"A very loud report?"
"Very loud."
"Such as might have been caused by the explosion of the bomb Mr. Fowler described?"
"I should say so."
"At what time," asked Shagarach, "did the explosion take place? How long after you arrived?"
"I couldn't say exactly; a few minutes."
"One?"
"More than one."
"Two?"
"Yes."
"Three?"
"Possibly."
"And when did you arrive?"
"At 3:32."
"How long had the fire been going when you arrived?"
"As nearly as I could estimate from the headway, about five minutes. Opinions varied a good deal on that point."
"Let us say five and add the three which elapsed before you heard the explosion. Then if there were a bomb in the study or library and its fuse were lighted at the start of the fire that fuse must have burned for eight minutes before it reached the powder."
"He's a genius," exclaimed Wye, but Ecks was sketching Shagarach's forehead and did not answer.
"I suppose so," said the fireman.
"A somewhat incombustible fuse. But if the fuse were not lighted at the start then presumably the fire started at the opposite end of the room and worked its way slowly toward the fuse?"
"Presumably."
"Even so, it seems likely that the fuse must have been boxed up tightly or it would have caught earlier."
"It certainly does to me, sir, though I haven't given the subject any thought."
"It is not a difficult one," said Shagarach. "Wouldn't you say, then, that this fire must have been started by some one who was ignorant that there was a bomb in the room in close proximity to the safe? Otherwise he would have lighted the fuse."
"Perhaps."
"And consequently by some one else than Floyd?"
"I object," said the district attorney. He ought to have objected long before, since Shagarach's previous question was wholly out of order, but his attention had been distracted by McCausland.
"If it had been the incendiary's desire to secure a gradual spread of the flames, so as to permit himself ample time to escape, while at the same time insuring the destruction of the safe, would it not have been prudent for him to apply the match at the other end of the room, as he appears to have done?" asked the district attorney. But Shagarach objected to this in his turn and the two questions were left unanswered, locking horns like tangled stags in the minds of the wondering jurors.
"May I add one further question to my cross-examination of Mr. Fowler?" asked Shagarach, when the fireman was dismissed.
"How long, Mr. Fowler, would it take for that bomb to explode after the tip of the fuse had ignited?"
"About a minute," answered the chemist.
"For the present," said the district attorney, "we are obliged to rest this portion of the case. The fatality which has pursued all the occupants of the Arnold house, even to the discharged coachman, Dennis Mungovan, has deprived us by Miss Lund's death of a witness who would have directly and immediately connected the bomb which Floyd constructed with the mutilated safe. This afternoon we shall enter upon a different phase of the subject—namely, an earlier attempt on the part of the accused to obtain possession of the will."
"Saul Aronson," called the district attorney.
Shagarach's assistant had been amazed to find a subpoena thrust into his hands just as he returned to his desk after the noon recess. Of what service could he be to the prosecution? As little as possible, he inwardly determined, while he made his way to the stand.
"Do you know a young lady named Miss Serena Lamb?" asked Badger, in his iciest voice. The cruelty of it was exquisite. If he had discharged a revolver at Aronson point blank the witness could not have looked more terror-stricken. To have the secrets of the affections thus held up to public scorn! To be compelled to wear on his sleeve the heart whose bleeding in his bosom he had with difficulty stanched! His face grew pale—or, rather, a mottled white. But Shagarach rose on purpose and his master's presence acted like a cordial on the fainting witness.
"Yes, sir," he stammered out, marveling what was to come; how long the torture would be prolonged.
"That is all for the present," said Badger.
"Prof. Borrowscales," called the district attorney, and a shadow of disappointment fell on the court-room. There is no testimony less amusing than that of the writing expert and none more inconclusive. At least eleven jurors out of twelve disregard it and form their own opinions by the rule of thumb.
"You are a professor of penmanship?" asked the district attorney.
"An expert in handwriting, yes, sir."
"Of many years' experience?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Have you examined the papers submitted to you by Inspector McCausland?"
"I have microscopically."
"Describe them, please, for the benefit of the jury."
"This one is a page of manuscript purporting to be the work of Robert Floyd and bearing his signature. The other contains a chemical formula."
"The bomb formula, taken from the desk of the accused," explained the district attorney. "Anything else?"
"A number, apparently jotted down on the same sheet."
"Please read out that number."
"No. 1863."
"What do you say as to the identity of the handwritings, professor?"
"I give it as my conviction that they are the same. The capital Q——"
"Never mind the capital Q," interrupted Shagarach. "We admit that the formula was written by the accused."
"Retain the autograph for one moment," said the district attorney. "There was another article submitted to you for comparison. What was that?"
"A blotting-pad," said the professor, holding it up in his fingers and showing a clean side, bearing the reversed impressions of two or three lines of writing.
"Will you kindly hold that up to the mirror you have brought and read what may be read of the writing taken up by the pad?"
"Looks to me as if it came from the back of a postal card. Just fits that size and says:
"'Dear Aronson: The lock that I told you about still sticks. Please come and open it. I will not trust it to an ordinary locksmith."ROBERT FLOYD.'"
"'Dear Aronson: The lock that I told you about still sticks. Please come and open it. I will not trust it to an ordinary locksmith.
"ROBERT FLOYD.'"
"As to the signature and writing? Are they genuine?"
"Beyond peradventure and on the strength of my twenty-nine years of experience."
"During your twenty-nine years of experience," asked Shagarach, "have you ever failed to arrive at the conclusion your employers expected?"
"I object," said the district attorney, and Shagarach withdrew his question. It was one of those ramrod questions, the office of which is simply to drive the charge home and then be withdrawn.
"Will you kindly write your own name on that?"
He handed up a common paper block and a pen. The expert flushed a little and put the pen in his mouth. This blackened his lips and raised a titter. His tongue rolled in his cheek like a schoolboy's while he wrote. The effort was unconsciously prolonged. Shagarach took the autograph and passed it to the jury. A broad smile spread from face to face like a row of lamps lighted successively by an electric current. Then the half-legible scrawl was passed to the district attorney and Shagarach sat down.
"I do not understand," said the district attorney, "that you profess to be an ornamental writer?"
"It is not necessary, Brother Bigelow," interrupted Shagarach again. "We acknowledge the note on the postal card."
"He has a spark of humor, after all," said Ecks, who was still in his seat.
"What do you suppose Aronson has to do with it?" asked Wye, while the jury studied the blotter, one after another, mirror in hand.
"Pineapple Jupiter!" called Badger. The old negro hobbled to the stand and immediately opened his mouth in a good-natured smile, which set the spectators' lips working responsively.
"This is a murder case, involving life and death," said Chief Justice Playfair, with dignity, and the court officers rapped their staffs and bustled about, commanding silence.
"You know Mr. Aronson, the last witness but one?" asked Badger.
"See him most every day, sah."
"Do you also know a young lady named Miss Serena Lamb?"
"See her most every day, sah."
"Did you ever introduce Mr. Aronson to Miss Lamb?"
"Yes, sah."
"When and where?"
"Well, you see, I fotched him up to her and says I, 'Here's a convert, sister,' says I. 'Hallelujah!' says she, and that's how I done it, sah."
"Where was this?"
"Down on the square, sah—Salem street."
"And when?"
"When?"
"Yes, when did you introduce Mr. Aronson and Miss Lamb?"
The negro scratched his woolly poll.
"Clean forgot de time, sah."
"Was it a year ago?"
"'Bout a year, sah."
"Couldn't you fix the time exactly? It is important."
"Well, you see, sah, it was about de second-last time I got a hair-cut."
This answer provoked a roar, but the district attorney took the witness in hand.
"Can you count?"
"Oh, yes, sah; I can count, sah."
"Up to how far?"
"Up to ten mostly, sah."
"You can't read?"
"Born before Massah Linkun, sah. Chillun can read. Old folks picking cotton; no time for school, sah."
"And you reckon time by the occasions when your hair needs cutting?"
"Yes, sah; wife and I reckons pretty close on that, sah."
"An excellent way for want of a better hour-glass," said the district attorney. "About how often do you get your hair cut from winter to winter?"
"Oh, about six times, sah. My ole wool grows putty stiddy-reg'lar, sah."
"Six times? You have had your hair cut lately?"
"This morning, sah. Wife said I wasn't looking 'spectable enough to come into court before genteel gemlen."
"And you introduced Miss Lamb and Mr. Aronson about the second hair-cut before that?"
"Yes, sah, third-last time. 'Scuse me."
"It must have been four months ago, then. That will do. Mr. Hardwood."
A business-looking old gentleman took the stand.
"You are a member of the firm of Hardwood & Lockwell?" asked Badger.
"Senior member."
"What is your business?"
"Safemakers."
"How long have you been established?"
"Thirty-seven years."
"Do you recollect filling an order for a safe from Prof. Arnold?"
"I do, sir. It is the first order on our books."
"Are those books in existence to-day?"
"They are, sir," said the old business man, with pride.
"Do you happen to know whether that safe ordered by Prof. Arnold was still used by him at the time of the fire which destroyed his home?"
"I have reason to believe so. I remember seeing it and reminding him of the circumstance in his house within a year."
"You regarded it as in a way the foundation stone of your business prosperity?"
"It was our first sale."
"What, if you recollect, was the number of the safe—an old-fashioned article, I presume?"
"Somewhat antiquated in style, sir. I have consulted our books, at the request of the officer—Mr. McCausland, I think. The number of the safe sold to Benjamin Arnold was 1863."
"Were you here," asked Shagarach, "when Prof. Borrowscales read out the number which was jotted down upon a sheet of paper in Floyd's desk?"
"I was. I was struck at the identity."
"You have no means of knowing, however, whether or not that number was a memorandum of the date in the life of Bakunin, the anarchistic writer?"
"I have not."
"Mr. McCausland, again," said the district attorney.
For the third time the inspector came to the box from the ante-room through the door at which he watched and listened.
"You occupied a cell adjoining that of the prisoner in the state prison at one time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you state any conversation relevant to this trial which you may have overheard?"
"It was a soliloquy rather than a conversation."
"Describe this soliloquy, then."
"Floyd used to talk at night a good deal. He wasn't sleeping well." The court was hushed at this strange introduction. "There was a communication between our cells and by listening carefully one night I managed to make out what he was saying."
"And what was he saying?" asked the district attorney, while Floyd studied the witness' face with more curiosity than he had yet at any time shown.
"'Don't tell anybody, Aronson.'"
To the surprise of everybody the accused burst out into a hearty laugh, which rung through the court-room and evidently nettled the whole prosecuting force. Then he bent over to Shagarach and whispered in his ear. Shagarach jumped to his feet, promptly as usual, for the district attorney had finished. His opportunity had come.
"What crime had you committed, Mr. McCausland, that the state should isolate you in one of its prison cells?"
"I was a voluntary prisoner," answered the detective. He had put his neck in the noose and must bear the strangling as cheerfully as possible.
"For what purpose?"
"A professional one."
"You were there to win the confidence of the accused and extort a confession of guilt from him if possible?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you succeed?"
"Owing to the cleverness of the prisoner and his having been forewarned, I failed."
"Not owing to the fact that he is innocent, you think?"
"I think not."
Shagarach seemed satisfied not to press this further and asked for the blotter, which was in the foreman's hand.
"You were requested to state any conversation relevant to this cause which you had with the accused while in prison. You answered with a few meaningless words pronounced in sleep. I confess the relevance of all this later testimony escapes me," said Shagarach.
"The next witness, Miss Lamb," answered the district attorney, "will make the connection of all these threads of testimony plain."
"Do you know Mr. Aronson, the piano dealer?" asked Shagarach of the witness.
"By sight."
McCausland, though he kept his own identity as hidden as possible, knew the whole city by sight.
"Is it not possible to construe this note on the postal card as referring to the refractory lock of Miss Barlow's piano, which the accused had recently purchased for her as a birthday present?"
"Out of the $309 he earned?" asked McCausland.
"That and the lifelong income he has enjoyed from his mother's property," said Shagarach. Whereupon McCausland, Bigelow and the whole court-room stared, and even Chief Justice Playfair's trained eyebrow was perceptibly lifted.
"Miss Serena Lamb," called the district attorney. How Aronson blushed and fidgeted when his idol, with eyes downcast in virgin shyness, tripped in from the corridor at a constable's beck and mounted the stand!
"Glory alleluia!" she said, with her right hand raised, when the clerk had repeated the formula of the oath.
"You are a member of the salvation army, Miss Lamb?" asked the district attorney. Her bonnet and garb sufficiently answered the question.
"You are acquainted with a young man named Saul Aronson?" was the first question put to Serena.
"I was made known unto such an one," said the girl, in quasi-scriptural parlance.
"By whom?"
"Pineapple Jupiter."
"How did Aronson first present himself to your attention?"
"As one who had seen the error of unbelief and wished to repent. Alleluia!"
"As a convert, then? Did you ever have any private conference with this convert?"
"I did."
"Will you kindly tell the jury when and where?"
"It was the month of May at my home in the city."
"In the parlor of your house?"
"Even so."
"On what date, if you remember?"
"Early in May, but the day escapes me."
"State the substance of your conversation."
"The youth had been a sinner, but his heart was touched and he unburdened his misdeeds to me, of which this was the gravest:
"While he was still unregenerate a certain youth of his own age"—she looked full at Robert—"had tempted him with a bribe to enter a certain house wrongfully and open a certain safe. For the youth had cunning in that craft. The room he entered was filled with books and a canary bird slept in his cage, for it was evening, and a desk stood before a window in one corner."
"I desire to call the attention of the jury to this description," said the district attorney. "It corresponds strikingly with the description of Prof. Arnold's study in the printed copy of Bertha Lund's testimony at the hearing, which is in their possession. Proceed, Miss Lamb."
"And the name of the tempter was Robert Floyd." The hush deepened perceptibly as Serena paused.
"Upon his knees with many tools," she resumed, "he toiled at the door, but it was firm and resisted his skill. Nevertheless the youth stated that he would have succeeded had not an interruption come and startled the guilty pair."
"Are there any further details you desire to add to this recital?"
"Only that it was done on the Sabbath and surely unblessed labor."
"You have not seen the convert since?"
"Never, but I have heard that the courage of his faith deserted him."
"Is the man here?" asked the district attorney, turning toward Aronson—poor Aronson, who sat open-mouthed, goggle-eyed, with gaze riveted on the pale sweet face in the bonnet. Now a thousand eyes were turned upon him, but still he saw only the rosebud mouth and awaited breathlessly its answer.
"That is the man," answered the witness, pointing. The greater "Ecce homo" of history scarcely drew forth such a murmur from the bystanders. But the gavel of the crier was heard rapping for attention, for the court had risen promptly at the strokes of the clock.
"One moment, your honor," said Shagarach, rising, after a whispered consultation with his assistant, now voluble and stuttering with excitement. "I desire to ask that the court issue a warrant for the arrest of the last witness, Miss Serena Lamb, on the charge of malicious perjury."
"What in the world is he smiling for?" asked Emily. Inspector McCausland's smile was a barometer of her own uneasiness, and she could not help remarking his unusual geniality at the opening of the court on Wednesday.
The previous day's work had closed with a sturdy wrangle between Shagarach and the district attorney. Whether it was that Shagarach's charge of perjury was not sufficiently supported (it was merely Aronson's word against Serena's) or that Bigelow's inelastic mind characteristically clung in the face of cogent proof to the convictions it had already formed, he had objected might and main to the proposed issue of a warrant and even gone so far as to protest against his learned brother's effort to intimidate a witness of the weaker sex. McCausland had amicably agreed to secure the attendance of Miss Lamb for cross-examination, and so the confusion subsided. Miss Lamb was there and so was the inspector. But what made him smile?
"Good morning, Miss Barlow," said a familiar voice, close to Emily's ear.
"Bertha Lund!" she exclaimed. There it was, the large, fair Swedish face, with sparkling blue eyes that danced with the pleasure of the surprise. After a moment of silent study Emily gave her a bear-like squeeze and only released her that she might shake hands with Robert.
"It's none of my doing, Mr. Robert," said Bertha. "If I could, I'd have staid home in Upsala, but I gave my word to Mr. McCausland that I'd come back, and here I am to keep it."
"But we thought you were lost. We saw the body and buried it," cried Emily.
"Oh, that was another Bertha Lund. Mr. McCausland thought it was me, too."
"Another one from Upsala?"
"Why, if you took all the Bertha Lunds and Nils Nilssons in Upsala you could fill a big town with them," said the housemaid, laughing.
"And how did you happen to go home to Sweden?" asked Robert.
"Mrs. Arnold wanted another house-girl and I'd told her about my sister Christina, who is old enough now to be handy. She was kind enough to pay my passage over so I could bring her out with me, and let me stay all summer, too. Did you ever see such goodness?"
"She's a very uncommon mistress, certainly," said Emily.
"It was the day after we were talking at Hillsborough that I started," said Bertha. "Do you remember?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Emily, brightening up, "and now let us finish that talk. I have a hundred questions I want to ask you. Shall you testify to-day?"
"No; I've only just got here and the lawyer said he would leave me till the last. The voyage is very tiresome, you know."
"Then come with me," cried Emily, with animation, and drew Bertha after her into the ante-room. Here Robert caught a glimpse of her from time to time questioning, explaining, measuring with her hands, as if she were satisfying herself on doubtful points of her theory. And when she finally came out, in the middle of Miss Lamb's cross-examination, her face wore a smile so auroral that even Chief Justice Playfair's eyes left the witness and wandered over toward the true-hearted girl.
"Mr. Aronson told you that he worked on his knees at this mysterious safe?" was Shagarach's opening question to Miss Lamb.
"On his knees," answered the maiden, still bonneted and fanning herself with Emily's fan, which she had forgotten to return in the excitement of the previous evening.
"Mr. Aronson is not an uncommonly tall man, is he?"
"A trifle taller than you are."
"But yet not above the average," persisted Shagarach.
"Perhaps not."
"The government wishes us to believe that there was a bomb purposely placed under this safe. That would raise it from the floor several inches, would it not?"
"I suppose so. I know nothing about the bomb."
"Will you kindly explain how the locksmith could be kneeling while at work on a safe which, according to the testimony of Miss Lund, at the hearing, was resting on a shelf as high as her waist from the ground?"
The witness fanned herself nervously and once or twice opened her lips to reply, but no sound came forth. A wave of frightened sympathy passed through the spectators in the prolonged interim of silence, like that which seizes an audience when an orator falters and threatens to break down.
"You do not answer, Miss Lamb?"
"I feel faint," said the girl. A chair and a glass of water were hurried to her aid.
"Are you sure this is the man Aronson who visited you?" asked Shagarach when she had recovered.
"Oh, yes."
"Then we have two Aronsons in the case; Mr. Saul Aronson, my assistant, and Mr. Jacob Aronson, the piano dealer, who will testify to having received the postal card copied on the blotting-pad. And this Mr. Aronson who visited you declared that he had been a locksmith, if I understood your story?"
"He said so."
"That is not surprising. Mr. Aronson, my assistant, was formerly a locksmith. What was the date of your interview?"
"The first part of July. I can't remember the exact day," replied the witness, a bit nettled. The rusticity was rubbing on again in her manner, and to Saul Aronson it actually seemed that her cheekbones were becoming prominent, like those of her horrid aunt whom he had met on that fateful evening. But this may have been an optical illusion. The sympathy of the spectators trembled in the balance. She seemed so young and dove-like. But there stood Shagarach confronting her, hostile, skeptical, uncompromising.
"Mr. Aronson had made this alleged attempt to open a safe on Sunday evening, you said?"
"On the evening of the Sabbath."
Here Aronson gesticulated and whispered in Shagarach's ear. The lawyer listened calmly.
"When did you first become acquainted with him?"
"I don't remember exactly. He came to our meetings for a long time before I was introduced to him."
Serena blushed a little and Aronson's cheeks were all abloom.
"He was a convert to your faith?"
"So we thought."
"How long had he been converted?"
"I don't know."
"Pineapple Jupiter says he introduced you to Mr. Aronson about four months ago, if the district attorney reckons rightly from his periodic hair-cuts. Then at the time of the visit to your house in July he must have been a convert nearly two months?"
"Perhaps."
"But the will was only drawn on June 7. And Mr. Aronson, I understand you to testify, yielded to this temptation before he was converted?"
The witness did not answer, but looked around the court-room as if for sympathy.
"Are we to understand that he broke into the safe before the will was placed there?"
The witness fluttered her fan nervously and her lips were quivering. She looked down.
"Sunday evening, you said. You are probably not aware that Prof. Arnold read in his own library every Sunday evening up to the time of his death?"
Serena began to cry. Instantly the tension of the audience was relaxed and comments passed to and fro.
"She belongs to the romantic school of statisticians," whispered Wye. Ecks responded with a cartoon of "Miss Meekness, making a slip of the decimal point."
"Religious mania; hysterical mendacity," a doctor diagnosed it, with a pompous frown.
"Little minx had a craving for notoriety," said a woman, elderly, unmarried and plain.
"I should say it illustrates the pernicious effect of novel reading on a rustic brain," murmured a clerical personage, clearing his throat before he delivered himself.
Suddenly Shagarach's insistence left him. His voice softened. With his very first question, the distressed look, half of reproach, half of sympathy, toward Serena, cleared away from Aronson's face.
"Wasn't Mr. Aronson agitated on that evening, Miss Lamb?"
She blushed amid her tears and her answer was less defiant.
"Extremely agitated."
"Wasn't his story to you somewhat confused in the telling?"
"Very confused, yes, sir."
"And perhaps the outlines blurred still more in your memory by the lapse of time?"
"Perhaps. I meant to speak of that myself," answered Serena, brightening. Whereat the entire court-room brightened. Shagarach's inflections became kind, almost genial now. One would have thought she was his own witness, he stroked her so gently.
"And his accent was somewhat hard to follow?"
"Oh, very."
"He is not perfectly familiar with our language as yet?"
"No, he speaks it poorly."
The court-room was all curiosity.
"Didn't this picture of the study, which you have quoted, come in as part of his description of a law case?"
"Why, yes; he began talking about the Floyd case."
"In which he was deeply interested at that time, as my assistant. That, however, he did not make clear to you?"
"No."
"Can you swear that this whole picture of a Sunday-night entrance and experiment on the safe was not an imaginary one—a piece of fiction, invented and vividly told in the first person to illustrate what Robert Floyd might easily have done if he had desired to destroy the will, but what——"
Shagarach inclined slightly toward the jury, "but what he evidently did not do?"
"Perhaps. Truly I couldn't catch half of what he was saying when he began to talk rapidly."
"I myself am a locksmith. He could come and give me money. We go Sunday night. Nobody home. House all still. I get down on my knees. File a little. Drill. Somebody come. I go away. Come again. Try again."
Serena smiled a smile that sent waves of sunshine through the room. Shagarach had not once descended to mimicry of his assistant's dialect. But the broken fragments of speech, the confused arrangement, seemed to call before Serena's eye an amusing picture of her lovelorn swain's incoherence.
"Perhaps I was altogether mistaken," she volunteered.
Shagarach waved her with courtesy to the nonplussed though apparently still obstinate district attorney. A long conference followed among the prosecuting lawyers, while Emily heaved a sigh of relief.
Over in his front seat Ecks was gazing at Shagarach, as if trying to pierce the great brow, not opened showily, but masked, as it were, by the loose-falling hair. The marvelous skill of his tactics—first, the breaking down of Serena's story through its intrinsic discrepancies, then the building up from her own lips of a hypothetical case in the jurors' minds—all without deviating a hair line from true courtesy and delicacy of treatment—sank deeply into the novelist's heart. He did not reply to Wye's comment on the underplot.
"Incarnate self-control!" he muttered to himself.
But alas for poor Saul Aronson! It was bad enough to be compelled to flee from suspicion post haste through the gateway of public ridicule. But to realize at last that Serena was human and no angel—capable of pique, brusqueness and tears—capable even of resisting Shagarach! The scales of illusion fell from his eyes and he hung his head, a chastened youth.
"The redirect is deferred," said Bigelow, and Serena, after returning the fan to Emily, stepped softly out. Her footfalls barely broke the dead silence as she picked her way through the crowd.
Aronson lifted his eyes to her face. What imperfections he noted now! The eyebrows too level, the rosebud mouth too small and the cheekbones unmistakably present, even if barely breaking the curve. It was fated so. Doubtless in time he would follow old Abraham Barentzen's counsel and take some comely daughter of Israel to wife, well-dowered, a good housekeeper, and free from tittle-tattle. But never again would his naive heart palpitate with such virginal ecstasy as when he first gazed through the rose-misted spectacles of love on that sweetly imperfect gentile maiden.
"We shall now offer a mass of evidence," said the district attorney, "tending to prove the crucial point of exclusive opportunity."
Seven witnesses took the box, one after another, and in response to Badger's questions, swore that they were neighbors of the Arnolds, were wide-awake and observant about the time of the fire, but saw no person coming out of the house either in front or rear. The evidence was negative, but cumulatively it produced its effect, leading the minds of the jury away from Serena Lamb and her legend to the real core of the puzzle. By the time the last witness on this point arrived, a cordon of watchers, completely environing the house, had been drawn around it by the government, and it seemed impossible that any one could have slipped through unobserved.
"Hodgkins Hodgkins," answered the first witness who testified after the noon recess.
"When did you first learn that Prof. Arnold had made a will?" asked the district attorney.
"On receipt of a letter from my esteemed friend, dated June 15."
"What was the reason of Prof. Arnold's informing you of his action?"
"A long-standing, I may say a life-long friendship, had induced him to select me as his executor."
"When you heard of his death, what action did you take?"
"I was in New York at the time on important business, which I proceeded to expedite as far as its weighty nature would permit. Large bodies travel slowly, you know. Then when the transaction was completed to my satisfaction I repaired to the city and visited the home of my departed friend, the testator."
"Did you let Floyd know of your coming?"
"I apprised him of my intention and instructed him to lock the room in which the document was guarded."
"Did you actually call on the afternoon of the fire?"
"A short delay, occasioned by my failure to find Mr. Hardwood, the locksmith, who was to assist me in opening the safe, retarded my arrival until 3:45. At that time the paper was beyond my reach."
"You could not testify as to the contents of the will?"
"Only in a general way."
"Do you know any reason why, if the accused were expecting you, as he stated that he was when he ordered the housemaid to dust the room, do you know any reason why he should leave the house suddenly, without any instructions as to your reception?"
"That's the best point the prosecution has made!" exclaimed Wye.
Ecks was executing a series of caricatures illustrating the involution of Hodgkins' face back into a crab-apple. "You leave out his cunning," suggested Wye, looking over the heads.
"Not unless he had lighted this fire," said the senior member solemnly. At which answer Shagarach rose with a shade more promptitude than usual.
"Why do you profess to be the executor of Benjamin Arnold's will?"
"I am so styled over his own signature," answered Hodgkins, flourishing the professor's letter.
"Wasn't it proved in the probate proceedings that you were only to carry out certain minor legacies?"
"It is not becoming in me to anticipate the decision of the honorable court in that matter."
"As executor, then, did you try to uphold the will of your friend?"
"In my opinion as a lawyer, it cannot be upheld."
"In my opinion as a lawyer, it can. I ask you a question. Did you make any effort to uphold the will of which you claim to have been nominated executor?"
"I satisfied myself that the task was fruitless."
"You represented a client desirous of breaking the will at the probate proceedings, did you not?"
"The will was already broken, canceled, destroyed."
"Do you or do you not perceive a gross indelicacy in your desperate attempt to break the will of which you say you were appointed executor, in order to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the disinherited heir?"
"I am not here to discuss my conduct with you, sir," answered Hodgkins testily, for the cross-examiner flusters quickly when he becomes the cross-examined.
"When did you arrive in New York?"
"Friday evening."
"When did you call on the Arnolds?"
"On the Arnolds?" repeated Hodgkins, as if he did not understand the question.
"On Harry Arnold, I mean?"
"Oh, Friday evening."
"You went there directly?"
"I did."
"They were your clients?"
"I am Mrs. Arnold's legal adviser."
"You told Harry Arnold of your intention to call at his uncle's on the following day and open the safe?"
"I believe I announced my intention to approach the affair with expedition."
"Did he object or suggest a postponement?"
"I cannot remember that he approved or demurred."
"Do you mean to testify that you informed Floyd by letter the hour at which you would call?"
"I announced my general intention of calling."
"In the same letter in which you requested him to lock the study?"
"There was only one letter. It was dispatched from New York."
"Then how did Floyd learn of your contemplated visit?"
"I have understood that he was informed by Mrs. Arnold that afternoon."
"From whom did you understand this?"
"From Mrs. Arnold herself," said Hodgkins, looking toward that lady.
"You told her the hour?"
"Half-past two."
"And Mrs. Arnold called on Floyd, I believe, at about 2:45?"
"I believe so. I am not informed as to the exact minute."
"Was she there by appointment with you?"
"Not exactly. However, I had informed her of the time."
"As you stated before. Then Floyd only knew of your proposed visit at second hand through Mrs. Arnold?"
"I had not informed him."
"You might have entered and taken the will away without his knowledge, then?"
"It might have been done, though I assure you we had no such intention."
"When did you arrive at the house?"
"At 3:45."
"And Floyd had left a little before 3:30. He had waited for one hour, without the courtesy of an appointment from you. Then because he chose to leave the house, and did not wait upon your pleasure, you infer that he must have committed arson and procured the death of seven of his fellow-creatures. That will do."
"Charles Checkerberry."
A railroad conductor stepped forward to take the oath.
"What names!" said Ecks to Wye. "It's like a census of Bedlam Proper."
But Wye did not answer. He was wondering if he could weave the safe explosion into the plot of his next melodrama.
"You are a conductor on the Southern railroad?" asked the district attorney.
"Yes, sir."
"What time did your train leave the city on the afternoon of Saturday, June 28?"
"The express train left at 3:29."
"Did you see the accused riding on that train?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get a full look at him."
"I am positive that is the man. I remember the fact because he had no ticket and had to pay his fare——"
"To what point?"
"To Woodlawn."
"Go on."
"He paid his fare and declined to take the coupon, which is worth ten cents when presented at the ticket office. Told me to keep it myself."
"This generosity is not common among passengers?"
"No, sir. That is why the incident impressed itself upon my memory."
"Did you notice anything unusual in the appearance of the accused?"
"I noticed he seemed rather excited."
"And got off at Woodlawn?"
"Yes, sir; jumped off at Woodlawn and crossed the fields over toward the woods."
"On the unfrequented side of the station?"
"Yes, sir; toward the cemetery. There is only one house on that side."
"Whose house is that?" asked Shagarach.
"The Arnolds', I believe."
"Do you know Harry Arnold?"
"No, sir."
"He rides in on the Northern line usually, I presume?"
"I believe so; it is more up-town."
"In the city, you mean?"
"Yes, sir; a great deal more convenient to the high-toned section."
"Then if this passenger were Harry Arnold he would have had to pay a cash fare on your railroad, as well as one not used to riding over the road, like Floyd?"
"I suppose so. We don't exchange tickets with the Northern."
"You see a great many hundred faces in the course of a week?"
"Yes, sir."
"How many tall, dark young men, wearing full mustaches and answering to the general description of the accused, should you say you had seen since June 28?"
"Oh, I couldn't say as to that."
"A hundred?"
"More, probably."
"But out of these hundred or more you have a distinct recollection of this one, the accused?"
"Yes, sir."
"And would swear his life away on the strength of your recollection?"
"Well, not exactly——"
"That is all."
"One moment," said the district attorney. "Your occupation and experience give you exceptional training in the study of faces, do they not?"
"Yes, sir."
At this moment Harry Arnold came into the courtroom, attended by a great St. Bernard. The young man had hardly stepped inside the bar, when a deep bark was heard and the dog leaped toward the accused, standing on his hind legs and placing his paws on the wall of the cage, while he licked Robert's hands like a spaniel. Emily was deeply affected and tried to distract Sire's attention, but he had eyes only for his master.
"Down, Sire," said Robert.
Shagarach had paused during the interruption.
"Will you kindly shut your eyes, Mr. Checkerberry?" he now said.
The witness did as requested. Then Shagarach stepped up to Harry Arnold and whispered to him. Harry looked at him oddly. But he shook off the momentary confusion, and, scarcely looking at the witness, exclaimed:
"Am I the man you saw?"
"You are," answered the conductor.
"Open your eyes. Which of these two men spoke to you?" asked Shagarach. Robert stood up beside his cousin. The resemblance was indeed striking. Both were about the same height and both strongly marked with the peculiarities of kindred blood. The conductor turned from one to the other.
"Very well," said Shagarach. "It is the face of Jacob, but the voice of Esau. For the present, that will do."
"Miss Senda Wesner."
While the bakeshop girl was pushing her way forward from the back seat which she had occupied, Sire, who was squeezed where he lay, gravely arose, climbed the vacated witness-box and spread his great limbs out, majestically contemplating the spectators.
"This is the one eyewitness of the crime," said the district attorney.
"But unfortunately dumb," added Shagarach. Just then an impulse seized Emily, who had left the cage for a moment—Emily, the most shrinking of girls—and catching a large waste-basket which stood under the lawyers' desks to receive the litter that accumulates in trials, she stood up and shoved it toward the dog.
To everybody's surprise, he scrambled to his feet in alarm, backed hastily away and barked continuously at the harmless object. Then before the whole court, judges, jury and all, Emily clapped her hands and gave a girlish shriek of delight—only to sink in her place afterward, as the spectators smiled, and hide her blushes behind her fan. But it was some little while before Sire would let her pat him.
"You work opposite the Arnold house, Miss Wesner?" asked the district attorney.
"Directly opposite. I can look right over into their windows," said Senda.
"But I hope you don't."
"Well, I try not to, but sometimes, you know, you can't resist the inclination," chattered the bakeshop girl.
"You can always try."
"Oh, I do try, but you know——"
"Yes, I know. We all know. At what hour did you see Floyd coming out of his house on the afternoon of the fire?"
"The fire was going before 3:30, because I saw it. And I'll swear Mr. Floyd left the house at least four minutes, probably five, before."
"Walking to the right or to the left?"
"To my right, his left," answered Senda, glibly.
"And the flames broke out shortly after he went out?"
"Well, of course——" began the witness, all primed with an argument.
"Please answer yes or no."
"No—I mean yes."
"You heard the explosion?"
"Heard it? Why——"
"Where did it appear to come from?"
"It came from Prof. Arnold's study, as plain as your voice comes from you, but I don't see——"
"That will do," said the district attorney, handing the witness over to Shagarach.
"What do you say to my sketch of this Hebe?" asked Ecks.
"The drawing would be creditable in a gingerbread doll," answered Wye.
They were a sorry pair of lookers-on, both of them, appearing to regard the whole panorama of creation as a sort of arsenal of happy suggestions, especially established by Providence for the embellishment of their forthcoming works. But Hans Heiderman in his back seat didn't think she appeared homely at all in her red-checked dress and flaming hair, done up in Circassian coils. Of course he was looking at the soul of the girl, which was better than gold, and which neither Ecks nor Wye, for all their wise smiles, the least bit understood.
"You are rather accurate in your observations of time?" asked Shagarach.
"Oh, yes; I'm noted for that. I haven't looked at the clock for an hour, but I could tell you what time it is now."
"Shut your eyes and tell me."
"It is—about seventeen minutes past 4."
"Seventeen and a half," announced Shagarach, taking out his watch. Every man in the room, except the judges, had done likewise, while the ladies all studied the clock.
"Very good. At what time would you fix the explosion in the study?"
"About 3:34."
"One minute earlier, then, than District Chief Wotherspoon. Now, Miss Wesner, do you recollect anything about a peddler in a green cart that used to come to Prof. Arnold's?"
"Oh, that peddler. Yes, indeed, I——"
"How long had he been vending his goods through Cazenove street?"
"About a month. I know I never——"
"Had you seen him before that?"
"Never saw him before in my life, but——"
"How often did he come by?"
"Two or three times a week."
She had almost given up the attempt to work in her explanations edgewise. The rapid volley of questions prevented all elaboration.
"How often did he stop at Prof. Arnold's?"
"Almost every time."
"Was it Bertha who came to the door?"
"No, sir; it was Ellen generally. She was the cook, you know; got $4 a week, but she wasn't a patch on Bertha just the same."
"When did he stop coming with his—vegetables, was it, he sold?"
"Yes, sir; vegetables, and once potted plants."
"And when did he stop coming?"
"Just before the Arnold fire."
"You never saw him after the fire—as a peddler, I mean?"
Shagarach had not yet received an answer from the superintendent of Woodlawn cemetery, and was still in the dark about his assailant. But from the evidence he had he was satisfied that he could prove a connection with Harry Arnold.
"No, sir; not as a peddler."
So McCausland was right, after all. The oaf had just been captured by the local police of Woodlawn, and inquiry had vindicated the inspector's surmise.
Far back in our story there was mention of a half-witted brother of the Lacy girls, who jumped from the Harmon building and were killed. Nature had made one of her capriciously unequal divisions of talent in this family, gifting the daughters with all graces and allurements of character, but misshaping their elder brother, Peter, both in body and mind. And Fate, instead of rectifying the hard allotment by the merciful removal of the oaf, had deprived the household instead of its fairer inmates, leaving the monster to flourish on, sleeping, breathing, performing all animal functions healthily, but reflecting only sorrow into the heart of the mother who bore him.
The death of his sisters had converted this harmless driveller into a maniac, nursing one deadly thought. At the Lacy common table the case of Robert Floyd was, of course, followed with keen interest, especially since the shyster, Slack, had persuaded certain advisory relatives, and through them the mother, that some compensation in money for the loss of her girls might result from an appeal to the courts. Shagarach's name, as the defender, the possible savior of Floyd, this wrecker of their household peace, had impressed itself on the addled intelligence of the oaf, and being sufficiently taught to read and endowed with the cunning of his sort, he had begun with the incoherent letters to the lawyer, and ended with three assaults which had so nearly cost him his life. Floyd, behind the prison bars, was beyond his reach; but if the criminal records of the time had included any attempt to force a way into a jail cell it is probable that the maniac would have essayed an imitation of this. For, as McCausland had keenly noted, each of his attacks had been made under suggestion from the daily chronicles.
Since the fire he had wandered away from home—though previously a devoted house-haunter—probably making the rude hut in the forest his abode and indulging his mania amid that forest solitude in long fits of brooding. Just why he chose this habitation the mother could not say, unless it was to be near his sister's grave. From time to time he had returned, always to beg a little money or some articles of necessity, and when questioned on his doings he had manifested a temper which he was rarely known to exhibit before.
The mystery of his identity with the peddler was explained by Mrs. Lacy when Shagarach asked her the whereabouts of her son during June. It seems there was a street vender named Hotaling, who added to his revenue in summer time by hiring young men to exploit the outlying suburbs with spring produce. Strictly speaking, a license would be required, even though their sales were made beyond the city limits. But Hotaling dispensed with this formality, and the teamsters he employed were unsteady fellows, of the least savory appearance, whom he rewarded with a commission, keeping their accounts correct by the terror by which he personally inspired them. Among Hotaling's possessions was a green cart, and the driver selected to occupy its seat had been Peter Lacy, who had wit enough to harness a horse and make change (indeed, he was very shrewd at a bargain), and who accepted a pittance as recompense. The simpleton's district had been Woodlawn. But his road from the city market took him close to Cazenove street.
When, the next morning, the district attorney announced that Harry Arnold and Bertha would testify, closing the case for the prosecution, Shagarach knew that his time was at hand.
"Mr. Hodgkins has attested the existence of a will and the accused himself at the preliminary hearing admitted knowing that he was virtually disinherited. We have, however, thought it well to strengthen this vital point by calling a witness who will testify to the same admission made upon another occasion. Mr. Harry Arnold."
"You are a nephew of the late Prof. Arnold?"
"Yes, sir; his brother's son," answered Harry. He was just the least bit nervous, his glances wandering from Shagarach's face to his mother's and then resting with a brighter expression on that of Rosalie March, who had come into the court-room to-day for the first time. The wild rose in her cheeks was blooming warmly through the gossamer she wore to hide them and her blue eyes were lifted trustfully to her lover's. Once they caught Emily's and she bowed with a smile. Emily returned the bow, but her heart was too full for smiling. She was sorry Rosalie had come that morning, for Shagarach's manner told her that he was condensing his thoughts in the resolve to wring the truth from Harry.
"And a cousin of the accused?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your relations have always been pleasant, I presume?"
"We have never had any permanent falling-out."
"And are so still?"
"Yes, sir, on my part. I hope with all my heart the jury will find him innocent," answered Harry, with every appearance of candor.
"Have you ever had any conversation with him on the subject of your uncle's will?"
"Only once."
"When was that?"
"Within a week after the fire."
"And where?"
"At the county jail."
"It was while the accused was in custody of the sheriff, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you happen to visit the accused at that time?"
"I was his only living kinsman. My visit was one of sympathy."
"And what statement did the accused make regarding his knowledge of the will?"
"Why, I believe he owned incidentally that he was disinherited, but everybody knew it then. It was all over the town. So was I, it seems, for that matter," added Harry.
"Everybody's knowledge is nobody's knowledge. We cannot take things for granted because rumor has spread them broadcast. We want your specific testimony that the accused acknowledged having learned from his uncle that he was to receive only an insignificant fraction of the fortune which all his life he had been expecting."
"That is my recollection of it."
"Was there any further conversation on the subject?"
"No, sir; it came up incidentally."
Shagarach paused a moment before beginning the cross-examination. Harry eyed him and during every second of the pause the witness' color mounted. Something in the lawyer's appearance still confused him. "This was a visit of sympathy?" asked Shagarach.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you have seen the accused frequently since his imprisonment, I presume?"
"Well, no, I have not."
"When did you see him last previous to yesterday?"
"Well, not since the first week."
"Not since this visit of sympathy, do you mean?"
"That was the last time."
"Then all your sympathy expended itself in that single visit?"
"No, not exactly."
"Why didn't you renew it?"
"Rob and I didn't part good friends."
"Indeed? And what was the cause of your disagreement?"
"Some thoughtless words of mine."
"Then you were at fault?"
"Wholly. I have been sorry since."
"But you have kept your repentance to yourself until now, have you not?"
"Well——"
"And volunteered to testify against your cousin?"
"No, sir; I was subpoenaed."
"From what quarter do you suppose these rumors of Floyd's disinheritance arose?"
"I don't know."
"Consider that answer carefully."
"I have done so. I don't know. I read it in the papers."
"You knew Floyd was disinherited before your visit to his cell?"
"No, sir."
"You knew you yourself were disinherited before the fire?"
"No, sir."
"You knew a will had been made?"
"Yes, sir."
"From whom?"
"From my mother."
"Your mother and yourself share most items of family interest between you?"
"Naturally we do. We have no secrets from each other."
"Wasn't it your mother who first informed Mr. McCausland that Robert had been disinherited?"
"I don't know."
"Yet you read the papers, you said."
"I must have skipped that item."
"How did Mrs. Arnold know this fact?"
"I don't know."
"You are very rich, Mr. Arnold?"
"Yes, we are considered wealthy."
"So rich that I presume you were indifferent whether Prof. Arnold added to your fortunes or not by a bequest of his property?"
"He may have thought we didn't need anything more."
"How large a stud of horses do you keep?"
"In all? Only six."
"How many servants?"
"Six."
"For a family of two?"
"My mother and myself. But then, we entertain a good deal."
"You have a summer residence at Hillsborough?"
"Yes, sir."
"And a house at Woodlawn?"
"Yes, sir."
"The supplies for your table are not generally purchased from a common street vender, I presume?"
"I don't know. I don't attend to the commissariat."
"Shouldn't you suppose they would come from market?"
"Game and such things, yes."
"And greens?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"When did you first hear of the burning of Prof. Arnold's house?"
"That's hard to say at this distance of time."
"I wish you would try to recollect."
"Why, I think the morning afterward—Sunday morning. Yes, it was in the Sunday papers. I remember now."
"You remember distinctly?"
"Yes, sir."
"What paper?"
"The Beacon. We take no other."
The Beacon was the paper upon which Robert was employed, thus forming a curious bond of communication between the two Arnold households.
"You were not in town, then, that afternoon?"
"No, sir."
"Positive of that?"
"Why, yes; I was ill—or, rather, just convalescing from a fever. Dr. Whipple called, I believe, to see me that very Saturday."
"In the forenoon or afternoon?"
"Afternoon."
"About what hour?"
"About 3:45."
"And this fire started at 3:30?"
"I heard a witness say so in the testimony yesterday."
"Of your own knowledge you couldn't say when it started?"
"No, sir."
Harry was red as fire during all these rapid questions, some apparently aimless, some sharply pointed.
"A man could not start that fire in Cazenove street at 3:30 and reach your house in Woodlawn at 3:45, could he?"
"Not very well."
"He might, however, start the fire at 3:28 and reach your house at 3:48?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "Twenty minutes isn't long."
"Isn't there a train which leaves the Southern depot at 3:29?"
"I never use the Southern depot."
"Never?"
"Well, not enough to know the trains."
"I have not said that you did, Mr. Arnold. It happens, however, that there was a train—an express train—which left the Southern depot at 3:29 on June 28, arriving in Woodlawn at 3:45. A person starting from Prof. Arnold's house at 3:28 could have caught that train, could he not?"
"In one minute? Yes, by hurrying."
"And, leaving the train at Woodlawn at 3:45, he could have arrived in your house at 3:48, could he not?"
"Yes, sir, by walking briskly."
"Across the fields?"
"Across the fields."
"Wasn't it 3:48 when Dr. Whipple visited you on that Saturday of the fire?"
"Why, of course I could not swear within a minute or two."
"But a minute or two is momentous at times—when a train is to be taken, for example."
"Oh, yes."
"What were you doing all Saturday afternoon before the doctor arrived?"
"Why"—Harry hesitated—"I was ill in my chamber."
"Reading?"
"Perhaps. Killing time lazily."
"You have frequently to do that, I presume?"
"Sir?"
"You have no orderly programme arranged for every day?"
"Well, it varies."
"But never includes any useful occupation, I believe?"
"Well, I can afford to enjoy life."
"You are rich, you said. How fortunate to be rich! The great problem of life then is solved for you by the drawing of a quarterly check?"
"Well, not exactly."
"If you require money, however, you simply ask for it and it comes forth like the genii of the lamp?"
"I can usually meet what expenses I incur."
"Do you remember a man named Reddy?"
"Reddy?" repeated Harry, coloring a shade more and glancing over at Rosalie.
"Reddy," repeated Shagarach, insistently.
"What is his business?"
"He is dead," said the lawyer, and the witness knew that evasion was futile.
"Oh, yes, I knew that Reddy—slightly."