Miss Wardour—Enclosed find a letter, which, for reasons which I shall explain later, I pilfered from you on the night of our first meeting. It has accomplished the purpose for which I took it, and I hasten to restore it.Bathurst.
Miss Wardour—
Enclosed find a letter, which, for reasons which I shall explain later, I pilfered from you on the night of our first meeting. It has accomplished the purpose for which I took it, and I hasten to restore it.
Bathurst.
Constance turned her eye once more upon the paper in her hand, looked closer and exclaimed: "It is; it is Sybil's lost letter!"
"Dr. Heath, here is another visitor."
Clifford Heath turned slowly away from the small iron-barred window; he looked a trifle disturbed by this announcement, for he had just been interviewed by Mr. O'Meara, who for the first time had presented Mr. Wedron, and the two had left him much to think about.
The look of annoyance left his face, however, and a stare of surprise took its place, when, following upon the footsteps of the janitor, came Constance Wardour, not closely veiled and drooping, after the manner of prison-visiting females in orthodox novels, but with her fair face unconcealed, and her graceful figure at its proudest poise.
The haughtiness all departed from face and bearing, however, when the door closed behind her and she found herself alone with the man she had falsely accused.
Misfortune had not humbled Clifford Heath. When the first momentary look of surprise had left his face, he stood before her as proudly erect, as icily courteous, as if he were receiving her in his own parlor.
"Doctor Heath," began Constance, in low, contrite tones, "some months ago I brought a wrongful accusation against you. I wronged you deeply; let me do myself the justice to say that almost immediately I was convinced of the injustice I had done you, of the utter insanity of my own behavior, but—" blushing rosily, "I never found the letter, and how could I come to you and say, I have changed my mind, without a reason. Less than an hour ago, this note was put into my hands, and with it that unfortunate lost letter. This enables me to say,—Doctor Heath, I deeply regret the insult I offered you, and I ask you to be magnanimous, and to pardon me."
She put the note in his hand, and he read it, without uttering a word; stood silent for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, and then said:
"Miss Wardour, I am glad that this affair has been cleared up; when a man has so many dark shadows hanging over him, he is thankful for the smallest glimpse of sunlight. It is like your generosity to come in person."
"But you have not said that you forgive me, Doctor Heath; fully and freely, remember."
"Fully and freely I forgive you, then, Miss Wardour," smilingly, he replied. "After all, the mistake was a natural one. Since I have been an inmate of this cell, I have learned to see myself as others see me. Why should I not come under suspicion, especially after hearing my words to Bathurst? By the by, this note from Bathurst, you tell me that you received it to-day?"
"To-day; since noon."
"And it is dated to-day; then," looking at her questioningly, "Bathurst must be in town."
"Yes," dropping her eyes, confusedly. "That is, I think so;" and scarcely heeding her own movements, she seated herself in the doctor's chair, and, leaning one arm against the table, looked up into his face, saying with a spice of her old manner, so familiar to him in the past:
"Having forgiven me so generously, Doctor Heath, don't you think it would be quite proper to shake hands?"
He looked down upon her, a strange light leaping into his eyes. But he did not approach. He lifted a large, shapely hand, and surveyed it sorrowfully.
"Itlooksas clean as any hand, Miss Wardour, but there is a stain upon it."
"A stain! No, sir. Do you think thatIbelieve in your guilt?"
Again the quick light flamed in his eyes, and now he came a step nearer.
"Do you believe in my innocence?"
"Beyond a doubt."
"When I said 'there is a stain upon my hand,' I did not mean the stain of guilt, but of suspicion, of accusation."
"There isnostain upon your hand! Doctor Heath. What is this I hear about you? They tell me you will make no defense."
He smiled down at her.
"I could make but one defense, and that—"
"And that?"
"And that, Miss Wardour, I would not make."
"Why?"
She was straining every nerve to preserve her composure; words came from her lips like frozen heartbeats.
"Because—Miss Wardour, do not ask me why."
"I do ask; I persist. Why? Why?Why?"
"Because—I see you are as imperious as ever—because I can only save myself by giving the real murderer up to justice."
She was on her feet in an instant, all her enforced calmness gone, unutterable misery in her face and voice.
"You know!" she cried. "You! Oh! my God, what shall I do!"
"Have no fear, Miss Wardour; have I not said I will keep my own counsel?"
"But, you!You!Oh, there is no reason whyyoushould not speak; you are not bound! You are not—oh, what am I saying!" She sank back into her seat, panting and wild-eyed.
"Miss Wardour, calm yourself," he said, gently. "Iambound. It is my pleasure to keep this secret. Listen. A short time ago I received a visit from my lawyers. They told me—among other things, they thought it best that I should know—that you knew who did the deed, and that you would have us both saved, innocent and guilty alike. Before that, I had determined to keep silence; now I am doubly resolved. For your sake, I will not accuse Frank Lamotte."
"Frank—you will not accuseFrank Lamotte? And for my sake!" she almost shrieked. "For God's sake, explain. What is Frank Lamotte to me? Of what can you accuse him?"
It was Clifford Heath's turn to lose his composure. How could he interpret her words? Was she trying to deceive him?
"Miss Wardour," he said, almost sternly, "do you wish me to understand that Francis Lamotte is nothing to you?"
"Nothing to me!the vilest, the basest, the most treacherous, the most abject of all human creatures,thatis what Frank Lamotte is to me!"
Uncontrollable scorn rang in her voice; rising anger, too. How daredhecouple her name with that of Frank Lamotte?
From the chaos of meanings and mysteries revolving through his mind, Clifford Heath seized upon and clung to one idea, held it in silence for a moment, then let it burst forth in words.
"Then—then you are not Frank Lamotte's promised wife?"
"I!great heavens!no."
"And never have been?"
"And never have been."
Clifford Heath drew a long, deep breath. For a moment a look of gladness beamed in his eye, then it died out suddenly, as he said, almost gloomily:
"And yet, you have said that he must be saved at all hazards. Knowing his guilt, I still am here in his place."
"In his place, oh," she came toward him with a swift, eager movement, "I begin to see! Doctor Heath, you think Frank Lamotte the guilty one?"
"I know it," grimly.
A look of relief came over her face. She breathed freely.
"You believe this," she said at last, "and yet you are here. If you have evidence against Frank Lamotte, why do you occupy a felon's cell? Why not put him in your place?"
"I have told you why. It was for your sake."
She lowered her eyes and drew back a little, but he followed her, and, standing before her, looked down into her face with a persistent, searching gaze. "You must understand me now," he said firmly, "when I believed that you loved Frank Lamotte, I said 'Then I will not stand forth and accuse the man she loves, for—I love her, and she must not be unhappy.'"
A great sob rose in her throat. A wave of crimson swept over her brow. She stood before him with clasped hands and drooping head.
"But for that meddlesome slip of paper," he went on, "I should not have been driven from the field, and this treachery of Lamotte's could never have been practiced upon me. Do you remember a certain day when you sent for Ray Vandyck, and he came to you from my office? Well, on that day Francis Lamotte told me that you were his promised wife, and when Ray came back,heverified the statement, having received the information from your lips. Once I hoped to come to you and say, after lifting for your eyes the veil of mystery, which I have allowed to envelope my past: 'Constance Wardour, I love you; I want you for my very own, my wife!' Now, mountains have arisen between us; I can not offer you a hand with the shadow of a stain upon it; nor a name that is tarnished by doubt and suspicion. However this affair may end for me, that hope is ended now."
It had come; the decisive moment.
She could go away now with sealed lips, and it would end indeed. She could turn away from him, leaving happiness behind her; taking with her his happiness, too; or, she could speak, and then—
She looked about her; and the bare walls and grated windows gave her strength to dare much. Had they stood together out under the broad bright sunlight; he as free as herself, she could have turned away mutely, and let her life go on as it would.
Now—now his present was overshadowed; his future difficult to read.
"Isit ended?" she said, softly. Then, looking up with sudden, charming imperiousness. "You end things very selfishly, very coolly, Doctor Heath. I do not choose to have it ended."
"Miss Wardour!—Constance!"
"Wait; you say that your lawyers told of my visit to them, and that I would not have the guilty punished. What more did they tell you—about my doings?"
"Very little; I could hardly understand why they told thus much."
"Did they tell you that I learned, through a scheming rascal in the guise of a detective, that a plot was growing against you; that I sent for Ray Vandyck, and set him over you as a temporary guardian? And that I sent next for Detective Bathurst, warning him that you were surrounded by enemies. Did they tell you that, when I learned of your arrest, I left my place by Sybil Lamotte, who is delirious and yet clings to me constantly, and came to them, offering them all my fortune if they would only save me you?"
"Did you do this—Constance?"
"I have done this. Have I not earned the right, openly, before all the world, to be your champion, your truest friend, your—"
"My queen! my darling! my very own!"
All his calm is gone, all his haughtiness of bearing; with one swift movement he snatches her to his heart, and she rests in his embrace, shocked at her own boldness, and unspeakably happy.
Who dare intrude upon a lover's interview? Who dares to snatch the first coy love words from a maiden's lips, and give them to a world grown old in love making, and appraising each tender word by its own calloused old heart?
For the time all is forgotten, save one fact, they love each other well.
By and by, other thoughts come, forcing their way like unwelcome guests.
"Constance," he says, after a long interval, "you have made me anything but indifferent to my fate. Now I shall begin to struggle for my freedom; but—do you realize what a network of false testimony they have woven about me?"
"Do I realize it?" she cried. "Yes, far more than you do, or can, and—you said something about Frank Lamotte. Has he sought to injure you?"
"Constance, I thought you knew," turning upon her a look of surprise. "I thought you knew his guilt. Who, but Frank Lamotte, could gain access to my office, to purloin my handkerchief and my knife? He had a duplicate key, and—I found that key in the old cellar beside the body of John Burrill."
The look of perplexity on her face deepens into one of actual distress.
Could it be, that after all, Frank had forestalled that other one?
Back upon her memory came his words, "I can save him if I will." Where there is room for doubt there is room for hope. What if another hand had anticipated that of the paid assassin? She resolved to cling to this hope with desperation.
If there was evidence so strong against Frank Lamotte, let him take her lover's place. Why not? She began to see many things in a new light; she peered forward, catching a view of the partial truth, "as in a glass, darkly." One thing was clear, however, they must act at once! No time must be lost!
She sat before him thinking thus, yet seemingly powerless to act or speak!
"Constance. Has the possibility of Frank Lamotte's guilt, overwhelmed you?"
"The possibility!" she exclaimed, starting up suddenly. "No. I know him capable of baser things than murder."
"Of baser things! My darling, what do you mean?"
"Don't ask me now; there is no time to waste in talking of him; I am going straight to your lawyers this moment; I am going to send them to you, and you shall tell them every thing."
"Despot!" His eyes devouring her.
"Of course! I am always that. They will say it is time some one took you in charge. Are you going to be dumb any more?"
"Never! My lips are unsealed from this hour; since you have dared to claim and take a share in my fate, and since I have not the courage to put so much happiness from me."
"Supposing it in your power?"
"Oh, I know better than to cope with you," smiling upon her fondly. "But my honor must be vindicated for your gracious sake, and—I must cease to be," with a sidelong glance, "'Doctor Heath, from nowhere.' Sit down, darling; our janitor is an accommodating fellow; he will not interrupt, nor shorten your stay, I am sure. I want to tell you my story. It is yours, together with all my other secrets."
She put up her hand, quickly.
"Not now," she said. "Not for a long time. I prefer you as I have known you; for me, you shall still be 'Doctor Heath, from nowhere.' Don't remonstrate; I will have it so; I will send Mr. O'Meara to you, and that odd Mr. Wedron; you shall tellthemall about yourself."
"Youwill go to them? Constance, no; for your own sake, let us keep our love a secret for a time; until this is ended, somehow. Think, my proud darling, how much it would spare you."
She turned toward him, her mouth settling into very firm lines, a resolute look in her eyes.
"Would it spare you anything?" she asked, quietly.
"I? Oh, no. It is sacrifice for me; but, I wish to have it so. You must not visit me here. You must not let gossip say she has thrown herself away on an adventurer."
"I won't," she replied, sententiously; "I'd like to hear of anybody saying that! I'd excommunicate them, I'm going to close the mouths of gossips, by setting my seal of proprietorship upon you. I'm coming here every day; but, after this, I'll bring Aunt Honor, or Mrs. O'Meara with me. I'm going to say to every soul who names you to me: 'Doctor Heath is my affianced husband, defame him if you dare.' And I'm going straight to tell Mr. O'Meara that he must take your testimony against Frank Lamotte."
Constance kept her word. Before many days, the town rang with the news that Constance Wardour, in the face of the accusation against him, had announced her engagement to Doctor Clifford Heath.
Then a hush fell upon the aristocratic gossipers of W——, and mischievous tongues were severely bridled. It was not wise to censure too freely a man whom the heiress of Wardour had marked with her favor.
The lawyers found their client in a mood much more to their liking, and O'Meara scribbled down in his little book long sentences caught from the lips of Clifford Heath, who was now a strong helper, and apt in suggestions for the defense.
He opened for them the sealed up pages of his past life.
He told them in detail, all that he had briefly stated to Constance, concerning Frank Lamotte, and more.
Every day now they were in close consultation, and every day the Wardour carriage drove at a stated hour, first to Mapleton, where it took up Constance, and then to the prison, where, accompanied by her aunt, or her guardian's wife, the heiress passed a half hour in the cell of her lover.
She still clung to the hope that the accumulating evidence against Frank Lamotte might break the chain that bound him, and open his prison doors; but, one day, a week after her first visit to the prison, Mr. O'Meara dashed this hope to atoms.
"We can bring no criminal accusation against Lamotte," he said. "The examination proved that John Burrill was killed as early as eleven o'clock that night, and investigation has proven that Lamotte remained at home all that evening, and was heard moving about in his room until after midnight. I'm terribly sorry, Constance, but the case stands just about as it did at first, and the odds are still against Heath. He will have to stand his trial."
The girl's heart sank like lead, and as days passed on and no new developments could be evolved from a case which began to assume a most gloomy aspect, her position in the Lamotte household became unbearable.
Sybil had changed a very little, but for the better. Her fits of raving were less frequent, and almost always to be anticipated. So, worn in body and tortured in mind, Constance went back to Wardour, and, save for her daily visits to the prison, was invisible to all her friends.
And she did not suffer alone. Knowing her love for Clifford Heath and the terrible secret she carried in her bosom, Mrs. Lamotte lived in an anguish of suspense. Would love outweigh honor? If the worst should come, could she trust Constance Wardour? Could she trust herself?
In those tortured hours, the same prayer went up from the heart of both mother and friend—that Sybil Lamotte would die!
While these things were making the world a weariness to Constance, Jerry Belknap, in his character of prospecting horse jockey, took up his quarters in a third rate hotel near the river, and remained very quiet in fancied security, until he became suddenly enlightened as to the cause of his ill success, as follows:
Lounging near the hotel one day, he was accosted by a stranger, who tapped him familiarly on the shoulder, saying:
"My friend, I've got a word to say to you. Will you just step into the nearest saloon with me. We will talk over a glass of something."
Wondering idly at his coolness, Belknap followed the stranger, and they entered "Old Forty Rods," that being the nearest saloon.
Once seated face to face at a table, the stranger threw a letter across to Belknap, saying carelessly:
"Read that, if you please."
Opening the letter, these lines stared Belknap in the face:
You have broken your pledge, Jerry Belknap. I have had you under my eye constantly. Fortunately for yourself, I can make use of you. Follow the instructions of the bearer of thisto the letternow and until further notice, if you hope for any mercy fromBathurst.
You have broken your pledge, Jerry Belknap. I have had you under my eye constantly. Fortunately for yourself, I can make use of you. Follow the instructions of the bearer of thisto the letternow and until further notice, if you hope for any mercy from
Bathurst.
He stared at the open letter as if it possessed the eyes of a basilisk.
Instantly he recognized the power behind the scenes, and was no longer surprised at his failures. And he turned upon his companion a look of sullen submission.
"I know better than to kick against Bathurst," he said doggedly. "What does he want me to do?"
"That's just what we are going to talk about," said the stranger, coolly. "Draw your chair up closer, Jerry."
Over days, filled with weary waiting and marked by few incidents and no discoveries, we pass with one glance.
Clifford Heath's trial follows close upon his indictment. A month rolls away, and with the first days of winter comes the assembling of judge and jury, and his case is the first one called.
During the weeks that have intervened between his arrest and this day of his trial, Constance has been his bravest champion and truest friend; she has stimulated him to hope, and incited him to courage, with loving, cheerful words, while clinging desperately to a last remnant of her own sinking hope.
Day by day, during all this time, the ancient gig driven by Doctor Benoit, deposited that gentleman before the doors of Mapleton. Sybil's delirium had ended in a slow, wearisome fever, which left her, as the first frosts of winter touched the land, a white, emaciated shadow of her former self, her reason restored, but her memory sadly deficient.
She had forgotten that dark phase of her life in which John Burrill had played so sinister a part, and fancied herself back in the old days when her heart was light and her life unfettered. She had dropped a year out of that life, but memory would come back with strength, the doctor said; and Mrs. Lamotte dreaded the days when that memory should bring to her daughter's brow, a shadow never to be lifted; into her life a ghost never to be laid.
Evan, too, had narrowly escaped death at the hands of his rum demons; after four weeks filled with all the horrors attendant upon the drunkard's delirium, he came to his senses, hollow-cheeked, sunken eyed, emaciated, with his breath coming in quick, short gasps, and the days of his life numbered.
Brandy had devoured his vitals; late hours and protracted orgies had sapped his strength; constant exposure in all weather and at all hours had done its work upon his lungs.
"If he outlasts the Winter, he will die in the Spring." This was the doctor'sultimatum.
News from the outside world was strictly shut out from those sick ones. The name of John Burrill never was breathed in their presence, and both were ignorant of the fact that Clifford Heath, an old time favorite with each, was on trial for his life.
The morning that saw Clifford Heath quit his cell to take his place in the felon's dock and answer to the charge of murder, saw Sybil Lamotte lying upon a soft divan, before a merry Winter fire. It was the first time since her illness that she had quitted her bed. And Evan, too, for the first time in many weeks, came with feeble, halting steps to his sister's room, and sitting near her, scanned her wasted features with wistful intentness.
"Poor sis!" he murmured, stroking her hand softly. "We've had a pretty hard pull, you and I, but we're coming out famously." And then he added to himself, "More's the pity, so far as I am concerned."
"What made you ill, Evan?" she whispered feebly. "Was it worrying about me?"
A bright flush leaped to his cheeks and burned there hotly.
"Yes, it was about you, sis. But you will soon be as well and happy as ever, won't you?" anxiously.
"To be sure, Evan; we will both get well very fast. We have got so much to live for, and we are too young to die."
It is the opening hour of Clifford Heath's trial.
The court room is crowded to its utmost capacity; never has there occurred a trial there so intensely interesting to all W——.
The prisoner is a little paler, a little graver than his ordinary self. But is his ordinary self in every other respect; as proud of bearing, as self-possessed, as handsome, anddistingueas ever.
Beside him sits Mr. O'Meara, alone. Mr. Wedron, after all his labor, and his seeming interest, is unaccountably absent; unaccountably, at least, so far as the opposition, the prisoner, the judge, jury, and all the spectators are concerned. Mr. O'Meara seems not at all disturbed by his absence, and evidently understands all about it.
Near the prisoner sits a man who causes a buzz of inquiry to run through the entire audience.
He is tall, fair haired, handsome; the carriage of his head, the haughtiness of his bearing, reminds more than one present of Clifford Heath, as they first knew him. He is a stranger to all W——, and "Who is he? Who is he?" runs from lip to lip.
The stranger is seemingly oblivious of the attention lavished upon him; he bends forward at times, and whispers a word to the prisoner, or his counsel, and he turns occasionally to murmur something in the ear of Constance Wardour, who sits beside him, grave, stately, calm.
She is accompanied by Mrs. Aliston and Mrs. O'Meara, and Ray Vandyck sits beside the latter lady, and completes the party.
Mr. Lamotte is there, subdued, yet affable, and Frank, too, who is paler than usual, but quite self-possessed.
Near the party above mentioned, may be seen the two city physicians, but, and here is another cause for wonderment, Doctor Benoit is not present; and, who ever knew the good doctor to miss an occasion like this?
"Business must be urgent, when it keeps Benoit away from such a trial," whispers one gossip to another, and the second endorses the opinion of the first.
Sitting there, scanning that audience with a seemingly careless glance, Constance feels her heart sink like lead in her bosom.
She feels, she knows, that already in the minds of most, her lover is a condemned man. She knows that the weight of evidence will be against him. They have a defense, it is true, but nothing will overthrow the fact that John Burrill went straight to the house of the prisoner, and was found dead hard by.
All along she has hoped, she knew not what, from Bathurst. But since he returned Sybil's note in so strange and abrupt a manner, she has had no word or sign from him, and now she doubts him, she distrusts everything.
But, little by little, day by day, she has been schooling her heart to face one last desperate alternative. Her lovershallbe saved! Let the trial go on. Let the worst come. Let the fatal verdict be pronounced, if it must; after that, perish the Wardour honor. What if she must trample the heart out of a mother's breast? What if she must fling into the breach the life of a blighted, wronged, helpless, perhaps dying sister woman?
Hardening her heart, crushing down her pride, she muttered desperately on this last day of doubt and suspense.
"Let them all go. Let the verdict be what it may, Clifford Heath shall not suffer a felon's doom!"
Then she had nerved herself to calmness and gone to face the inevitable.
"Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty?"
The reading of the indictment has turned all eyes upon the prisoner's face.
He stands erect, his head haughtily poised, his clear dark eyes fixed fully upon the judge.
"I am not guilty, your honor."
A murmur runs through the court room. The stranger bends to whisper to Constance. The trial proceeds.
Once again all the evidence brought forward at the inquest is repeated—sworn to—dilated upon. Once again it presses the scales down, down, down, and the chances for the prisoner hang light in the balance.
One thing puzzles the prosecuting attorney, and troubles the mind of Jasper Lamotte.
O'Meara, the shrewd, the fox like—O'Meara, who never lets pass a flaw or a loophole for criticism; who never loses a chance to pick and torture and puzzle a witness, is strangely indifferent.
One by one the witnesses for the prosecution pass before him; little by little they build a mountain of evidence against his client. He declines to examine them. He listens to their testimony with the air of a bored play-goer at a very poor farce.
After the testimony of the two masons, comes that of the party who last saw John Burrill in life. They testify as they did at the inquest—neither more, nor less.
Then come the dwellers in Mill avenue. They are all there but Brooks and Nance Burrill.
"Your honor," says the prosecuting attorney, "two of our witnesses—two very important ones—are absent. Why they are absent, we do not know. Where they may be found, is a profound mystery.
"One of these witnesses, a man called Brooks, we believe to have been especially intimate with the murdered man. We think that he could have revealed the secret which the prisoner took such deadly measures to cover up. This man can not be found. He disappeared shortly after the murder.
"Our other witness vanished almost simultaneously. This other was the divorced wife of the murdered Burrill. She, too, knew too much. Now I do not insinuate—I do not cast any stones, but there are some, not far distant, who could explain these two mysterious disappearances, 'an they would.'"
"An theywill!" pops in the hitherto mute O'Meara. "They'll make several knotty points clear to your understanding, honorable sir."
A retort rises to his opponent's lips, and a wordy war seems imminent, but the crier commands "Order in the Court," and the two antagonists glare at each other mutely, while the trial moves on.
Frank Lamotte comes upon the witness stand. As before, he tells nothing new.
He was aware that his brother-in-law possessed some secret of Doctor Heath's. Did not know the nature of it, but inferred from words Burrill had let drop, that it was of a damaging character.
Upon being questioned as to his acquaintance with the prisoner, and what he knew of his disposition and temper, he replies that he has known the prisoner since he first came to W——; liked him very much; never had any personal misunderstanding, although of late the prisoner had chosen to treat him with marked coldness.
As to his temper—well, he must admit that it was very fiery, very quickly roused, very difficult of control, he believed. Prisoner was by nature intolerant to a fault. He had shown this disposition in presence of witness on many occasions.
Being shown the knife found in the cellar, he examines it carefully, and pronounces it to be the one he has often seen in Doctor Heath's instrument case, or its precise counterpart.
This ends his testimony. O'Meara has no questions to ask, and Jasper Lamotte takes his son's place. He is the last witness for the prosecution.
He has less to say than any of the others.
He had heard of his son-in-law's encounter with Doctor Heath, of course; knew that a feud existed between them, could not so much as guess at the nature of it. The prosecuting attorney is about to dismiss himsans ceremonie, when Mr. O'Meara, springs into sudden activity and announces his desire to examine the witness.
His opponent stares astonished, a murmur runs through the room; the Court bids him proceed.
"Mr. Lamotte," begins O'Meara, rising to his feet with provoking slowness, and then propounding his questions with a rapidity which leaves the witness no time for thought. "Mr. Lamotte, what can you tell us of this missing witness, Brooks?"
Mr. Lamotte stares in mute astonishment, then instinctively scenting danger ahead, he makes an effort to rally his forces that have been scattered by the lawyer's unexpected bomb.
"What do I know of the man Brooks?" he repeats slowly. "I don't comprehend you, sir."
"I asked a plain question," retorts the lawyer, crisply.
"I believe the man has been in my employ," ventures the witness, as if making an effort to recall some very insignificant personage.
"When?"
"That I do not remember, sir."
"Ah! Perhaps you have forgotten when last you saw this fellow, Brooks?"
"I think I saw him, for the last time, two days before my son-in-law was killed. I was at the depot, starting for the city. I think Brooks left town on the same train."
"And you have not seen him since?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Make an effort to think, sir. Brooks has been seen in W—— since. It is known that he has visited Mapleton. Try to recall that visit."
Mr. Lamotte ponders and falls into the trap.
"A man came to Mapleton on the day of Mr. Burrill's funeral," he says, slowly. "I believe, upon reflection, that itwasBrooks; he wished to see the body."
"Did you see this man on that occasion?"
"I did; for a moment only; he came to me with his request."
"You are sure this man was Brooks?"
"Not beyond a doubt. I was troubled, and busy. It was one of my factory hands; Ithinkit was the man Brooks."
"Mr. Clerk," says O'Meara, turning suddenly to that functionary, "please take down Mr. Lamotte's statements. He isnotsure that it was the man Brooks."
Mr. Lamotte looks disconcerted for a moment.
But O'Meara goes vigorously on, leaving him no time to collect his thoughts.
"Now, Mr. Lamotte, what do you know of this woman who calls herself Nance Burrill?"
"Nothing," with a glance of offended dignity.
"Nothing! I am told that she has worked in your mills."
"It is possible; I am not my own overseer, however, and do not knowallmy people."
"Have you ever heard that this woman could tell things that would not reflect credit upon your dead son-in-law?"
"No, sir," haughtily.
"Were you aware that this woman is not to be found, before learning the same in court?"
"No, sir! I consider your questions irrelevant."
"Possibly," retorts O'Meara, drily. "I have no more to ask, sir." Then turning toward the jury, he says, rapidly:
"May it please your honor and the gentlemen of the jury, just here I have a word to say:
"You have heard the evidence against my client; you have heard the life and honor of a high-minded gentleman, against whom there was never before a breath of scandal or blame, sworn away by a handful of saloon loafers, and a pack of ignorant old women.
"I mean no disrespect to the loafers or the old women in question. I suppose if the good Lord had not intended them for what they are, he would have made them otherwise—and then there would have been no evidence against my client. I name them what they are, because, when this honorable jury weighs the evidence, I want them to weigh the witnesses as well."
"The gentleman wished to say one word," sneers the prosecution. "Has he said it, or is this the beginning of his plea?"
"It would be better for your case if it were the beginning of my plea," cuts in O'Meara; "my witnesses will be less to the gentleman's liking than are my words.
"Your honor, first then, the gentleman for the prosecution, in making his preliminary remarks, has dwelt at length upon the fact that my client is comparatively a stranger to W——; a stranger with a mystery. Now, then, I wish to show that it is possible for a stranger to W—— to be an honorable man, with an unblemished past; and that it is equally possible for a dweller in this classic and hitherto unpolluted town, to be a liar and to perjure himself most foully.
"Let the Honorable George Heathercliffe take the stand.
"And mark you, this gentlemanisthe Honorable George Heathercliffe, of Cliffe Towers, Hampshire, England, member of parliament, and honored of the Queen. His passports have been examined by our honorable judge, thereby saving the necessity for too much unpolished Yankee criticism."
"It has failed to save us a dose of Irish pig-headedness, however," interpolates the opposing barrister.
During the burst of smothered laughter that follows, the stately fair-haired stranger quits his place beside Constance, and takes the stand.
He is duly sworn, and then Mr. O'Meara begins, with much impressiveness:
"Mr. Heathercliffe, turn your eyes upon the prisoner, my client. Have you ever seen him before entering this court room?"
The Honorable George Heathercliffe turns toward the prisoner, and a smile deepens the blue of his eyes, and intensifies the kindly expression of his handsome mouth.
"I have seen the prisoner before," he replies, still smiling.
"Have you known him previous to his advent in W——?"
"I have."
"For long?"
"For many years."
"My honorable opponent has hinted that there is a mystery hanging about this man. He even hazards a guess that his name may not be Clifford Heath. Do you know aught of this mystery?"
"I do."
"Does the prisoner bear a name not his own?"
"He does not bear his own name entire."
"Mr. Heathercliffe, who is this man who calls himself Doctor Clifford Heath?"
"He isSir Clifford Heathercliffe, and my elder brother."
There is a profound sensation in the court room.
Constance Wardour catches her breath, and bends forward to look at her lover, the color coming and going hotly in her cheeks. She had chosen to hear nothing of his past, and so Mr. O'Meara has introduced the Honorable George Heathercliffe, that morning, saying only: "A most important witness, Constance; astrongwitness."
"He is Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, and my elder brother."
Mr. Rand, the prosecuting attorney, moves uneasily in his seat, and begins to wonder what small shot O'Meara holds back of this big shell.
Without seeming to notice the sensation created by his self-possessed witness, O'Meara goes on rapidly.
"How long has your brother, Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, been in America?"
"For more than three years."
"Until you received the telegram calling you to his aid, did you know where to find your brother?"
"I did not."
"Mr. Heathercliffe, have you that telegram in your possession?"
"I have."
"Will you permit his honor, the judge, to see that telegram?"
"Assuredly." He draws forth a morocco letter case, and taking therefrom a slip of paper hands it to O'Meara. That astute gentleman passes it carelessly on to the clerk, saying: "Read it please."
Rising to receive the paper, the clerk reads:
Honorable George Heathercliffe, Cliffe Towers, etc., etc.,Come at once to W——, R—— County.——Sir Clifford is in deep trouble.Bathurst.
Honorable George Heathercliffe, Cliffe Towers, etc., etc.,
Come at once to W——, R—— County.——Sir Clifford is in deep trouble.
Bathurst.
"Bathurst!" the name falls involuntarily from the lips of Mr. Rand; he knows the expert by reputation, and this is the first intimation he has received, that so shrewd a man is at work in the interest of Clifford Heath.
"Is this the only message you received?"
"No, later in the day this came."
He produced and passed over a second dispatch, which is read like the first.
Honorable George Heathercliffe, etc.Before starting find out everything you can concerning one John, or Jonathan Burrill, once in the employ of your father.Bathurst.
Honorable George Heathercliffe, etc.
Before starting find out everything you can concerning one John, or Jonathan Burrill, once in the employ of your father.
Bathurst.
The two Lamottes glance uneasily at each other. Whither is this examination tending?
"Did you follow the instructions in this last telegram?" asks O'Meara.
"I did."
A bland smile widens the mouth of the little Irish lawyer. He waves his hand magisterially.
"That is all, for the present, Mr. Heathercliffe," he says, suavely, and amazement sits on every countenance.
And now Mr. Rand bends forward and flings himself into the arena, while O'Meara leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling maliciously.
"Mr. Heathercliffe," begins the cross-examiner, "Your two dispatches are signed 'Bathurst.' Who is this Bathurst?"
"Mr. Bathurst, sir, is a very able detective."
"Ah! He is known to you, I presume?"
"He is," bowing gravely.
"Now, Mr. Heathercliffe, it strikes me as singular that an English gentleman should be on such familiar terms with a Yankee detective; and still more strange that an English nobleman should be masquerading in America, as a country physician. I should like an explanation of these things."
"My brother came to America on account of family troubles, sir. Is itnecessarythat I make a fuller statement?"
He asks this hesitatingly, and Mr. Rand fancies that he sees a point to be gained. He does not see that O'Meara is struggling to conceal the smile of satisfaction thatwillcreep into his face.
"Iconsider it necessary, sir. It is high time that we knew why we have been honored by thisincognito—nobleman."
The witness turns an unruffled countenance towards the judge.
"If the Court will permit me to tell my brother's story in my own way, (it will take some time,) I shall be glad to enlighten this legal gentleman."
The Court gives its gracious permission; Attorney Rand resumes his seat; O'Meara fairly grins his delight; Constance leans forward, breathlessly; the prisoner casts one look about him, and then rests his head upon his hand; there is breathless silence in the court, as the Honorable George Heathercliffe begins:
"I have said that the prisoner at the Bar, is my elder brother; three years ago he was notSirClifford Heathercliffe, not my eldest brother.
"The name of Sir Herbert Heathercliffe is, no doubt, unknown to all here present—except Mr. Bathurst, if that gentleman is here—but England has rung with that name, and the Heathercliffe pride has been lowered to the dust, because of it.
"Sir Herbert was the pet and favorite of our father, and possessed over him a strong magnetic influence. He was less than two years older than Clifford, and the two closely resembled each other.
"From their academic days, Herbert was an idler, a spendthrift, a squire of dames,par excellence. Clifford was devoted to study, and not enamored of society.
"It is not my purpose to follow step by step the downward career of my brother Herbert, only such of his misdeeds as affected Clifford need be brought forward here.
"I have said that Herbert was a spendthrift. He was perpetually borrowing of Clifford, and always in debt.
"When Clifford, who had a monomania for the medical profession, announced his intention to go to Germany and pursue his studies there, the first trouble came.
"Herbert, who for his own selfish ends, wished to keep Clifford and his purse nearer Cliffe Towers, incited my father to oppose the scheme. This was easy. Lord Heathercliffe did not believe in the dignity of labor, and the two voted this new departure a family disgrace. They said so much, and in such offensive language, that Clifford, in open defiance of his father's commands, turned his back upon us all, and went to Heidelberg.
"But, Herbert's career had only began. In a little while, it was discovered that our father's name had been forged for a large amount, and suspicion pointed to my brother Clifford. He came in hot haste on receipt of a telegram, and he did not come alone. He brought with him, Detective Bathurst, whom he was so fortunate as to find at Scotland Yards.
"I need not dwell on what followed; Bathurst is a keen detective; he vindicated my brother, Clifford, and placed the guilt where it belonged. It was Herbert who had forged my father's name.
"There was a terrible scene at the Towers. Herbert swore eternal enmity toward Clifford, and Clifford predicted then and there the downfall of all our pride, through Herbert's follies. I remember his words distinctly:
"'Let me tell you how this will end, Lord Heathercliffe,' he said; 'I have not grown up beside Herbert, not to know him. Our name has heretofore been stainless; we shall keep it so no longer; it will be dragged in the mud, smirched, hissed, disgraced utterly. But I will never permit myself to go down with the fall of the Heathercliffes; I renounce all claims upon you; I renounce my succession; I renounce a name already contaminated; the world is my heritage; I shall leave England; I shall leave Europe; I will make me a new name, and build my own fortune. When Herbert has broken your heart, and ruined your fortunes, as he surely will, and when his debaucheries have brought him to an early grave, as they must, then let the title fall to George; he is younger; he can not feel this shame so keenly; as for me, I will never wear the title; I will never be pointed out as the peer whose elder brother was a rake, a seducer, a forger, and Herbert is all these.'
"Clifford went back to Heidelberg; Herbert remained at the Towers, whining, pleading, shamefully fawning upon a doting and half imbecile old man.
"He feigned illness; he feigned penitence, and finally he held my father more than ever his adoring slave.
"I can not prolong this recital. It is needless. Herbert ran his race of infamy. My father died broken hearted. Clifford searched all England to bring Herbert, then a fugitive, to his father's death bed; but the officers of justice were before him. They ran him down in an obscure provincial village, and, to escape the consequences of his misdeeds, Herbert Heathercliffe crowned his life of mad folly by dying a suicide's death.
"And now I must turn a page in my own personal history:
"Prior to my father's death, I had formed an attachment for the only daughter of a proud and wealthy country gentleman, our neighbor. But I was a younger son, and by my father's will, made upon his death-bed, Clifford was his heir. Herbert had squandered half our father's fortune, but a handsome sum still remained.
"Realizing the hopelessness of my suit, I was preparing to quit England, taking with me my mother's legacy, which would amply suffice for a bachelor's wants, but was too meager a sum to lay at the feet of a beauty and an heiress. To make my departure more bitter, I had learned that the woman of my choice returned my affections.
"Then Sir Clifford swooped down upon me. Before I could guess his intent, he had sought and gained the consent of my wife's father; had transferred to me all his fortune, reserving only his mother's legacy, which was the same as mine. He forced me to accept by the strength of his splendid will. He installed me as master of Cliffe Towers. He hastened the marriage preparations. He remained long enough to dance at our wedding, and then he left us—proud as a king, independent as a gypsy, blameless, fearless, high-souled.
"He came to America, and never permitted us to know his whereabouts. At regular intervals, we received his letters—many whimsical descriptions of his new life and new pursuits, but we always addressed him in New York, and our letters, bearing the English seal, came to him under an American disguise. We did not so much as know the name he had assumed.
"This, gentlemen, is the true reason why Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, the truest, the noblest of English gentlemen, came among you as one of yourselves.
"I have one more word to say. Sir Clifford never saw the man, John Burrill; but our brother Herbert knew him well. Burrill was his tool and accomplice in many shameful escapades. They came to grief together; quarreled fearfully, and, when Herbert fled for his life, Burrill with his wife made his escape to America. All that I have said concerning this Burrill will be verified by Detective Bathurst."
Then turning toward Mr. Rand: "Is my explanation sufficient, sir?"
The lawyer only bows his head, and the handsome Englishman takes his seat while the house rings with applause. Evidently his tersely told story of brotherly sacrifice has touched the "humanness" of that strangely-mixed audience.
During the moment of clamor and confusion, Doctor Benoit enters the court room, and almost unobserved seats himself beside the New York medical experts.
A smile of gratification comes to O'Meara's face at sight of this late arrival, and when the court is restored to quiet, he says:
"Let Doctor Benoit be sworn."
The doctor testifies as follows:
Being called to examine the wounds upon the person of John Burrill, he found that they could not have been made with the knife found with the body. The identical knife being put into his hands, he explains how a cut made by such a keen, heavy weapon, must appear, and describes the knife that must have been used upon the body.
"It was a smaller weapon," he says, "thinner bladed and much lighter. It must have been shorter by two or three inches."
Then he adds that the surgeon's knife has never been used upon a body; the blood has been smeared on by an inartistic hand.
"It would be impossible," he says, "to withdraw this knife from a bleeding wound with no other blood marks than those it bears."
Doctor Gaylor and Professor Harrington corroborate his every statement, and when their testimony is done there is another sensation in the court room.
As Doctor Benoit passes by O'Meara, in returning from the witness stand, he tosses over a piece of paper, which the lawyer seizes, scans eagerly, and stows carefully away.
He consults some papers for a moment, and then says:
"I wish to recall Francis Lamotte."
Frank comes again upon the stand; his eyes seem fixed on vacancy; his face is white and rigid; his answers come in a dry monotone.
"Mr. Lamotte," begins O'Meara, briskly. "It is understood that you have been a student in Doctor Heath's office."
"That is true."
"During the time you studied there, had you free access to the office at all hours?"
"I had."
"I judge, then, that you must have possessed a pass key?"
"I did."
"Is that key still in your possession?"
"No."
"How did you dispose of that key?"
"I think it was lost; it has been out of my possession for some time."
"Where did you lose this key?"
"I do not remember; possibly at home, possibly at the office. It has been out of my possession for some time."
"Since losing your key, how did you gain access to the office in the doctor's absence?"
"I have visited the office very seldom of late, and not once since losing the key, in the absence of Doctor Heath."
"Mr. Lamotte, was there any way to distinguish your lost key from that used by my client?"
"Yes; my key was newer than his, and brighter."
"It was my client's custom to keep an extra suit of clothes in his office closet, was it not?"
"Yes."
"And it would be very natural that, in exchanging one garment for another, a glove or handkerchief should be sometimes left in the discarded garment?"
"Quite natural."
"Now let us suppose that, on the night of the murder, my client, returning from a visit to Mapleton, where he was called to attend upon the wife of the murdered man, halted at his office, hung up his outer coat, and sat for a little time, writing or reading, or perhaps meditating.
"Let us suppose that on preparing to face the wind, that was rising rapidly, and blowing chill, he substituted a heavy overcoat for the one he had worn earlier in the evening; and that he discovered, when half way home, that he had left his much needed handkerchief with his discarded coat.
"Would it not be quite an easy matter for some one who had obtained possession of your key,and was sufficiently familiar with the bearings of the office to move about in the dark, or by the dim fire-light, to enter that office, remove the surgeon's knife from its case, pilfer a handkerchief from the coat pocket, and escape unseen?"
"It would—I should think."
"If this person having the key, the knife, and the handkerchief, all in his possession, should go and fling them all into the old cellar on the Burns' place, you would call that singular?"
"Yes," from lips white and parched.
O'Meara turns suddenly and takes something from the table.
"Mr. Lamotte, take this key, examine it well. Does it at all resemble the one you—lost?"
Frank takes the key, mechanically, turns it about with nerveless fingers, scarcely glances at it.
"I think—it is—the same," he mutters, hoarsely.
"You think it is your lost key. Mr. Lamotte, do you know where this key was found?"
"No," stolidly.
"I will tell you. It was found in the old cellar, embedded in the mud,close beside the dead body of John Burrill."