his witness to the point of special interest.
"From what you observed, Doctor," said he, "are you prepared to assign a cause of death?"
"I should conclude that she died of coma!" was the reply.
"Can you state whether this coma had been produced by a poisonous dose of morphine?"
"I should say that it was very probable that opium in some form had been exhibited, in a poisonous dose."
"State specifically why you have adopted that opinion!"
"I found the brain wet, the convolutions flattened; the lungs, heart, liver, and spleen, distended and engorged with dark fluid blood. The vessels of the cerebro-spinal axis were also engorged with black blood, and the capillaries of the brain, upon incision, vented the same fluid."
"And these signs are indicative of opium poisoning?"
"They are the only evidences of opium poisoning that can be discovered by an autopsy. Of course a chemical analysis, if it should show the presence of the drug, would go very far to corroborate this presumption."
"Then if the chemical analysis shows the actual presence of opium, would you say that this patient died of opium poisoning?"
"I would!"
"Doctor, it has been suggested that she died of diphtheria. What is your opinion of that?"
"I found evidences in the throat and adjacent parts, that the woman had had diphtheria, but, from the total absence of false membrane, I should say that she was well on the way to a recovery from that disease, at the time of her death."
"Then from these facts do you think that she died of opium poisoning?"
"I think it most probable, judging by what I found after death."
"It has been testified by the physician in charge of the case, that the symptoms of morphine poisoning were sufficiently marked for him to deem antidotes necessary prior to death. Would not that corroborate your own conclusions?"
"If correct, it would substantiate my opinion."
Considering the very positive and damaging nature of this evidence, it was thought that the cross-examination would be very exhaustive. To the surprise of all, Mr. Bliss asked only a few questions.
"Dr. McDougal," said he, "did you examine the kidneys?"
"I did."
"In what condition did you find them to be?"
"They were much shrunken, and smooth. Non-elastic."
"Is that a normal condition?"
"No, sir. It is a morbid condition."
"Morbid? That is diseased. Then this woman had some kidney disease? DoI so understand you?"
"Unquestionably!"
"Can you state what disease existed?"
"I should say Bright's disease."
"Might she not have died of this?"
"No. There was evidence of the existence of Bright's disease, but not sufficient to adjudge it a cause of death."
"But you are certain that she had Bright's disease?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is all."
Professor Orton then took the stand for the prosecution. Under the questioning of Mr. Munson, he described himself to be an expert analytical chemist and toxicologist. He said that he was a lecturing professor connected with the University Medical College, and clinical chemist for two other schools, besides being president of several societies, and member or honorary member in a dozen others. Then, proceeding to a description of his work on this particular case, he explained in almost tedious detail his methods of searching for morphine in the organs taken from the body of the deceased. Some of these tests he repeated in the presence of the court, showing how, by the reaction of his testing agents upon the matter under examination, the presence or absence of morphine could be detected. Having thus paved the way towards the special evidence which he was expected to give, his examination was continued as follows:
"Now then, Professor," said Mr. Munson, "you have proven to us very clearly that you can detect the presence of morphine in the tissues. Please state whether you examined the organs of the deceased, and with what result?"
"I made a most thorough examination and I found morphine present, especially in the stomach and in the intestines."
"Did you find it in poisonous quantities?"
"The actual quantity which I found, would not have been a lethal dose, but such a dose must have been administered for me to have found as much as I did find."
"Well, from what you did find, can you state what quantity must have been administered?"
"I cannot state positively, but I should guess——"
"No! No! I object!" cried Mr. Bliss, jumping up. "You are here to give expert testimony. We do not want any guess-work!"
"Professor," said the Recorder, "can you not state what was the minimum quantity which must have been administered, judged by what you found?"
"It is difficult, your Honor. The drug acts variably upon different individuals. Then again, much would depend upon the length of time which elapsed between the administration, and the death of the individual."
"Then in this case your opinion would be a mere speculation and not competent," said the Recorder, and Mr. Bliss seated himself, satisfied that he had scored another point. But he was soon on his feet again, for Mr. Munson would not yield so easily.
"Professor," said he, "you said in reply to his Honor, that you could not answer without knowing how long before death the drug had been administered. Now with that knowledge would you be able to give us a definite answer?"
"A definite answer? Yes! But not an exact one. The drug is absorbed more rapidly in some, than in others, so that one person might take two or three times as much as another, and I would find the same residuum. But I could tell you what was the minimum dose that must have been administered."
"Well, then, supposing that the drug had been administered about three hours before death, how large must the dose have been, or what was the minimum quantity that could have been given, judging by what you found?"
"I must object to that, your Honor!" said Mr. Bliss.
"Your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "this is a hypothetical question, and perfectly competent."
"It is a hypothetical question, your Honor," replied Mr. Bliss, "but it contains a hypothesis which is not based upon the evidence in this case. There has been absolutely no testimony to show that morphine was administered to this woman about three hours before death."
"We have a witness who will testify to that later," replied Mr. Munson, and this announcement created no little sensation, for here was promised some direct evidence.
"Upon the understanding," said the Recorder, "that you will produce a witness who will testify that morphine was administered three hours before death, I will admit your question."
"We take an exception!" said Mr. Bliss, and sat down.
"Now please answer the question," said Mr. Munson, addressing the witness.
"Under the hypothesis presented I should say that the minimum dose must have been three grains."
"That is to say, she must have had three grains, or more?"
"Yes, sir; three grains or more."
"What is a medicinal dose?"
"From a thirty-second of a grain to half a grain, though the latter would be unusual."
"Unusually large you mean?"
"Yes. It would be rarely given."
"Then would you say that three grains would be a lethal dose?"
"It would most probably prove fatal. One sixth of a grain has been known to produce death."
"One sixth of a grain has proven fatal, and, from what you found, you conclude that three grains had been given to this woman?"
"Yes, provided your hypothesis as to the time of administration is correct."
"Oh, we will prove the hypothesis."
"Then I should say that three grains had been administered."
"Three grains or more?"
"Yes, three grains or more."
"You may take the witness," said the Assistant District Attorney, andMr. Bliss at once began his cross-examination.
"Professor, as an expert toxicologist now, leaving analytical chemistry for awhile, you are familiar with the action of drugs in the human body during life, are you not?"
"Of poisonous drugs. Yes, sir."
"Of poisonous drugs of course. Of opium and its alkaloids especially, is what I mean?"
"Yes, sir. I have studied them minutely."
"Now then in regard to morphine. You said to his Honor, awhile ago, that this drug acts variably upon different individuals. Is it not true that it also acts differently upon the same individual at various times?"
"Yes, sir, that is true."
"And is its action affected by disease?"
"It might be!"
"Supposing that the drug were administered continuously, might it not occur, that instead of being absorbed, the morphine would be retained, stored up as it were, so that the quantity would accumulate?"
"Yes, the records contain reports of such cases."
"Well, now, suppose that a patient had some kidney trouble, such asBright's disease, would not morphine be retained in this way?"
"I have never seen such a case."
"Never seen it! But you have read, or heard of such cases?"
"Yes, sir. That is the claim made by some authorities."
"By good authorities?"
"Yes. Good authorities."
"And these good authorities claim that morphine, administered to one who has Bright's disease, might accumulate until a poisonous dose were present?"
"Yes, sir!"
Thus was made plain the object of the line of cross-examination that had been followed with Dr. McDougal. It became evident that the defence meant to claim that if Mabel Sloane died from morphine it was because it had been stored up in her system, in consequence of the diseased kidneys. Satisfied with this admission from the prosecution's expert, Mr. Bliss yielded the witness, and he was re-examined by Mr. Munson.