"Have not found what I wanted, but am getting warm. If any news,address me at Des Moines, Iowa, General Delivery. H."
It was nearly the end of April when I saw Lida again. I had seen by the newspapers that she and her mother were coming home. I wondered if she had heard from Mr. Howell, for I had not, and I wondered, too, if she would send for me again.
But she came herself, on foot, late one afternoon, and the school-teacher being out, I took her into the parlor bedroom. She looked thinner than before, and rather white. My heart ached for her.
"I have been away," she explained. "I thought you might wonder why you did not hear from me. But, you see, my mother—" she stopped and flushed. "I would have written you from Bermuda, but—my mother watched my correspondence, so I could not."
No. I knew she could not. Alma had once found a letter of mine to Mr. Pitman. Very little escaped Alma.
"I wondered if you have heard anything?" she asked.
"I have heard nothing. Mr. Howell was here once, just after I saw you. I do not believe he is in the city.
"Perhaps not, although—Mrs. Pitman, I believe he is in the city, hiding!"
"Hiding! Why?"
"I don't know. But last night I thought I saw him below my window. I opened the window, so if it were he, he could make some sign. But he moved on without a word. Later, whoever it was came back. I put out my light and watched. Some one stood there, in the shadow, until after two this morning. Part of the time he was looking up."
"Don't you think, had it been he, he would have spoken when he saw you?"
She shook her head. "He is in trouble," she said. "He has not heard from me, and he—thinks I don't care any more. Just look at me, Mrs. Pitman! Do I look as if I don't care?"
She looked half killed, poor lamb.
"He may be out of town, searching for a better position," I tried to comfort her. "He wants to have something to offer more than himself."
"I only want him," she said, looking at me frankly. "I don't know why I tell you all this, but you are so kind, and Imusttalk to some one."
She sat there, in the cozy corner the school-teacher had made with a portière and some cushions, and I saw she was about ready to break down and cry. I went over to her and took her hand, for she was my own niece, although she didn't suspect it, and I had never had a child of my own.
But after all, I could not help her much. I could only assure her that he would come back and explain everything, and that he was all right, and that the last time I had seen him he had spoken of her, and had said she was "the best ever." My heart fairly yearned over the girl, and I think she felt it. For she kissed me, shyly, when she was leaving.
With the newspaper files before me, it is not hard to give the details of that sensational trial. It commenced on Monday, the seventh of May, but it was late Wednesday when the jury was finally selected. I was at the court-house early on Thursday, and so was Mr. Reynolds.
The district attorney made a short speech. "We propose, gentlemen, to prove that the prisoner, Philip Ladley, murdered his wife," he said in part. "We will show first that a crime was committed; then we will show a motive for this crime, and, finally, we expect to show that the body washed ashore at Sewickley is the body of the murdered woman, and thus establish beyond doubt the prisoner's guilt."
Mr. Ladley listened with attention. He wore the brown suit, and looked well and cheerful. He was much more like a spectator than a prisoner, and he was not so nervous as I was.
Of that first day I do not recall much. I was called early in the day. The district attorney questioned me.
"Your name?"
"Elizabeth Marie Pitman."
"Your occupation?"
"I keep a boarding-house at 42 Union Street."
"You know the prisoner?"
"Yes. He was a boarder in my house."
"For how long?"
"From December first. He and his wife came at that time."
"Was his wife the actress, Jennie Brice?"
"Yes, sir."
"Were they living together at your house the night of March fourth?"
"Yes, sir."
"In what part of the house?"
"They rented the double parlors down-stairs, but on account of the flood I moved them up-stairs to the second floor front."
"That was on Sunday? You moved them on Sunday?"
"Yes, sir."
"At what time did you retire that night?"
"Not at all. The water was very high. I lay down, dressed, at one o'clock, and dropped into a doze."
"How long did you sleep?"
"An hour or so. Mr. Reynolds, a boarder, roused me to say he had heard some one rowing a boat in the lower hall."
"Do you keep a boat around during flood times?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you do when Mr. Reynolds roused you?"
"I went to the top of the stairs. My boat was gone."
"Was the boat secured?"
"Yes, sir. Anyhow, there was no current in the hall."
"What did you do then?"
"I waited a time and went back to my room."
"What examination of the house did you make—if any?"
"Mr. Reynolds looked around."
"What did he find?"
"He found Peter, the Ladleys' dog, shut in a room on the third floor."
"Was there anything unusual about that?"
"I had never known it to happen before."
"State what happened later."
"I did not go to sleep again. At a quarter after four, I heard the boat come back. I took a candle and went to the stairs. It was Mr. Ladley. He said he had been out getting medicine for his wife."
"Did you see him tie up the boat?"
"Yes."
"Did you observe any stains on the rope?"
"I did not notice any."
"What was the prisoner's manner at that time?"
"I thought he was surly."
"Now, Mrs. Pitman, tell us about the following morning."
"I saw Mr. Ladley at a quarter before seven. He said to bring breakfast for one. His wife had gone away. I asked if she was not ill, and he said no; that she had gone away early; that he had rowed her to Federal Street, and that she would be back Saturday. It was shortly after that that the dog Peter brought in one of Mrs. Ladley's slippers, water-soaked."
"You recognized the slipper?"
"Positively. I had seen it often."
"What did you do with it?"
"I took it to Mr. Ladley."
"What did he say?"
"He said at first that it was not hers. Then he said if it was, she would never wear it again—and then added—because it was ruined."
"Did he offer any statement as to where his wife was?"
"No, sir. Not at that time. Before, he had said she had gone away for a few days."
"Tell the jury about the broken knife."
"The dog found it floating in the parlor, with the blade broken."
"You had not left it down-stairs?"
"No, sir. I had used it up-stairs, the night before, and left it on a mantel of the room I was using as a temporary kitchen."
"Was the door of this room locked?"
"No. It was standing open."
"Were you not asleep in this room?"
"Yes."
"You heard no one come in?"
"No one—until Mr. Reynolds roused me."
"Where did you find the blade?"
"Behind the bed in Mr. Ladley's room."
"What else did you find in the room?"
"A blood-stained towel behind the wash-stand. Also, my onyx clock was missing."
"Where was the clock when the Ladleys were moved up into this room?"
"On the mantel. I wound it just before they came up-stairs."
"When you saw Mrs. Ladley on Sunday, did she say she was going away?"
"No, sir."
"Did you see any preparation for a journey?"
"The black and white dress was laid out on the bed, and a small bag. She said she was taking the dress to the theater to lend to Miss Hope."
"Is that all she said?"
"No. She said she'd been wishing her husband would drown; that he was a fiend."
I could see that my testimony had made an impression.
The slipper, the rope, the towel, and the knife and blade were produced in court, and I identified them all. They made a noticeable impression on the jury. Then Mr. Llewellyn, the lawyer for the defense, cross-examined me.
"Is it not true, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "that many articles, particularly shoes and slippers, are found floating around during a flood?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Now, you say the dog found this slipper floating in the hall and brought it to you. Are you sure this slipper belonged to Jennie Brice?"
"She wore it. I presume it belonged to her."
"Ahem. Now, Mrs. Pitman, after the Ladleys had been moved to the upper floor, did you search their bedroom and the connecting room down-stairs?"
"No, sir."
"Ah. Then, how do you know that this slipper was not left on the floor or in a closet?"
"It is possible, but not likely. Anyhow, it was not the slipper alone. It was the other thingsandthe slipper. It was—"
"Exactly. Now, Mrs. Pitman, this knife. Can you identify it positively?"
"I can."
"But isn't it true that this is a very common sort of knife? One that nearly every housewife has in her possession?"
"Yes, sir. But that knife handle has three notches in it. I put the notches there myself."
"Before this presumed crime?"
"Yes, sir."
"For what purpose?"
"My neighbors were constantly borrowing things. It was a means of identification."
"Then this knife is yours?"
"Yes."
"Tell again where you left it the night before it was found floating down-stairs."
"On a shelf over the stove."
"Could the dog have reached it there?"
"Not without standing on a hot stove."
"Is it not possible that Mr. Ladley, unable to untie the boat, borrowed your knife to cut the boat's painter?"
"No painter was cut that I heard about The paper-hanger—"
"No, no. The boat's painter—the rope."
"Oh! Well, he might have. He never said."
"Now then, this towel, Mrs. Pitman. Did not the prisoner, on the following day, tell you that he had cut his wrist in freeing the boat, and ask you for some court-plaster?"
"He did not," I said firmly.
"You have not seen a scar on his wrist?"
"No." I glanced at Mr. Ladley: he was smiling, as if amused. It made me angry. "And what's more," I flashed, "if he has a cut on his wrist, he put it there himself, to account for the towel."
I was sorry the next moment that I had said it, but it was too late. The counsel for the defense moved to exclude the answer and I received a caution that I deserved. Then:
"You saw Mr. Ladley when he brought your boat back?"
"Yes."
"What time was that?"
"A quarter after four Monday morning."
"Did he come in quietly, like a man trying to avoid attention?"
"Not particularly. It would have been of no use. The dog was barking."
"What did he say?"
"That he had been out for medicine. That his wife was sick."
"Do you know a pharmacist named Alexander—Jonathan Alexander?"
"There is such a one, but I don't know him."
I was excused, and Mr. Reynolds was called. He had heard no quarreling that Sunday night; had even heard Mrs. Ladley laughing. This was about nine o'clock. Yes, they had fought in the afternoon. He had not overheard any words, but their voices were quarrelsome, and once he heard a chair or some article of furniture overthrown. Was awakened about two by footsteps on the stairs, followed by the sound of oars in the lower hall. He told his story plainly and simply. Under cross-examination admitted that he was fond of detective stories and had tried to write one himself; that he had said at the store that he would like to see that "conceited ass" swing, referring to the prisoner; that he had sent flowers to Jennie Brice at the theater, and had made a few advances to her, without success.
My head was going round. I don't know yet how the police learned it all, but by the time poor Mr. Reynolds left the stand, half the people there believed that he had been in love with Jennie Brice, that she had spurned his advances, and that there was more to the story than any of them had suspected.
Miss Hope's story held without any alteration under the cross-examination. She was perfectly at ease, looked handsome and well dressed, and could not be shaken. She told how Jennie Brice had been in fear of her life, and had asked her, only the week before she disappeared, to allow her to go home with her—Miss Hope. She told of the attack of hysteria in her dressing-room, and that the missing woman had said that her husband would kill her some day. There was much wrangling over her testimony, and I believe at least a part of it was not allowed to go to the jury. But I am not a lawyer, and I repeat what I recall.
"Did she say that he had attacked her?"
"Yes, more than once. She was a large woman, fairly muscular, and had always held her own."
"Did she say that these attacks came when he had been drinking?"
"I believe he was worse then."
"Did she give any reason for her husband's attitude to her?"
"She said he wanted to marry another woman."
There was a small sensation at this. If proved, it established a motive.
"Did she know who the other woman was?"
"I believe not. She was away most of the day, and he put in his time as he liked."
"Did Miss Brice ever mention the nature of the threats he made against her?"
"No, I think not."
"Have you examined the body washed ashore at Sewickley?"
"Yes—" in a low voice.
"Is it the body of Jennie Brice?"
"I can not say."
"Does the remaining hand look like the hand of Jennie Brice?"
"Very much. The nails are filed to points, as she wore hers."
"Did you ever know of Jennie Brice having a scar on her breast?"
"No, but that would be easily concealed."
"Just what do you mean?"
"Many actresses conceal defects. She could have worn flesh-colored plaster and covered it with powder. Also, such a scar would not necessarily be seen."
"Explain that."
"Most of Jennie Brice's décolleté gowns were cut to a point. This would conceal such a scar."
Miss Hope was excused, and Jennie Brice's sister from Olean was called. She was a smaller woman than Jennie Brice had been, very lady-like in her manner. She said she was married and living in Olean; she had not seen her sister for several years, but had heard from her often. The witness had discouraged the marriage to the prisoner.
"Why?"
"She had had bad luck before."
"She had been married before?"
"Yes, to a man named John Bellows. They were in vaudeville together, on the Keith Circuit. They were known as The Pair of Bellows."
I sat up at this for John Bellows had boarded at my house.
"Mr. Bellows is dead?"
"I think not. She divorced him."
"Did you know of any scar on your sister's body?"
"I never heard of one."
"Have you seen the body found at Sewickley?"
"Yes"—faintly.
"Can you identify it?"
"No, sir."
A flurry was caused during the afternoon by Timothy Senft. He testified to what I already knew—that between three and four on Monday morning, during the height of the flood, he had seen from his shanty-boat a small skiff caught in the current near the Ninth Street bridge. He had shouted encouragingly to the man in the boat, running out a way on the ice to make him hear. He had told him to row with the current, and to try to steer in toward shore. He had followed close to the river bank in his own boat. Below Sixth Street the other boat was within rope-throwing distance. He had pulled it in, and had towed it well back out of the current. The man in the boat was the prisoner. Asked if the prisoner gave any explanation—yes, he said he couldn't sleep, and had thought to tire himself rowing. Had been caught in the current before he knew it. Saw nothing suspicious in or about the boat. As they passed the police patrol boat, prisoner had called to ask if there was much distress, and expressed regret when told there was.
Tim was excused. He had made a profound impression. I would not have given a dollar for Mr. Ladley's chance with the jury, at that time.
The prosecution produced many witnesses during the next two days: Shanty-boat Tim's story withstood the most vigorous cross-examination. After him, Mr. Bronson from the theater corroborated Miss Hope's story of Jennie Brice's attack of hysteria in the dressing-room, and told of taking her home that night.
He was a poor witness, nervous and halting. He weighed each word before he said it, and he made a general unfavorable impression. I thought he was holding something back. In view of what Mr. Pitman would have called the denouement, his attitude is easily explained. But I was puzzled then.
So far, the prosecution had touched but lightly on the possible motive for a crime—the woman. But on the third day, to my surprise, a Mrs. Agnes Murray was called. It was the Mrs. Murray I had seen at the morgue.
I have lost the clipping of that day's trial, but I remember her testimony perfectly.
She was a widow, living above a small millinery shop on Federal Street, Allegheny. She had one daughter, Alice, who did stenography and typing as a means of livelihood. She had no office, and worked at home. Many of the small stores in the neighborhood employed her to send out their bills. There was a card at the street entrance beside the shop, and now and then strangers brought her work.
Early in December the prisoner had brought her the manuscript of a play to type, and from that time on he came frequently, sometimes every day, bringing a few sheets of manuscript at a time. Sometimes he came without any manuscript, and would sit and talk while he smoked a cigarette. They had thought him unmarried.
On Wednesday, February twenty-eighth, Alice Murray had disappeared. She had taken some of her clothing—not all, and had left a note. The witness read the note aloud in a trembling voice:
"DEAR MOTHER: When you get this I shall be married to Mr. Ladley.Don't worry. Will write again from N.Y. Lovingly,"ALICE."
From that time until a week before, she had not heard from her daughter. Then she had a card, mailed from Madison Square Station, New York City. The card merely said:
"Am well and working. ALICE."
The defense was visibly shaken. They had not expected this, and I thought even Mr. Ladley, whose calm had continued unbroken, paled.
So far, all had gone well for the prosecution. They had proved a crime, as nearly as circumstantial evidence could prove a crime, and they had established a motive. But in the identification of the body, so far they had failed. The prosecution "rested," as they say, although they didn't rest much, on the afternoon of the third day.
The defense called, first of all, Eliza Shaeffer. She told of a woman answering the general description of Jennie Brice having spent two days at the Shaeffer farm at Horner. Being shown photographs of Jennie Brice, she said she thought it was the same woman, but was not certain. She told further of the woman leaving unexpectedly on Wednesday of that week from Thornville. On cross-examination, being shown the small photograph which Mr. Graves had shown me, she identified the woman in the group as being the woman in question. As the face was in shadow, knew it more by the dress and hat: she described the black and white dress and the hat with red trimming.
The defense then called me. I had to admit that the dress and hat as described were almost certainly the ones I had seen on the bed in Jennie Brice's room the day before she disappeared. I could not say definitely whether the woman in the photograph was Jennie Brice or not; under a magnifying-glass thought it might be.
Defense called Jonathan Alexander, a druggist who testified that on the night in question he had been roused at half past three by the prisoner, who had said his wife was ill, and had purchased a bottle of a proprietary remedy from him. His identification was absolute.
The defense called Jennie Brice's sister, and endeavored to prove that Jennie Brice had had no such scar. It was shown that she was on intimate terms with her family and would hardly have concealed an operation of any gravity from them.
The defense scored that day. They had shown that the prisoner had told the truth when he said he had gone to a pharmacy for medicine that night for his wife; and they had shown that a woman, answering the description of Jennie Brice, spent two days in a town called Horner, and had gone from there on Wednesday after the crime. And they had shown that this woman was attired as Jennie Brice had been.
That was the way things stood on the afternoon of the fourth day, when court adjourned.
Mr. Reynolds was at home when I got there. He had been very much subdued since the developments of that first day of the trial, sat mostly in his own room, and had twice brought me a bunch of jonquils as a peace-offering. He had the kettle boiling when I got home.
"You have had a number of visitors," he said. "Our young friend Howell has been here, and Mr. Holcombe has arrived and has a man in his room."
Mr. Holcombe came down a moment after, with his face beaming.
"I think we've got him, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "The jury won't even go out of the box."
But further than that he would not explain. He said he had a witness locked in his room, and he'd be glad of supper for him, as they'd both come a long ways. And he went out and bought some oysters and a bottle or two of beer. But as far as I know, he kept him locked up all that night in the second-story front room. I don't think the man knew he was a prisoner. I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting by the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial—an elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking.
Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled in a blanket—not that I think his witness even thought of escaping, but the little man was taking no chances.
At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell. I admitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room. I had not seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me. He was dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and he looked as if he had not slept for days.
Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined.
"You haven't been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?" I asked.
"Oh, no, I'm well enough, I've been traveling about. Those infernal sleeping-cars—"
His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother's picture, with the jonquils beneath.
"That's curious!" he said, going closer. "It—it looks almost like Lida Harvey."
"My mother," I said simply.
"Have you seen her lately?"
"My mother?" I asked, startled.
"No, Lida."
"I saw her a few days ago."
"Here?"
"Yes. She came here, Mr. Howell, two weeks ago. She looks badly—as if she is worrying."
"Not—about me?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, about you. What possessed you to go away as you did? When my—bro—when her uncle accused you of something, you ran away, instead of facing things like a man."
"I was trying to find the one person who could clear me, Mrs. Pitman." He sat back, with his eyes closed; he looked ill enough to be in bed.
"And you succeeded?"
"No."
I thought perhaps he had not been eating and I offered him food, as I had once before. But he refused it, with the ghost of his boyish smile.
"I'm hungry, but it's not food I want. I want to seeher," he said.
I sat down across from him and tried to mend a table-cloth, but I could not sew. I kept seeing those two young things, each sick for a sight of the other, and, from wishing they could have a minute together, I got to planning it for them.
"Perhaps," I said finally, "if you want it very much—"
"Very much!"
"And if you will sit quiet, and stop tapping your fingers together until you drive me crazy, I might contrive it for you. For five minutes," I said. "Not a second longer."
He came right over and put his arms around me.
"Who are you, anyhow?" he said. "You who turn to the world the frozen mask of a Union Street boarding-house landlady, who are a gentlewoman by every instinct and training, and a girl at heart? Who are you?"
"I'll tell you what I am," I said. "I'm a romantic old fool, and you'd better let me do this quickly, before I change my mind."
He freed me at that, but he followed to the telephone, and stood by while I got Lida. He was in a perfect frenzy of anxiety, turning red and white by turns, and in the middle of the conversation taking the receiver bodily from me and holding it to his own ear.
She said she thought she could get away; she spoke guardedly, as if Alma were near, but I gathered that she would come as soon as she could, and, from the way her voice broke, I knew she was as excited as the boy beside me.
She came, heavily coated and veiled, at a quarter after ten that night, and I took her back to the dining-room, where he was waiting. He did not make a move toward her, but stood there with his very lips white, looking at her. And, at first, she did not make a move either, but stood and gazed at him, thin and white, a wreck of himself. Then:
"Ell!" she cried, and ran around the table to him, as he held out his arms.
The school-teacher was out. I went into the parlor bedroom and sat in the cozy corner in the dark. I had done a wrong thing, and I was glad of it. And sitting there in the darkness, I went over my own life again. After all, it had been my own life; I had lived it; no one else had shaped it for me. And if it was cheerless and colorless now, it had had its big moments. Life is measured by big moments.
If I let the two children in the dining-room have fifteen big moments, instead of five, who can blame me?
The next day was the sensational one of the trial. We went through every phase of conviction: Jennie Brice was living. Jennie Brice was dead. The body found at Sewickley could not be Jennie Brice's. The body found at SewickleywasJennie Brice's. And so it went on.
The defense did an unexpected thing in putting Mr. Ladley on the stand. That day, for the first time, he showed the wear and tear of the ordeal. He had no flower in his button-hole, and the rims of his eyes were red. But he was quite cool. His stage training had taught him not only to endure the eyes of the crowd, but to find in its gaze a sort of stimulant. He made a good witness, I must admit.
He replied to the usual questions easily. After five minutes or so Mr. Llewellyn got down to work.
"Mr. Ladley, you have said that your wife was ill the night of March fourth?"
"Yes."
"What was the nature of her illness?"
"She had a functional heart trouble, not serious."
"Will you tell us fully the events of that night?"
"I had been asleep when my wife wakened me. She asked for a medicine she used in these attacks. I got up and found the bottle, but it was empty. As she was nervous and frightened, I agreed to try to get some at a drug store. I went down-stairs, took Mrs. Pitman's boat, and went to several stores before I could awaken a pharmacist."
"You cut the boat loose?"
"Yes. It was tied in a woman's knot, or series of knots. I could not untie it, and I was in a hurry."
"How did you cut it?"
"With my pocket-knife."
"You did not use Mrs. Pitman's bread-knife?"
"I did not."
"And in cutting it, you cut your wrist, did you?"
"Yes. The knife slipped. I have the scar still."
"What did you do then?"
"I went back to the room, and stanched the blood with a towel."
"From whom did you get the medicine?"
"From Alexander's Pharmacy."
"At what time?"
"I am not certain. About three o'clock, probably."
"You went directly back home?"
Mr. Ladley hesitated. "No," he said finally. "My wife had had these attacks, but they were not serious. I was curious to see how the river-front looked and rowed out too far. I was caught in the current and nearly carried away."
"You came home after that?"
"Yes, at once. Mrs. Ladley was better and had dropped asleep. She wakened as I came in. She was disagreeable about the length of time I had been gone, and would not let me explain. We—quarreled, and she said she was going to leave me. I said that as she had threatened this before and had never done it, I would see that she really started. At daylight I rowed her to Federal Street."
"What had she with her?"
"A small brown valise."
"How was she dressed?"
"In a black and white dress and hat, with a long black coat."
"What was the last you saw of her?"
"She was going across the Sixth Street bridge."
"Alone?"
"No. She went with a young man we knew."
There was a stir in the court room at this.
"Who was the young man?"
"A Mr. Howell, a reporter on a newspaper here."
"Have you seen Mr. Howell since your arrest?"
"No, sir. He has been out of the city."
I was so excited by this time that I could hardly hear. I missed some of the cross-examination. The district attorney pulled Mr. Ladley's testimony to pieces.
"You cut the boat's painter with your pocket-knife?"
"I did."
"Then how do you account for Mrs. Pitman's broken knife, with the blade in your room?"
"I have no theory about it. She may have broken it herself. She had used it the day before to lift tacks out of a carpet."
That was true; I had.
"That early Monday morning was cold, was it not?"
"Yes. Very."
"Why did your wife leave without her fur coat?"
"I did not know she had until we had left the house. Then I did not ask her. She would not speak to me."
"I see. But is it not true that, upon a wet fur coat being shown you as your wife's, you said it could not be hers, as she had taken hers with her?"
"I do not recall such a statement."
"You recall a coat being shown you?"
"Yes. Mrs. Pitman brought a coat to my door, but I was working on a play I am writing, and I do not remember what I said. The coat was ruined. I did not want it. I probably said the first thing I thought of to get rid of the woman."
I got up at that. I'd held my peace about the bread-knife, but this was too much. However, the moment I started to speak, somebody pushed me back into my chair and told me to be quiet.
"Now, you say you were in such a hurry to get this medicine for your wife that you cut the rope, thus cutting your wrist."
"Yes. I have the scar still."
"You could not wait to untie the boat, and yet you went along the river-front to see how high the water was?"
"Her alarm had excited me. But when I got out, and remembered that the doctors had told us she would never die in an attack, I grew more composed."
"You got the medicine first, you say?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Alexander has testified that you got the medicine at three-thirty. It has been shown that you left the house at two, and got back about four. Does not this show that with all your alarm you went to the river-front first?"
"I was gone from two to four," he replied calmly. "Mr. Alexander must be wrong about the time I wakened him. I got the medicine first."
"When your wife left you at the bridge, did she say where she was going?"
"No."
"You claim that this woman at Horner was your wife?"
"I think it likely."
"Was there an onyx clock in the second-story room when you moved into it?"
"I do not recall the clock."
"Your wife did not take an onyx clock away with her?"
Mr. Ladley smiled. "No."
The defense called Mr. Howell next. He looked rested, and the happier for having seen Lida, but he was still pale and showed the strain of some hidden anxiety. What that anxiety was, the next two days were to tell us all.
"Mr. Howell," Mr. Llewellyn asked, "you know the prisoner?"
"Slightly."
"State when you met him."
"On Sunday morning, March the fourth. I went to see him."
"Will you tell us the nature of that visit?"
"My paper had heard he was writing a play for himself. I was to get an interview, with photographs, if possible."
"You saw his wife at that time?"
"Yes."
"When did you see her again?"
"The following morning, at six o'clock, or a little later. I walked across the Sixth Street bridge with her, and put her on a train for Horner, Pennsylvania."
"You are positive it was Jennie Brice?"
"Yes. I watched her get out of the boat, while her husband steadied it."
"If you knew this, why did you not come forward sooner?"
"I have been out of the city."
"But you knew the prisoner had been arrested, and that this testimony of yours would be invaluable to him."
"Yes. But I thought it necessary to produce Jennie Brice herself. My unsupported word—"
"You have been searching for Jennie Brice?"
"Yes. Since March the eighth."
"How was she dressed when you saw her last?"
"She wore a red and black hat and a black coat. She carried a small brown valise."
"Thank you."
The cross-examination did not shake his testimony. But it brought out some curious things. Mr. Howell refused to say how he happened to be at the end of the Sixth Street bridge at that hour, or why he had thought it necessary, on meeting a woman he claimed to have known only twenty-four hours, to go with her to the railway station and put her on a train.
The jury was visibly impressed and much shaken. For Mr. Howell carried conviction in every word he said; he looked the district attorney in the eye, and once when our glances crossed he even smiled at me faintly. But I saw why he had tried to find Jennie Brice, and had dreaded testifying. Not a woman in that court room, and hardly a man, but believed when he left the stand, that he was, or had been, Jennie Brice's lover, and as such was assisting her to leave her husband.
"Then you believe," the district attorney said at the end,—"you believe, Mr. Howell, that Jennie Brice is living?"
"Jennie Brice was living on Monday morning, March the fifth," he said firmly.
"Miss Shaeffer has testified that on Wednesday this woman, who you claim was Jennie Brice, sent a letter to you from Horner. Is that the case?"
"Yes."
"The letter was signed 'Jennie Brice'?"
"It was signed 'J.B.'"
"Will you show the court that letter?"
"I destroyed it."
"It was a personal letter?"
"It merely said she had arrived safely, and not to let any one know where she was."
"And yet you destroyed it?"
"A postscript said to do so."
"Why?"
"I do not know. An extra precaution probably."
"You were under the impression that she was going to stay there?"
"She was to have remained for a week."
"And you have been searching for this woman for two months?"
He quailed, but his voice was steady. "Yes," he admitted.
He was telling the truth, even if it was not all the truth. I believe, had it gone to the jury then, Mr. Ladley would have been acquitted. But, late that afternoon, things took a new turn. Counsel for the prosecution stated to the court that he had a new and important witness, and got permission to introduce this further evidence. The witness was a Doctor Littlefield, and proved to be my one-night tenant of the second-story front. Holcombe's prisoner of the night before took the stand. The doctor was less impressive in full daylight; he was a trifle shiny, a bit bulbous as to nose and indifferent as to finger-nails. But his testimony was given with due professional weight.
"You are a doctor of medicine, Doctor Littlefield?" asked the district attorney.
"Yes."
"In active practise?"
"I have a Cure for Inebriates in Des Moines, Iowa. I was formerly in general practise in New York City."
"You knew Jennie Ladley?"
"I had seen her at different theaters. And she consulted me professionally at one time in New York."
"You operated on her, I believe?"
"Yes. She came to me to have a name removed. It had been tattooed over her heart."
"You removed it?"
"Not at once. I tried fading the marks with goat's milk, but she was impatient. On the third visit to my office she demanded that the name be cut out."
"You did it?"
"Yes. She refused a general anesthetic and I used cocaine. The name was John—I believe a former husband. She intended to marry again."
A titter ran over the court room. People strained to the utmost are always glad of an excuse to smile. The laughter of a wrought-up crowd always seems to me half hysterical.
"Have you seen photographs of the scar on the body found at Sewickley? Or the body itself?"
"No, I have not."
"Will you describe the operation?"
"I made a transverse incision for the body of the name, and two vertical ones—one longer for theJ, the other shorter, for the stem of theh. There was a dot after the name. I made a half-inch incision for it."
"Will you sketch the cicatrix as you recall it?"
The doctor made a careful drawing on a pad that was passed to him. The drawing was much like this.