When we least expect it the Ideal meets us in the street of theCommonplace and locks arms with us. Nevermore shall we chooseour paths uninfluenced. A new leaven has entered our personalityto dominate and direct it.
The new advertisement duly appeared and on the next day, which was Wednesday—I remember it because it was my hospital day—I received several written answers, and among them, one in which I felt confident I recognised the peculiar z*’s and r*’s of Weltz and Rizzi.
I took it at once to Maitland. He glanced at it a moment and then impulsively grasped my hand. “By Jove, Doc!” he exclaimed, “if this crafty fox doesn’t scent the hound, we shall soon run him to earth. You see he has given no address and signs a new name. We are to write to Carl Cazenove, General Delivery, Boston. Good! we will do so at once, and I will then arrange with the postal authorities to notify me when they deliver the letter. Of course this will necessitate a continuous watch, perhaps for several days, of the general delivery window. It is hardly likely our crafty friend will himself call for the letter, so it will be imperative that someone be constantly on hand to shadow whomsoever he may send as a substitute. May I depend on your assistance in this matter?”
“I will stand by you till we see the thing through,” I said, “though I have to live in the Post Office a month.”
Well, I wrote and mailed the decoy letter and Maitland explained the situation to the postal authorities, who furnished us a comfortable place inside and near the general delivery window. They promised to notify us when anyone called for our letter. Our vigil was not a very long one. On Thursday afternoon the postal clerk signalled to us that Carl Cazenove’s mail had been asked for, and, while he was consuming as much time as possible in finding our letter, Maitland and I quietly stepped out into the corridor. The sight that met our gaze was one for which we had not been at all prepared. There at the window stood a beautiful young girl just on the verge of womanhood. Her frank blue eyes met mine with the utmost candour as I passed by her so that she should be between Maitland and me, and thus unable to elude us, whichever way she turned upon leaving the window. We had previously planned how we should shadow our quarry, one on each side of the street in order not to attract attention, but these tactics seemed to be entirely unnecessary, for the young lady did not have the slightest suspicion that anyone could be in the least interested in her movements. She walked leisurely along, stopping now occasionally to gaze at the shop windows and never once turning to look back. She did not even conceal the letter, but held it in her hand with her porte-monnaie, and I could see that the address was uppermost. A strange sensation came over me as I dogged her steps. I felt as an assassin must feel who tracks his victim into some lonely spot where he may dare to strike him. It was useless for me to tell myself that I was on the side of justice and engaged in an honourable errand. A single glance at the girl’s delicate face, as frank and open as the morning light, brought the hot blush of shame to my cheek. In following her I dimly felt that, in some way, I was seeking to associate her with evil, which seemed little less than sacrilege. I could do nothing, however, but keep on, so I followed her through Devonshire Street, to New Washington and thence down Hanover Street almost to the ferry. Here she turned into an alleyway and, waiting for Maitland to come up, we both saw her enter a house at its farther end.
George glanced hastily up at the house and then said, as he seized me impatiently by the arm: “It’s a tenement house; come on, the chase is not up yet; we, too, must go in!”
So in we went. The young lady had disappeared, but as we entered we heard a door close on the floor above, and felt sure we knew where she had gone. We mounted the stairs as noiselessly as possible and listened in the hall. We could distinguish a woman’s voice and occasionally that of a man, but we could not hear what passed between them. On our right there was a door partly ajar. Maitland pushed it open, and looked in. The room was empty and unfurnished, with the exception of a dilapidated stove which stood against the partition separating this room from the one the young lady had entered. Maitland beckoned to me and I followed him into the room. There was a key on the inside of the door which he noiselessly turned in the lock. He then began to investigate the premises. Three other rooms communicated with the one of which we had taken possession, forming, evidently, a suite which had been let for housekeeping. Everything was in ill-repair, as is the case with most of the cheap tenements in this locality. The previous tenant had not thought it necessary to clean the apartments when quitting them,—for altruism does not flourish at the North End,—but had been content to leave all the dirt for the next occupant.
When we had finished reconnoitering we returned to the room we first entered, which apparently was the kitchen. We could still hear the voices, but not distinctly. “Do you stay here, Doc,” whispered Maitland, “while I get into some old clothes and hunt up the landlord of this place. I’m going to rent these rooms long enough to acquaint myself with my neighbours on the other side of the wall. I’ll be back soon. Don’t let any man leave that room without your knowing where he goes.” With this he left me and I soon found a way to busy myself in his absence. In the wall above the stove, where the pipe passed through the partition into our neighbour’s apartment, there was a chink large enough to permit me, when mounted upon the stove, to overlook the greater part of the adjacent room. I availed myself of this privilege, though not without those same twinges of conscience which I had felt some minutes before when following the young lady. The apartment was poorly furnished, and yet, despite this scantiness of appointment, there was unmistakable evidence of refinement. Everything visible in the room was scrupulously neat and the few pictures that adorned the walls, while they were inexpensive half-tones, were yet reproductions of masterpieces. In the centre of the room stood a small, deal table, on the opposite side of which sat the man who had answered my letter.
At one end of the table, poised upon the back of a chair, sat a small Capucin monkey of the Weeper or Sai species. He watched the man with that sober, judicial air which is by no means confined exclusively to supreme benches. I, too, observed the man carefully. He was tall and spare. He must have measured nearly six feet in height and could not, I think, have weighed over one hundred and fifty pounds. His face was pinched and careworn, but this effect was more than redeemed by a pair of full, black eyes having a depth and penetration I have never seen equalled, albeit there was, ever and anon, a suggestion of wildness which somewhat marred their deep, contemplative beauty. The brows and the carriage of the head at once bespoke the scholar. While thus I watched him, the young girl came from a corner of the room I could not overlook and laid my letter before him. She stood behind his chair as he opened it, smoothing his hair caressingly and, every now and then, kissing him gently. He paused with the open letter before him, reached up both arms, drew her down to him, kissed her passionately, sighed, and picked up the letter again. I took pains that no act, word, or look should escape me. This show of affection surprised me, and I remember the thought flashed through my mind, “What inconsistent beings we all are! Here is a man apparently capable of a causeless and cold-blooded assassination of a harmless old man. You would say such a murderer must be hopelessly selfish and brutal, amenable to none of the better sentiments of mankind, and yet it needs but a casual glance to see how his whole life is bound up in the young girl before him.”
While this was passing through my mind the man had glanced through my letter and thrown it upon the table with an exclamation of disgust. “Bah! he has had the effrontery,” he said petulantly, “to send me what he calls a new mode of treatment and it is in every essential that of Broadbent, well known for more than a quarter of a century. New indeed! I shall never find a doctor who has any scientific acumen. I may as well abandon the search now. Mon Dieu! and they call medicine a science! Bah!” and with a frown he dropped his head despondently upon his hand. The young girl passed her hand gently, soothingly, over his forehead and did not speak for nearly a minute.
“You are not feeling well to-night, father,” she said at length. “M. Godin has been here during my absence.”
“M. Godin!” I exclaimed half aloud, catching at the stovepipe lest I should fall from the stove. “So our rival is hot upon the scent,—probably even ahead of us. How on earth—” But I did not finish the exclamation. My seizure of the pipe upon my side of the partition had produced an audible vibration of that portion extending over the heads of my neighbours. The young girl’s quick ear had detected the sound and she had ceased speaking and fastened her eyes suspiciously upon the aperture through which I was gazing. It seemed to me as if she must see me, yet I dared not move. After a little she seemed reassured and continued: “I knew he had been here. You are always this way after his visits. Why, of late, does he always come when I am away?” The question seemed innocent enough, yet the man to whom it was addressed turned crimson and then as pale as ashes. When he spoke the effort his self-control cost him was terribly apparent.
“We have private business, dear,” he said, “private business.” He hesitated a moment and again his eyes wore the wild look I had first noticed. “I am selling him something,” he continued, “very dear to me—as dear as my heart’s blood, and I expect to get enough for it to guard you from want.”
“And you, father?” the young girl questioned fervently. I thought I noticed a tremor run through his frame, as drawing her face down to his, he said, kissing her, “Me? Never mind me, Puss; this cancer here will take care of me.”
She made no reply, but turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. As she did so she raised her face toward me. I have never been considered particularly sympathetic,—that is, no more than the average,—but there was something in the expression of her face that went to my heart like a knife. I felt as if I were about to sob with her. I do not know what it was that so aroused my sympathies. We are, I fancy, more apt to feel for those whose beauty is like to the ideals we have learned to love, than we are to be moved by the suffering of those whose looks repel us,—and this may have had something to do with my condition,—for the young girl was radiantly beautiful,—yet it could hardly have been the real cause of it.
So rapt was I in the sympathetic contemplation of her that I did not see Maitland’s entrance or realise I was observed till he plucked me by the coat and motioned me to get down. I did so and he told me he had rented the rooms, and laid before me the plan he meant to pursue.
As soon as he had ceased speaking I said to him: “George, you are undoubtedly on the right track. The man in there is the one we are looking for, fast enough, but I am afraid we are a bit too late.”
“Too late!” he exclaimed in a tone that I feared might be overheard. “What the mischief do you mean?”
“I mean,” I replied, “that M. Godin is already upon the scene.”
In the next ten seconds Maitland turned all colours and I edged nearer to him, expecting him to fall, but he did not.
“M. Godin!” he ejaculated at length. “How in the name of all the gods at once—Doc, he’s all they claim for him, and as fascinating as he is clever;” at which last remark a heavy cloud passed over Maitland’s face. “Come,” he continued listlessly, “you may as well tell me all you know about it.”
I then confided to him what I had heard and ended by asking him what he proposed to do.
“Do?” he replied. “There is but one thing I can do, which makes the choice decidedly easy,” and he set his jaws together with a determined expression, the meaning of which I knew full well.
“I shall camp right here,” he said, “till I learn all I wish to know of our neighbours yonder. I have already provided myself with instruments which will enable me to note every movement they make, indeed to photograph them, if necessary, and to hear and record every word they utter. You look surprised, but it is easily done. I will place my lenses there at the chink through which you were gazing and bring the image down into my camera obscura by a prism arranged for total internal reflection. As for the hearing, that is easier yet. I will carefully work away the plaster on this side to-night till I get through to the paper covering their wall. This I will leave intact to use as a diaphragm. I have then only to fasten my carbon to it, and, behold, we have a microphone or telephone—whichever you choose to call it. All I have to look out for is that I get it high enough to avoid the danger of the paper being accidentally broken from the other side, and that I work quietly while removing the plaster. I shall, of course, cover it with a bit of black felt to prevent our light from showing, and to deaden any sounds from this side. This will enable us to hear all that goes on in the other room, but this may not be enough. We may need a phonographic record of what transpires.
“The device whereby I secure this at such a distance is an invention of my own which, for patent reasons—I might almost say ‘patent patent reasons’—I will ask you to kindly keep to yourself. To the diaphragm there I fasten this bit of burnished silver. Upon this I concentrate a pencil of light which, when reflected, acts photographically upon a sensitised moving tape in this little box, and perfectly registers the minutest movement of the receiving diaphragm. How I develop, etch, and reproduce this record, and transform it into a record of the ordinary type, you will see in due time—and will kindly keep secret for the present. You had better go now and send me the things on this list, as soon as possible,” and he passed me a paper, continuing:
“We will not despair yet. Our clever rival may not be ready to prove his case so quickly as we. At all events, when he comes again I shall be in a condition to ascertain how far he has progressed. I have some things I must settle before I can ask for an arrest, and I am not at all sure that M. Godin is in any better condition in this regard than I am. By Jove! I’d give something to know how that wizard has gotten so far without so much as a single sign to indicate that he had even moved in the matter. I say, Doc, it beats me, blessed if it doesn’t! Please say to Miss Darrow that I am at work upon a promising clue-promising for someone, anyway—and may not see her for some time yet.”
I did as he requested, and, if I am any judge of feminine indications, my message did not yield Gwen unmixed pleasure; still, she said nothing to warrant such a supposition on my part. I visited Maitland every day to learn what he might wish me to bring him, and also to carry him his mail, for he had determined to remain constantly on the watch at his new quarters.
I have thus far, in the narration of these incidents been perfectly candid both as regards my friends and myself, and, therefore, that I may continue in like manner to the end, I shall suppress certain qualms which are urging me to silence, and confess myself guilty of some things of which you will, perhaps, think I may well be ashamed. Be that as it may, you shall have the whole truth, however it may affect your opinion of me. One reason why I went to Maitland’s new quarters so often, and stayed there so long, was because I was always permitted to relieve him of his watch. With a telephone receiver strapped to my right ear, and my eyes fastened upon the screen of the camera obscura, I would sit by the hour prying into the affairs of the two people in the next room. I tried for a number of days to ease my conscience by telling myself that I was labouring in the cause of justice, and was not a common eavesdropper. This permitted me to retain a sort of quasi self-respect for a day or two till my honesty rallied itself, and forced me to realise and to admit that I was, to all intents and purposes, a common Paul Pry, performing a disreputable act for the gratification it gave me. I determined I would at least be honest with myself—and this was my verdict. You will, perhaps, fancy that when I arrived at this decision I at once mended my ways and resigned my seat of observation to Maitland’s entirely professional care. This, doubtless, I should have done, if we fallible human beings governed our conduct by our knowledge of what is right and proper. Inasmuch, however, as desires and emotions are the determining factors of human conduct, I did nothing of the sort. I simply watched there day after day, with ever-increasing avidity, until at length I got to be impatient of the duties that took me away, and more than half inclined to neglect them.
I shall gain nothing by attempting to make you believe it was the man in the neighbouring room that interested me, so I shall not essay it. I confess, with a feeling of guilt because I am not more ashamed of it—that it was the young lady who attracted me. You will, I trust, assume I had enough interest in her father to palliate my conduct in a measure. Be generous in your judgment. How do you know you will not be in the same predicament? Think of it! A young woman beautiful beyond my feeble powers of description; her eyes of a heavenly blue; her luxuriant hair like a mass of spun gold; her complexion matched to the tint and transparency of the blush rose—and such a throat! From it came a voice as musical as the unguided waters when Winter rushes down the hills in search of Spring. Never you mind, that’s the way I felt about it, and, if you had been in my place, you’d have been just as bad as I; come, now, you know you would. Suppose I was a bachelor, and almost old enough to be her father. Does that help matters any? Is the heart less hungry because it has been starved? Just look at your history. When nuns have relapsed from other-worldliness to this-worldliness how have they been? I’ll tell you. They have been just a round baker’s dozen times worse than they would have been if they had never undertaken to cheat Nature. Look at the thing fairly. I don’t expect to dodge any blame that I deserve, yet I do want all the palliating circumstances duly noted. Many months have passed since then, and yet the thought of that sweet girl sends a thrill all over me. I wonder where she is now? I feel that we shall meet again some time, and perhaps you will see her yourself. If so, you will see that I couldn’t be expected to withstand any such temptation.
On these visits Maitland and I talked but very little, and while I was spying nothing of interest occurred—i. e., nothing of interest to him—or, if it did, things of interest to me prevented my observing it. On several occasions he alluded vaguely to things he had learned which he said he should not divulge even to me until the proper time came.
Things went on in this way for about two weeks. I visited Maitland daily, and daily the little lady in the next room wove her spell around me. If, as I am inclined to believe, thinking a great deal of a person is much the same thing as thinking of a person a great deal, I must have adored her.
One night, about a fortnight after Maitland’s change of abode, I found Alice in a terrible state of excitement upon my arrival home. She met me at the door, and said Gwen needed my attention at once. I did not stop to hear further particulars, but hastened to the sitting-room, where Gwen lay upon the lounge. She was in a stupor from which it seemed impossible to arouse her. In vain I tried to attract her attention. Her fixed, staring eyes looked through me as if I had been glass. I saw she had received a severe shock, and so, after giving her some medicine, I took Alice aside and asked her what had happened. She said that Gwen and she had been sitting sewing by the window all the afternoon, and talking about Maitland’s recent discoveries. At about five o’clock the Evening Herald was brought in as usual. She, Alice, had picked it up to glance over the news, when, in the column headed “Latest,” she had seen the heading: “The Darrow Mystery Solved!” This she had read aloud, without thinking of the shock the unexpected announcement might give Gwen, when the sudden pallor that had overspread the young woman’s face had brought her to her senses, and she had paused. Her companion, however, had seized the paper when she had hesitated and, in a fever of excitement, had read in a half-audible voice:
John Darrow was murdered.—The assassin’s inability to pay agambling debt the motive for the crime.—Extraordinary workof a French detective!—The net—
But at this juncture the paper had dropped from Gwen’s hands, and she had fallen upon the floor before Alice could reach her.
When Disaster is bigger than its victim its bolt o’erlaps theinnocent.
It was some time after Gwen had fallen before Alice had succeeded in getting her upon the lounge, and then all her efforts to revive her had failed. She had remained in the same nerveless stupor as that in which I had found her. I asked Alice if she knew why this announcement had produced such an effect upon Gwen, and she returned my question with a look of amazement.
“Have you forgotten Gwen’s promise to her father in this matter?” she replied. “Has she not already told you that she should keep that promise, whatever the sacrifice cost her? She is, therefore, entirely at the mercy of this M. Godin, and she is also obliged to advise him of this fact, if she would carry out her father’s wishes. Is this nothing for a sensitive nature like hers? If she has any love for anyone else she must crush it out of her heart, for she is M. Godin’s now. Surely, Ned, you are not so stupid as your question would indicate.”
“We won’t discuss that,” I rejoined. “Let us go to Gwen and get her to bed.”
This done, and the sufferer made easy for the night, I glanced at the article which had so upset her, and read its sensational “scare-head.” In full it ran as follows:
THE DARROW MYSTERY SOLVED!JOHN DARROW WAS MURDERED!The Assassin’s Inability to Pay a Gambling Debt theMotive for the Crime.EXTRAORDINARY WORK OF A FRENCH DETECTIVE!The Net so Completely Woven About the AllegedAssassin That it is Thought He Will Confess.The Arrest Entirely Due to the Unassisted Efforts ofM. LOUIS GODIN!
I did not stop to read the article, but seized my hat and hastened at once to Maitland.
A copy of the Herald lay upon his table, advising me that he was already acquainted with the strange turn affairs had taken. He told me that he had heard the newsboys in the street calling out “The Darrow Mystery Solved!” and had at once rushed out and bought a paper.
I informed him of Gwen’s condition and he wished to go to her at once, but I told him he must wait until the morrow, as she had already retired, and was, I had reason to hope, fast asleep. I reassured him with the information that a night’s sleep and the medicine I had given her would probably put Gwen in full possession of her faculties. Having thus satisfied his fears, I thought it fitting he should satisfy mine. I asked him what had become of the young woman in the next room. He did not reply, but quietly led me into his camera obscura that I might see for myself. She was sitting at the table in the centre of the room, with her face buried in her hands. I watched her for a long time, and the only movement I could discern was that occasioned ever and anon by a convulsive catching of her breath. The pet monkey was nowhere to be seen.
“They took her father away early this morning,” Maitland said, “and, after the first shock, she sank into this condition. She has not moved since. When I see the despair her father’s arrest has occasioned I am almost tempted to rejoice that I had no hand in it, and yet—well, there’s no great harm without some small good—no one will say now that John Darrow took his own life, eh? What do you think our friends, Osborne and Allen, will say now? They were so sure their theory was the only tenable one. Ah, well! we should ever hold ourselves in readiness for surprises.”
“And for emergencies too,” I continued; “and this strikes me as being very like one. That young woman needs attention, if I am any judge of appearances, and I’m going in there.” “No use, Doc,” Maitland replied, “the door is locked, and she either cannot or will not open it. I knocked there for an hour, hoping to be able to comfort her. It’s no use for you to try, she won’t open the door.” “Won’t, eh! then I’ll go through it!” I exclaimed, in a tone that so amazed Maitland that he seized me by the shoulders and gazed fixedly into my face. “It’s all right, George,” I said, answering his look. “I’m going in there, and I’m not going to be at all delicate about my entrance either.”
He looked at me a little doubtfully, but I could see that, on the whole, he was pleased with my decision. I went into the hall and knocked loudly on the door. There was no response. I kicked it till I must have been heard all over the house, but still there was no response. It was now clear I should not enter by invitation, so I went up four or five stairs of the flight opposite the door and from that position sprang against it. I am not, if you remember, a heavy man, but momentum is MV and I made up in the ‘V’ what I lacked in the ‘M.’ The door opened inwardly, and I tore it from its hinges and precipitated both myself and it into the centre of the apartment. As I look back upon this incident I regard it as the most precipitous thing I ever did in the way of a professional visit. If the young lady started at all, she did so before I had gathered myself together sufficiently to notice it. I spoke to her, but she gave no evidence of hearing me. I raised her head. Her eyes were wide open and stared full at me, yet in such a blank way that I knew she did not hear me. The contraction of the brows, the knotted appearance of the forehead, and the rigor of the face told me she was under an all-but-breaking tension. There were tear-stains from tears which long since had ceased to flow. The fire of fever had dried them up. I regarded her case as far more desperate than Gwen’s and determined to lose no time in taking charge of it. It seemed to me so like sacrilege to touch her without an explanation that, though I knew she could not understand me, I said to her, as I took her in my arms. “You are ill, and I must take you away from here.”
She was just blossoming into womanhood and her form had that exquisite roundness and grace which it is the particular function of fashion to annihilate. If I held her closely, I think all bachelors will agree that it was because this very roundness made her heavy; if I did not put her down immediately I reached Maitland’s room, it is because, as a doctor of medicine, I have my own ideas as to how a couch should be fixed before a patient is laid upon it. Maitland may say what he pleases, but I know how important these things are in sickness, and you know, quick as he is in most things, George has moments when his head is so much in the clouds that he doesn’t know what he is doing, and moves as if he were in a dream set to dirge music. He kept telling me to “put her on the couch!—put her on the couch!” To this day, he fondly believes that when I finally did release her, it was as the result of his advice, rather than because he had at last made a suitable bed for her.
I sent Maitland for some medicine, which I knew would relax the tension she was under and make it possible for her to sleep. When I had administered this, Maitland and I talked the matter over and we decided to take her at once to my house, where, with Gwen, she could share the watchful care of my sister Alice. This we did, though I was not without some misgivings as to Gwen’s attitude in the matter when she should recover sufficiently to know of it. I expressed my doubts to Maitland and he replied: “Give yourself no uneasiness on that score; Miss Darrow is too womanly to visit the sins of a guilty father upon an unoffending daughter, and, besides, this man,—it seems that his real name is Latour, not Cazenove,—has a right to be judged innocent until his guilt is proved.”
I found this to be sage counsel, for, when Gwen was able to understand what I had done, she exhibited no antipathy toward the new member of our household, but, on the contrary, became exceedingly interested in her. I was especially glad of this, not only on account of Miss Latour, the suspect’s daughter, but also because the one thing Gwen needed above all others was something to challenge her interest. She had again relapsed into the old, state of passive endurance, wherein nothing seemed to reach her consciousness. Her actions appeared to flow more from her nerve-centres than from her mind. She moved like an automaton. There is scarcely any condition of which I am more fearful than this. The patient becomes wax in one’s hands. She will do anything without a murmur, or as willingly refrain from anything. She simply is indifferent to life and all that therein is. Is it any wonder, then, that I rejoiced to see Gwen interest herself in poor Jeannette? It was a long time, however, before Jeannette repaid this interest with anything more than a dreamy, far-off gaze, that refused to focus itself upon anything. As time wore on, however, I noticed with relief that there was a faint expression of wonder in her look, and, as this daily grew stronger, I knew she was beginning to realise her novel surroundings and to ask herself if she were still dreaming. Yet she did not speak; she seemed to fear the sound of her own voice and to determine to solve, unaided, the mystery confronting her. I requested that no one question her or make any attempt to induce her to break silence, for I knew the time would come when she would do so of her own free will. As it happened, her first words were spoken to me, and, as my writing this recalls the event, a thrill of pleasurable pain passes through me. You may think this foolish, the more so, indeed, when you learn that nothing was said to warrant such a feeling, but I must urge upon you not to let your satisfied heart set itself up as judge in bachelor regions.
I had been mixing some medicine for her and was holding the cup to her lips that she might drink the draught. She laid her hand upon my wrist and gently put the cup aside, saying, as she gazed thoughtfully at me: “Did you not bring me here?” “Yes,” I replied. She reached for the cup, and drinking its contents, sank back upon the pillows with a half-satisfied look upon her face, as if my reply had cleared up one mystery, but left many more to be solved.
From this day Jeannette steadily improved, and within two weeks she and Gwen had come to a very good understanding. It was plainly evident that Alice, too, came in for a very good share of the little French girl’s love. They did not exchange confidences to any great degree, for, as Maitland used to say, Alice was one of those rare, sweet women who say but little, but seem to act upon all around them by a sort of catalysis, sweetening the atmosphere by their very presence.
Belief, though it be as ample as the ocean, does not alwayssimilarly swell in crystallising. It has, however, its point ofmaximum density, but this, not infrequently, is also ifs pointof minimum knowledge.
During all these days Gwen was gaining rapidly. Maitland came to visit us almost every night, and he told Gwen that he did not feel altogether certain that, in arresting M. Latour, the law had secured her father’s real assassin. It would be necessary to account for, he told her, some very singular errors in his early calculations if M. Latour was the man.
“When first I took up my abode under the same roof with him,” he said, “I had no doubt that we had at last run down our man. Now, although another detective has come to the same conclusion, I myself have many misgivings, and you may be assured, Miss Darrow, that I shall lose no time in getting these doubts answered one way or the other. At present you may say to your friend Jeannette that I am straining every nerve in her father’s behalf.”
Why all this should so please Gwen I was at a loss to comprehend, but I could not fail to see that it did please her greatly. She had been the most anxious of us all to see her father’s murderer brought to justice, and now, when through the efforts of M. Godin, a man stood all but convicted of the crime, she was pleased to hear Maitland, whose efforts to track Latour she had applauded in no equivocal way, say that he should spare no pains to give the suspect every possible chance to prove his innocence. There was certainly a reason, whatever it might have been, for Gwen’s attitude in this matter, for that young woman was exceptionally rational in all things. Nothing of especial moment occurred between this time and the beginning of the trial. Maitland, for the most part, kept his own counsel and gave us little information other than a hint that he still thought there was a chance of clearing M. Latour.
With this end in view he had become an associate attorney with Jenkins in order the better to conduct M. Latour’s case along the lines which seemed to him the most promising. I asked him on one occasion what led him to entertain a hope that Latour could be cleared and he replied: “A good many things.” “Well, then,” I rejoined, “what are some of them?” He hesitated a moment and then replied laughingly: “You see I hate to acknowledge the falsity of my theories. I said shortly after the murder was committed that I thought the assassin was short and probably did not weigh over one hundred and thirty-five pounds; that he most likely had some especial reason for concealing his footprints, and that he had a peculiarity in his gait. I felt tolerably sure then of all this, but now it turns out that M. Latour is six feet tall in his stockings, and thin; and that, emaciated as he is, he tips the scales at one hundred and fifty pounds by reason of his large frame. His feet are as commonplace as—as yours, Doc, and his gait as regular as—mine. Is it to be expected that I am going to give up all my pet illusions without a struggle?”
When the hour for the trial arrived Gwen insisted on accompanying us to the court-room. She had a great deal of confidence in George and felt sure that, as he expressed a strong doubt of the prisoner’s guilt, he would triumph in proving him innocent. She determined, therefore, to be present at the trial, even before her attendance should be required as a witness.
M. Latour, when he was led into the prisoner’s box, seemed to have aged greatly during his incarceration. It was with a marked effort that he arose and straightened himself up as the indictment was read to him. When the words: “Are you guilty or not guilty?” were addressed to him every eye was turned upon him and every ear listened to catch the first sound of his voice, but no sound came. The question was repeated more loudly, “Are you guilty or not guilty?” Like one suddenly awakened from a reverie M. Latour started, turned toward his questioner, and in a full, firm voice replied: “Guilty!” I was so dumfounded that I could offer Gwen no word of comfort to alleviate this sudden shock. Maitland and Godin seemed about the only ones in the court-room who were not taken off their feet, so to speak, by this unexpected plea, and George was at Gwen’s side in a moment and whispered something to her which I could not hear, but which I could see had a very beneficial effect upon her. We had all expected a long, complicated trial, and here the whole matter was reduced to a mere formality by M. Latour’s simple confession, “Guilty!” Is it any wonder, therefore, that we were taken aback?
While we were recovering from our surprise at this sudden turn of affairs, Maitland was engaged in private conversation with the Judge, with whom, he afterward told me, he had become well acquainted both in his own cases and in those of other lawyers requiring his services as an expert chemist. He never told me what passed between them, nor the substance of any of the brief interviews which followed with the prosecuting attorney, his associate counsel, and other legal functionaries. All I know is that when the case was resumed M. Latour’s senior counsel, Jenkins, kept carefully in the background, leaving the practical conduct of the case in Maitland’s hands.
If a hazelnut had the shell of a cocoanut, its meat would, in my opinion, sustain about the same relation to its bulk as the gist of the usual legal proceeding sustains to the mass of verbiage in which it is enshrouded. For this reason you will not expect me to give a detailed account of this trial. I couldn’t if I would, and I wouldn’t if I could. My knowledge of legal procedure is far from profound, albeit I once began the study of law. My memories of Blackstone are such as need prejudice no ambitious aspirant for legal honours. I have a recollection that somewhere Blackstone says something about eavesdropping,—I mean in its literal sense—something about the drippings from A’s roof falling on B’s estate; but for the life of me I couldn’t tell what he says. More distinctly do I remember this learned lawgiver stated that there could be no doubt of the evidence of witchcraft, because the Bible was full of it, and that witches should be punished with death. This made an impression upon me, because it was an instance, rare to me then, but common enough now, of how minds, otherwise exceptionally able, may have a spot so encankered with creed, bigotry, and superstition as to render their judgments respecting certain classes of phenomena erroneous and illogical, puerile and ridiculous.
But to return to those points of the trial which I can remember, and which I think of sufficient interest to put before you. These refer chiefly to Maitland’s examination of M. Latour, and of the government’s chief witness, M. Godin. Such portions of their testimony as I shall put before you I shall quote exactly as it was given and reported by Maitland’s friend, Simonds.
When Maitland began for the defence he said:
“At about half-past seven on the night of the 22d of April, John Darrow met his death at his home in Dorchester. He died in the presence of his daughter, Messrs. Willard, Browne, Herne, and myself. His death was caused by injecting a virulent poison into his system through a slight incision in his neck. That wound the prisoner before you confesses he himself inflicted. I would like to know a little more definitely how he succeeded in doing it without detection, in the presence, not only of his victim, but of five other persons sitting close about him. M. Latour will please take the stand.”
As M. Latour stepped into the witness-box, a wave of suppressed excitement ran all over the court-room. Every nerve was strained to its tensest pitch, every ear eager for the slightest syllable he might utter. What could be done for a man who had confessed, and what would be the solution of the crime which had so long defied the authorities? The explanation was now to be made and it is no wonder that the excitement was intense.
I omit all uninteresting formalities.
Q. Have you ever seen me before to-day?
A. Not to my knowledge.
Q. Have you any reason to believe I have ever seen you before to-day?
A. None whatever—er—that is—unless on the night of the murder.
Q. Were you acquainted with John Darrow?
A. Yes.
Q. How long have you known him?
A. About six months—perhaps seven.
Q. What were your relations?
A. I don’t understand.—We had gambled together.
Q. Where?
A. In this city—Decatur Street.
Q. What motive led you to kill him?
A. He cheated me at cards, and I swore to be even with him.
Q. Had you any other reason?
A. I owed him twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars which I borrowed of him hoping my luck would change. He won it all back from me by false play, and when I could not meet it he pressed me over hard.
Q. You say this occurred on Decatur Street. What was the date?
A. I do not remember.
Q. What month was it?
A. It was in March. Early in March.
Q. You are sure it was in March?
A. Yes.
Q. Should you say it was between the 1st and 15th of March?
A. Yes. I am positive it was before the 15th of March.
Q. Have you long known that M. Godin was at work upon this case?
A. No.
Q. When did you first become aware of it?
A. Not until my arrest.
Q. When did you first see M. Godin?
A. When I was arrested.
Q. Did he ever call at your rooms?
A. Never—not to my knowledge—I never saw him till the day of my arrest.
Q. With what weapon did you kill Mr. Darrow?
A. I made use of a specially constructed hypodermic syringe.
Half-smothered exclamations of surprise were heard from every part of the room. Even the Judge gave a start at this astounding bit of testimony. Every person present knew perfectly well that no human being could have entered or left the Darrow parlour without certain discovery, yet here was a man, apparently in his right mind, who soberly asserted that he had used a hypodermic syringe. Maitland and Godin alone seemed cool and collected. Throughout all Latour’s testimony, M. Godin watched the witness with a burning concentration. It seemed as if the great detective meant to bore through Latour’s gaze down to the most secret depths of his soul. Not for an instant did he take his eyes from Latour. I said to myself at the time that this power of concentration explained, in a great measure, this detective’s remarkable success. Nothing was permitted to escape him, and little movements which another man would doubtless never notice, had, for M. Godin, I felt sure, a world of suggestive significance.
Maitland’s calm demeanour, so resourceful in its serenity, caused all eyes to turn at length to him as if for explanation. He continued with slow deliberation.
Q. In what particulars was this hypodermic syringe of special construction?
M. Latour seemed nervous and ill at ease. He shifted from side to side as if M. Godin’s glance had pierced him like a rapier, and he were trying vainly to wriggle off of it. He seemed unable to disengage himself and at length replied in a wearied and spiritless tone:
A. In two particulars only. In the first place, it was very small, having a capacity of but five or six drops, and, in the second place, it was provided with an internal spring which, when released, worked the plunger and ejected the contents with extreme rapidity.
Q. What operated this spring?
A. Around the needle-like point of the syringe, less than a quarter of an inch from its end, was a tiny, annular bit of metal. This little metallic collar was forced upward by the pressure of the flesh as the sharp point entered it, and this movement released the spring and instantly and forcibly ejected the contents of the cylinder.
Q. Did you use a poison in this syringe?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. What did you use?
M. LATOUR hesitated and shifted helplessly about as if he dreaded to go farther into these particulars, and fondly hoped someone might come to his rescue. His gaze seemed to shift about the room without in the least being able to disentangle itself from that of M. Godin. He remained silent and the question was repeated.
Q. What did you use?
Again the witness hesitated while everyone, save only Maitland and Godin, leaned eagerly forward to catch his reply. At length it came in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
A. Anhydrous hydrocyanic acid.
A long-drawn “Hum!” escaped from Maitland, while M. Godin gave not the slightest indication of surprise. It was quite evident to us all that the astute Frenchman had acquired complete control of the case before he had arrested the assassin. At this juncture the Court said, addressing Maitland:
“This substance is extremely poisonous, I take it.”
“Your Honour,” Maitland replied, “it is the most fatal of all poisons known to chemists. It is also called cyanhydric, and, more commonly, prussic acid. An insignificant amount, when inhaled or brought into contact with the skin, causes immediate death. If a drop be placed upon the end of a glass rod and brought toward the nose of a live rabbit he will be dead before it reaches him.”
A profound silence—the death-like quiet which accompanies an almost breaking tension—reigned in the court-room as Maitland turned again to Latour.
Q. I understand you to say you used anhydrous hydrocyanic or cyanhydric acid.
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Do you sufficiently understand chemistry to use these terms with accuracy? Might you not have used potassium cyanide or prussiate of potash?
A. I am a tolerably good chemist, and have spoken understandingly. Potassium cyanide, KCN, is a white, crystalline compound, and could hardly be used in a hypodermic syringe save in solution, in which condition it would not have been sufficiently poisonous to have served my purpose.
At this reply many of the audience exchanged approving glances. They believed M. Latour had shown himself quite a match for Maitland in not falling easily into what they regarded as a neat little trap which had been set to prove his lack of chemical knowledge. They attributed Maitland’s failure to further interrogate Latour upon his understanding of chemistry as evidence that he had met an equal. To be sure, they were not quite clear in their own minds why Latour’s counsel should be at such pains to carefully examine a man who had already confessed, but they believed they knew when a lawyer had met his match, and felt sure that this was one such instance. Clinton Browne, who sat in one of the front seats, seemed to find a deal more to amuse him in this incident than was apparent to me. Some men have such a wonderful sense of humour!
Maitland continued:
Q. When Mr. Darrow was murdered he sat in the centre of his parlour, surrounded by his daughter and invited guests. Will you tell the Court how you entered and left this room without detection?
Again the witness hesitated and looked irresolutely, almost tremblingly, about him, but seemed finally to steady himself, as it were, upon Godin’s glance. It’s a strange thing how the directness and intense earnestness of a strong man will pull the vacillation of a weak one into line with it, even as great ships draw lesser ones into their wakes. The excited audience hung breathlessly upon Latour’s utterance. At last they were to know how this miracle of crime had been performed. Every auditor leaned forward in his seat, and those who were a trifle dull of hearing placed their hands to their ears, fearful lest some syllable of the riddle’s solution should escape them. M. Latour remained dumb. The Judge regarded him sternly and said:
“Answer the question. How did you enter the Darrow parlour?”
A. I—I did—I did not enter it.
Again a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise traversed the room.
Q. If you did not enter the room how did you plunge the hypodermic syringe into your victim’s neck?
It seemed for a moment as if the witness would utterly collapse, but he pulled himself together, as with a mighty effort, and fairly took our breath away with his astounding answer:
A. I—I did not strike Mr. Darrow with the syringe.
The audience literally gasped in open-mouthed amazement, while the Court turned fiercely upon Latour and said:
“What do you mean by first telling us you killed Mr. Darrow by injecting poison into his circulation from a specially prepared hypodermic syringe, and then telling us that you did not strike him with this syringe. What do you mean, sir? Answer me!”
A sudden change came over M. Latour. All his timidity seemed to vanish in a moment, as he drew himself up to his full height and faced the Judge. It seemed to me as if till now he had cherished a hope that he might not be forced to give the details of his awful crime, but that he had at last concluded he would be obliged to disclose all the particulars, and had decided to manfully face the issue.
Every eye was fixed upon him, and every ear strained to its utmost as he turned slowly toward the Judge and said with a calm dignity which surprised us all:
A. Your Honour is in error. I said that I made use of a specially constructed hypodermic syringe. I have not said that I struck Mr. Darrow with it. There is, therefore, nothing contradictory in my statements.
Again the prisoner had scored, and again the audience exchanged approving glances which plainly said: “He’s clever enough for them all!”
Then the Court continued the examination.
Q. Were you upon the Darrow estate when Mr. Darrow met his death?
A. Yes, your Honour.
Q. Where?
A. Just outside the eastern parlour-window, your Honour.
Q. Did you strike the blow which caused Mr. Darrow’s death?
A. No, your Honour.
Q. What! Have you not said you are responsible for his murder?
A. Yes, your Honour.
Q. Ah, I see! You had some other person for an accomplice?
A. No, your Honour.
Q. Look here, sir! Do you propose to tell us anything of your own accord, or must we drag it out of you piecemeal?
A. No power can make me speak if I do not elect to, and I only elect to answer questions. Commission for contempt will hardly discipline a man in my position, and may lead me to hold my peace entirely.
The Court turned away with an expression of disgust and engaged Jenkins and Maitland in a whispered conversation. The prisoner had again scored. There is enough of the bully in many judges to cause the public to secretly rejoice when they are worsted. It was plain to be seen that the audience was pleased with Latour’s defiance.
Maitland now resumed the examination with his accustomed ease. One would have thought he was addressing a church sociable,—if he judged by his manner.
Q. You have testified to being responsible for the death of John Darrow. The instrument with which he was killed was directly or indirectly your handiwork, yet you did not strike the blow, and you have said you had no other person for an accomplice. Am I substantially correct in all this?
A. You are quite correct.
Q. Very good. Did John Darrow’s death result from a poisoned wound made by the instrument you have described?
A. It did.
This reply seemed to nonplus us all with the exception of Maitland and Godin. These two seemed proof against all surprises. The rest of us looked helplessly each at his neighbour as if to say, “What next?” and we all felt,—at least I did and the others certainly looked it,—as if the solution of the enigma were farther away than ever.
Maitland proceeded in the same methodical strain.
Q. A blow was given, yet neither you nor any person acting as your accomplice gave it. Did Mr. Darrow himself give the blow?
A. No, sir.
Q. I thought not. Did any person give it?
A. No, sir.
The audience drew a deep inspiration, as if with one accord! They had ceased to reason. Again and again had we been brought, as we all felt sure, within a single syllable of the truth, only to find ourselves at the next word more mystified than ever. It would hardly have surprised us more if the prisoner had informed us that Mr. Darrow still lived. The excitement was so intense that thought was impossible, so we could only listen with bated breath for someone else to solve the thing for our beleaguered and discouraged minds. After a word with his colleague, Maitland resumed.
Q. A blow was given, yet no person gave it. Was it given by anything which is alive?
A. It was not.
You could have heard a pin drop, so silent was the room during the pause which preceded Maitland’s next question.
Q. Did you arrange some inanimate object or objects outside the eastern window, or elsewhere, on the Darrow estate so that it or they might wound Mr. Darrow?
A. No,—no inanimate object other than the hypodermic syringe already referred to.
Q. To my question: “A blow was given, yet no person gave it. Was it given by anything which is alive?” you have answered: “It was not.” Let me now ask: Was it given by anything which was at that time alive?
A. It was.
There was a stir all over the court-room. Here at last was a suggestive admission. The examination was approaching a crisis!
Q. And you have said it was not a person. Was it not an animal?
A. It was.
“An animal!” we all ejaculated with the unanimity of a Greek chorus. So audible were the exclamations of incredulity which arose from the spellbound audience that the crier’s gavel had to be brought into requisition before Maitland could proceed.
Q. Did you train a little Capucin monkey to strike this blow?
A. I did.
A great sigh, the result of suddenly relieved tension, liberally interlarded with unconscious exclamations, swept over the court-room and would not be gavelled into silence until it had duly spent itself.
Even the Judge so far forgot his dignity as to give vent to a half-stifled exclamation.
Maitland proceeded:
Q. In order that this monkey might not attack the wrong man after you had armed him, you taught him to obey certain signals given by little twitches upon the cord by which you held him. A certain signal was to creep stealthily forward, another to strike, and still another to crawl quickly back with the weapon. When circumstances seemed most favourable to the success of your designs,—that is, when Miss Darrow’s voice and the piano prevented any slight sound from attracting attention,—you gently dropped the monkey in at the window and signalled him what to do. When Mr. Darrow sprang to his feet you recalled the monkey and hastened away. Is not this a fairly correct description of what occurred?
A. It is true to the letter.
Q. And subsequently you killed the monkey lest he should betray you by exhibiting his little tricks, at an inopportune moment in a way to compromise you. Is it not so?
A. It is. I killed him, though he was my daughter’s pet.
We were stricken aghast at Maitland’s sudden grasp of the case. Even Godin was surprised. What could it all mean? Had Maitland known the facts all along? Had he simply been playing with the witness for reasons which we could not divine? M. Godin’s face was a study. He ceased boring holes in Latour with his eyes and turned those wonderful orbs full upon Maitland, in whom they seemed to sink to the depths of his very soul. Clearly M. Godin was surprised at this exhibition of Maitland’s power.
Browne, who throughout the trial had glared at Maitland with an unfriendliness which must have been apparent to everyone, now lowered blacker than ever, it seemed to me. I wondered what could have occurred to still further displease him, and finally concluded it must either be some transient thought which had come uncalled into his mind, or else a feeling of envy at his rival’s prominence in the case, and the deservedly good reputation he was making. His general ill-feeling I, of course, charged to jealousy, for I could not but note his uncontrollable admiration for Gwen. I fully believed he would have given his own life—or anyone else’s for that matter—to possess her, and I decided to speak a word of warning to George. After a short, whispered consultation with Jenkins and the prosecuting attorney, Maitland turned to the prisoner and said:
“That will do. M. Latour may leave the stand.”
It seemed to the spectators that the affair was now entirely cleared up, and they accordingly settled themselves comfortably for the formal denouement. They were, therefore, much taken aback when Maitland continued, addressing the jury:
“The evidence against the prisoner would indeed seem overwhelming, even had we not his confession. Apart from this confession we have no incriminating evidence save such as has been furnished by the government’s chief witness, M. Godin. As it is through this gentleman’s efforts that Latour was brought within reach of justice, it is but natural that much should be clear to him which may be puzzling to those who have not made so close a study of the case. I think he will enlighten us upon a few points. M. Godin will please take the stand.”
At this there was much whispering in the courtroom.. Maitland’s course seemed decidedly anomalous. Everyone wondered why he should be at such pains to prove that which had been already admitted and which, moreover, since he was representing Latour, it would seem he would most naturally wish to disprove. M. Godin, however, took the stand and Maitland proceeded to examine him in a way which only added amazement to wonder.
Q. How long have you been at work on this case?
A. Ever since the murder.
Q. When did you first visit M. Latour’s rooms?
A. Do you mean to enter them?
Q. Yes.
A. I did not enter his rooms until the day he was arrested. I went to other rooms of the same tenement-house on previous occasions.
Q. Have you reason to believe M. Latour ever saw you prior to the day of his arrest?
A. No. I am sure he did not. I was especially careful to keep out of his way.
Q. You are certain that on the several occasions when you say you entered his rooms you were not observed by him while there?
A. I did not say I entered his rooms on several occasions.
Q. What did you say?
A. I said I never was in his rooms but once, and that was upon the day of his arrest.
Q. I understand. Were you not assisted in your search for Mr. Darrow’s murderer by certain library books which you discovered M. Latour had been reading?
A. I—I don’t quite understand.
Q. M. Latour obtained some books from the Public Library for hall use, giving his name as—as—
A. Weltz. Yes, they did assist me. There were some also taken under the name of Rizzi.
Q. Exactly. Those are the names, I think. How was your attention called to these books?
A. I met Latour at the library by accident, and he at once struck me as a man anxious to avoid observation. This made it my business to watch him. I saw that he signed his name as “Weltz” on the slips. The next day I saw him there again, and this time he signed the slips “Rizzi.” This was long before the murder, and I was not at work upon any case into which I could fit this “Weltz” or “Rizzi.” I was convinced in my own mind, however, that he was guilty of some crime, and so put him down in my memory for future reference. During my work upon this present case this incident recurred to me, and I followed up the suggestion as one which might possibly throw some light upon the subject.
Q. Did you peruse the books M. Latour borrowed under the names of Weltz and Rizzi?
A. I did not.
Q. Did you not look at any of them?
A. No. It did not occur to me to examine their names.
Q. You probably noticed that there were several of them. Among the pile was one by Alexander Wynter Blyth entitled, “Poisons, Their Effects and Detection.” Did you notice that?
A. No. I did not notice any of them.
Q. But after you became suspicious of M. Latour, did you not then look up the slips, find this work, and read it?
A. No. I have never seen the book in my life and did not even know such a work existed.
Q. Oh! Then the perusal of the books had no part in the tracking of M. Latour.
A. None whatever.
Q. Do you ever play cards?
A. Yes, sometimes, to pass the time.
Q. Do you play for money?
A. Sometimes for a small stake—just enough to make it interesting.
Q. Are you familiar with the house in which Mr. Darrow was murdered?
A. I have only such knowledge of it as I acquired at the examination immediately after the murder. You will remember I entered but the one room.
Q. And the grounds about the house? Surely you examined them?
A. On the contrary, I did not.
Q. Did you not even examine the eastern side of the house?
A. I did not. I have never been within the gate save on the night in question, and then only to traverse the front walk to and from the house in company with Messieurs Osborne and Allen. I was convinced that the solution of the problem was to be found within the room in which the murder was committed, and that my notes taken the night of the tragedy contained all the data I could hope to get.
Q. Was not this rather a singular assumption?
A. For many doubtless it would be; but I have my own methods, and I think I may say they have been measurably successful in most cases. [This last was said with a good-natured smile and a modest dignity that completely won the audience.]
At this point Maitland dismissed M. Godin and the court adjourned for the day. That night M. Godin made his first call upon Gwen. Their interview was private, and Gwen had nothing to say about it further than that her caller had not hesitated to inform her that he was aware a reward had been offered and that he considered he had earned it. Maitland questioned her as to what he had claimed as his due, but Gwen, with her face alternately flushed and ashen, begged to be permitted to keep silence.
This attitude was, of course, not without its significance to Maitland, and it was easy to see that M. Godin’s visit had much displeased him. But he was not the only one who was displeased that night. I regret that my promise of utter candour compels me to bear witness to my own foolishness; for when Maitland found it necessary to take Jeannette into the back parlour and to remain there alone with her in earnest conversation one hour and twelve minutes—I happened to notice the exact time—it seemed to me he was getting unpleasantly confidential, and it nettled me. You may fancy that I was jealous, but it was, most likely, only pique, or, at the worst, envy. I was provoked at the nonchalant ease with which this fellow did offhand a thing I had been trying to work myself up to for several days, and had finally abandoned from sheer lack of courage. Why couldn’t I carelessly say to her, “Miss Jeannette, a word with you if you please,” and then take her into the parlour and talk a “whole history.” Oh, it was envy, that’s what it was! And then the change in Jeannette! If he had not been making love to her—well, I have often wondered since if it were all envy, after all.