Daylight rose, gray and hollow-eyed, on the Atlantic. The sun was merely a moving brightness in the sky. Ocean, the blind Titan, still heaved and roared, playing his part in some grander drama than ours of flesh and blood—ingulfing sailor or bark as we crush the poor gnat toward whom neither pagan sage nor Christian doctor enjoins mercy—cruel without enmity, indifferent without contempt, divider or uniter of continents according to his chance-born mood.
The storm had scarcely begun to die. But with a clear outlook forward it was possible once more for the sturdy Yarmouth to resume her course. With Capt Keen himself at the wheel, she steamed into the narrow harbor of the little city whose name she bore, situated on the nearest eastward tip of the Nova Scotia peninsula, half a day late, but with her 300 passengers safe and sound.
Several days later, our party of four were peacefully rowing across the calm waters of Digby bay—that isleless harbor of purest ultramarine, where the Bay of Fundy has cloven its way through peaks still wooded to the water's edge and lifts and lowers its huge tides as far north as Annapolis, at the head of the valley of Evangeline. Chance would have it that this resort was the destination of the Marches as well as Emily and Beulah; and the acquaintance made on shipboard under such unusual circumstances was already ripening into something like friendship—perhaps more than friendship—between Tristram and Beulah Ware.
She was his opposite, his complementary color, as he said to Rosalie, and so she harmonized with him and perhaps comprehended him, as Rosalie at times did not. In only one thing did she agree with Tristram's sister. She misunderstood his irony; for her own speech was yea, yea.
"Let us cross over to the camp of the Micmacs," proposed the artist, resting on his oars.
"Are they real Indians?" asked Emily.
"Full-blooded. See their tepees." A cluster of conical tents could be seen rising from the dark foliage on the hillside. For Digby rises from the water with a slope like a toboggan slide all the way up to the white cottages on its crest.
"There is a specimen," said Tristram, as a canoe skimmed by them. "Isn't he noble? The great face, the grim mouth, the high cheek-bones, the straight hair—it is a bronze mask of Saturn. I may utilize him."
"When?"
"When I carve my life group for the Academy's grand prize."
"Have you chosen your subject?"
"Driftwood Pickers at the Sea Level."
Beulah Ware looked up. She had suggested it the day before, while strolling alone with the man of hazy purposes.
The boat was beached without difficulty and the ladies stepped ashore—Beulah Ware collectedly, as usual, but Emily and Rosalie as warily as you may have seen a lame pigeon alighting.
"Let us follow my leader," said Tristram, meaning the brown canoeist, who had shouldered his craft and was climbing the beach.
"What is that?" cried Emily, pointing to an object that was tossing on the sands.
"A body," said the others, recoiling, but Tristram walked in the direction indicated. It proved on closer inspection to be the body of a woman, stout and tall. Her long yellow hair floated in the surf, but the features were swollen beyond recognition. It was impossible to tell whether she was old or young. Only her clothing, which was thick and of foreign style, denoted a woman of the poorer class.
"Is it a body?" asked Rosalie, apparently doubting the evidence of her eyes. The quick assemblage of a crowd rendered an answer unnecessary. There were men and women watching all along the Nova Scotia coast in those weary days. Schooners and smacks had put out before the storm, perhaps to be blown far out of their course and suffer the hardships of hunger and shipwreck, perhaps to founder in midocean and never to return. So the body rolling in the surf at the water's edge had been espied by others before the party of four landed, and there was a converging stream of searchers from bush and cottage, and even from the lonely tepees.
"Search her pockets," said one, and the woman's dress was torn open. A packet of papers came out, but the ink had run and the paper was as soft as jelly.
"She has been in the water a week," cried another.
"Perhaps it is a body from the Osric," suggested a boy.
The party of four shrunk in greater horror. There were rumors of lifeboats that had been launched and swamped from the sunken steamer. Could one of the bodies have been carried up the Bay of Fundy on its swift-running tide, forced by a current through Digby Gut, and cast ashore on this unfrequented beach?
"See if her linen is marked?" asked a woman who held a baby. But the search proved fruitless. No stenciled initials, not even a brand on the shoes, to identify the unfortunate. A truck was suggested to carry her up to the town.
"One moment," said Tristram, "her ring may be engraved."
The slender gold circlet was deeply imbedded in the flesh, but a fisherman ruthlessly cut it loose with his knife. Tristram held it up to the light and read a name from the inside.
"Bertha Lund," he read.
Emily Barlow turned pale and glanced at Beulah Ware. If she could have looked across the ocean to the city just then and seen Inspector McCausland closeted with the district attorney, she would have been confirmed in her fears. The detective was scanning a list of the passengers on the Osric.
"Bertha Lund, Upsala, Sweden. That is her birthplace. She was to return on the Osric," he said, uneasily.
"Then it must be she," answered the district attorney. "It is most unfortunate. However, we have her testimony at the hearing. We do not rely solely upon her."
But Emily did rely solely upon Bertha's knowledge, and her heart sunk within her. Without Bertha, there was only Robert to describe the room as she wished it described. And would people believe Robert in so novel, so miraculous, a junction of circumstances as her theory demanded?
"Read that again, please," she cried to Tristram.
"Bertha Lund," Tristram seemed puzzled a moment by the third word, "Bertha Lund, Upsala."
"So to-morrow is the day of the trial, Miss Barlow?"
Mrs. Riley was pinning the bandage on Walter's neck, while Emily buttoned his jacket. She and the quondam Whistler had become fast friends, especially since the day of the struggle in Shagarach's office, and now that his burns were healing and he was able to get out they had arranged a Sunday afternoon excursion to Hemlock grove, with some vague hope of visiting the site of the demolished hut, if Walter's strength could carry him so far. There would be no lack of guides, for the spot had already become locally famous.
"Yes," answered Emily, "the talesmen have been sifted down to twelve at last."
"May the good Lord put mercy in their hearts," prayed Mrs. Riley.
"I wish it was a jury of ladies," said Walter.
"Why, ladies are never selected for the jury," cried his mother.
"Jurywomen is a word not yet included in the dictionaries," smiled Emily.
"But they are all so kind," said Walter simply, but in such a way that his mother and Emily might each take half of the compliment. The bright slum boy was already losing all trace of his plebeian associations, as the innate aristocracy of his nature asserted itself. How luckily he was placed, if he could have foreseen. To begin at the lower-most round of the ladder, but with the unconquerable instinct in him to climb; and so at last, on the topmost round, to have the whole of life for a retrospect.
Mrs. Riley bade them a proud good-by and watched them from her window boarding the car. The down-town ride on a Sunday is always curious, for the desertion of the usually crowded streets gives them a foreign appearance. Emily was commenting on this when Walter called her attention to something in the sky.
"Look, it's a man," he said, pointing almost vertically upward.
"Where?" she asked, leaning forward.
"On the top of the Amory building. He is calling for help."
The Amory building was the tallest structure in the city, the tenants in the sixteenth story enjoying a view that swept in the entire harbor and flattened the men walking in the avenues below to the dimensions of crawling flies.
"We can change cars here, Walter. Let us get off and see."
From the sidewalk Emily could distinguish the minute figure of a man leaning over the parapet around the roof, and shouting through his hands to attract attention.
"Perhaps it is on fire," she said in alarm, framing the thought that lay uppermost in her mind.
"I think he wants to get down," suggested Walter, although not a word of the man's vociferations could be heard.
"Let us speak to the policeman," said Emily, just as a large hat came sailing down on Walter's head. It crossed her mind that the broad brim had a familiar look. The patrolman followed her index finger with his glance and presently there was a knot of passers-by doing likewise. Then the knot grew to a crowd, and the crowd to a multitude. Meanwhile the officer had hunted up the janitor of the building and both entered through the great carved doors. About five minutes later they came down, with a heavily laden, portly gentleman, who seemed taken aback when the crowd hurrahed him.
"Dr. Silsby!" cried Emily. He looked about in surprise.
"Miss Barlow," he said, shaking his head, "here's a to-do. I suppose you'll go right over and tell that Rob."
"Tell him what?"
"Tell him I got lost in the heart of the city I was born in," grumbled the botanist so that she could hardly help laughing. "Well, what are you sniggling at?" he shouted at the crowd, who fell back a little at this.
"And were you lost up there?"
"Haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday noon. Made a call on that ninny, Hodgkins, about his confounded will. Judge is going to decide against him and we'll have our academia after all."
"Good! Good!" cried Emily, clapping her hands.
"Office on the sixteenth floor. Ninny was out. Took my specimens up to the roof. Got worked up. Scribbled notes for my new lecture on——"
"I know. Rob told me. On the beneficent activity of the great horned owl. How interesting!"
Dr. Silsby glared.
"Janitor missed me. Didn't notice the time. Locked out. Slept four hours all night, and now I'm hoarse from bawling ten. What's the matter with Sleepy Hollow? Are they all in bed?"
"Why, this is Sunday morning," explained Emily, repressing her merriment.
"They ought to have ladders up there, so a man could climb down," grumbled Dr. Silsby.
Walter thought this a somewhat unreasonable demand.
"You might have descended by the mail chute," said Emily, laughing outright, "and then the postman would have collected you just before breakfast."
The learned doctor made no reply, so they left him shuffling away in search of a restaurant.
"I do hope Judge Dunder will allow the will," she said; and it took the whole ride to explain the why of this hope to her eager auditor.
At Woodlawn they were directed to Hemlock grove and wandered among its dark trees, peace-breathing in themselves, but haunted for them by the vague pervasive shadow of a tragedy. The hut was too far for Walter's strength, so they turned off at an angle, following a footpath which they knew would lead to some road. Once or twice they heard a murmur of voices, seeming to come from the left. It was very deep and indistinct and not unlike the mooing of a cow. But her bell would have tinkled if it had really been a stray tenant of the milk-shed.
"What is it, Walter?" asked Emily. It had sounded again, this time more humanly and close to their ears. They had been moving toward it unawares.
Walter only clutched her arm in answer.
"Look!" he said, and she saw his eyes white with distension of the lids. "It is the oaf."
Through a parting in the boughs Emily saw the sight. There was a little cemetery near by, unpretending but neat with scattered headstones. In the midst of it, kneeling with his forehead bared and his eyes up-lifted, was the human monster who had woven himself into their life so terribly. What was he doing? Should she run? Her first impulse was to fly, but a fascination held her. The oaf's face was averted and they were screened from his gaze.
Looked at now, the creature's countenance was less repulsive than she had thought. Emily had only seen it convulsed with murderous passion, and those who had described it to her had beheld it under similar circumstances. Yet at best it was horribly misshapen.
"Is he crying?" asked Walter. Strange to say, the oaf seemed to be shedding tears and the quick sympathy went out from Emily's bosom, in spite of the past.
"Hark!"
Emily pulled Walter back, as he leaned forward too eagerly to catch what he was saying.
The oaf moaned in a guttural tone that swelled to its close, crescendo. Then he threw himself on the mound before which he knelt.
It was a grave. No headstone covered it. The mourners of the dead who house there were either forgetful or poor. But strange little bunches of withered wild flowers were strewn upon it. And a heap of fresher flowers lay at one side. What was the monster doing?
With his fingers he scooped out hollows in the earth, then lifted the cut daisies and buttercups he had brought, with many a late violet and honeysuckle, and laid their stalks one by one in the cavities. Holding them in place, he propped them up with the loosened earth, till all along the narrow mound there was a bloom of red and yellow and blue. Then the oaf rose and looked down upon his work, with a childish pleasure.
"Does he think they will grow that way?" asked Walter, but Emily put her finger on her lips. The oaf began muttering in a low, indistinct murmur, like one soothing a child.
Suddenly he drew his soiled hands across his brow. The streaks of earth added to his hideousness and his expression had changed. Some new current of thought was in his mind. He ground his teeth, as Walter had seen him in Shagarach's office, and roared with fists clenched at some invisible adversary.
"Run, run," called Walter, dragging Emily with him along the little footpath—on, on. They could hear their own footsteps echoed behind, but the roars did not appear to be gaining on them.
"Faster! Faster!" urged Emily, as Walter weakened. The briers scratched her dress, the boughs brushed in her face, but what were these to the monster behind them? She dared not turn, lest his fierce eyes should be glaring into hers and his grimy hands clutch at her flying hair.
"I cannot keep up," cried Walter breathing hard, when they had covered a quarter of a mile.
"Oh, Walter, try!" cried Emily, dragging him in her turn.
"I cannot. I can only walk. He is not behind us," he added. Emily slowed up and peeped around timidly. The expected image did not confront her. The woods had a less lonely look here, but they were perfectly still.
"Have we escaped him?" she said, all flushed and out of breath. Without the wings of fear, she could not have run a third of the distance.
Walter held his breath to listen before he answered. There was not a stir in the woods save the sighing of the leaves.
"Let us walk on fast," he said, and Emily was glad to moderate her pace. But they had not proceeded twenty steps, when again she started off, dragging Walter by the hand. This time the sound was on their right. The oaf had crossed the path and was tearing through the woods. With the advantage of the smooth path they might outstrip him and get to the road, where succor could be had.
"Oh, I cannot go farther," cried Emily, fainting. "Leave me, Walter, and bring help as soon as you can." The elastic sinews of the boy had recovered their strength and he was now the fresher of the two.
"Only a little farther, Miss Barlow. I can see the road through the trees."
The pursuer seemed to have slowed his own pace to a walk. Once they caught a glimpse of his form. He was not aiming at them straight but slantingly toward the road, as if he would head them off. At present he was almost abreast and gaining.
"There is the road and a cottage," said Walter, but the pursuer was ahead of them now, running swiftly. They could see him leap the wall only ten paces off, just as they emerged from the footpath. Bewildered and spent, Emily turned the wrong way and ran straight into the arms of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.
"Turnpike toll!" exclaimed the manikin, deliriously prolonging the accidental embrace, while Emily strove to tear herself away in a flurry of amazement, horror and disgust.
"Let her alone!" cried Walter, clutching at Kennedy's neck. But the manikin took no account of the boy, merely cuffing him over the ears, and endeavoring to force a kiss upon Emily.
"Forgive me, Emily—Miss Barlow," he said at last, while she stood flaming like a rose with indignation. "Forgive me if I press my suit too ardently——"
But he was not afforded an opportunity to continue his amorous speech. Walter Riley possessed a spirit which rose against cuffing. Weak and weary as he was, he drew off after a moment's survey, to get the import of the conversation, and sent the manikin spinning with a blow that brought blood drops from his nose. Kennedy felt the trickling organ in momentary confusion, but before his idol he could not show the white feather.
Whack! Whack! He brought his cane—bulldog end for a handle—down on the boy's shoulder, neck and head—bursting the bandages over his still acutely tender burns. Walter clinched, but Kennedy threw him off and continued his caning. Even Emily's intercession only brought her a smart rap over the fingers with which she tried to grasp his weapon.
"You brute!" she exclaimed, and threw herself between Kennedy and the boy. But help from another quarter was at hand. A tall, lithe form vaulted a neighboring wall and the swish of a horsewhip cut the air. It must have cut something else, for Kennedy hopped and turned, and presently was capering with as much agility as if the ground were redhot iron. Emily could hear the repeated swishes and the manikin's supplications, but she did not look up. She was stroking Walter's forehead. The boy had fainted in her arms.
"It's me, Harry. It's Kennedy. Don't you know me?"
This cry caused her to turn.
"It's a coward. Run."
Emily had heard the voice only once before, in that eventful ride to Hillsborough; but she would have known Harry Arnold instantly from his photograph. How broad-chested he was! How superb! Yet there was something feverish in his excitement now. He came toward her, raising his hat.
"I have to apologize for a slight acquaintance with that blackguard, which led me to refuse at first to credit his conduct. Otherwise I might have been of assistance earlier."
"Slight acquaintance? You owe me twelve hundred and by George you'll pay it," snarled Kennedy, moving away. Harry never turned.
"The boy has fainted. He must come up to the house."
The "cottage" in view, then, was the Arnold house. A carriage stood in front of the terrace at the head of the gravel drive which led up from the turnpike. Harry had probably just arrived home from an afternoon spin through the suburbs.
"Thank you, Mr. Arnold——" Emily stopped, but the mischief was out. Harry had lifted the unconscious boy tenderly in his strong arms and was carrying him up the drive. He turned and smiled, showing his beautiful teeth, but, seeing Emily's confusion, did not speak the words that were on his lips. Inside the house he called for Indigo.
"Some wine," he ordered.
"And a little sweet oil, if you have it," added Emily; for the neck bandage had been torn away and the vitriol burn was bleeding from one of Kennedy's blows.
"This is Walter Riley," said Emily, at last recovering from her embarrassment, "Mr. Shagarach's clerk, who was assaulted about ten days ago."
She studied Harry's face as she bathed the tender part with the sweet oil and poor, sick-eyed Walter revived under the wine. But there was no expression other than one of surprise crossed with sympathy.
"And yourself, may I ask?"
"I am Miss Barlow."
Harry's astonishment reached a climax at this, but he was too well bred to display it.
"I am delighted to have you for my guest, Miss Barlow. It is unfortunate that my mother is not at home. We have both admired your efforts in behalf of Rob. And Miss March was just speaking of you."
By the time that Walter was ready to go home, Emily had fixed with feminine absoluteness her opinion about Harry's innocence.
But then she was under a heavy debt to Harry. He had rid her once for all of the impertinences of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.
"I shall be compelled to alter my theory at one point," said Shagarach.
"Yet your general conviction remains unchanged?"
"Absolutely. Your cousin is capable of the crime. A powerful motive was present. We have traced him to the door of the room. What factor is wanting?"
"I cannot believe it of Harry," said Robert, shaking his head doubtfully. "But what has occurred to cause you to reconstruct your theory?"
"My interview with Dr. Whipple, his physician."
"Harry was ill at the time, I believe?"
"He is able to prove an alibi."
"A hard obstacle to get over," said Robert.
"But not insurmountable," replied the lawyer. "Dr. Whipple happens to be the most methodical of men. 'At 3:48 p. m., on Saturday, June 28, I took Mr. Harry Arnold's pulse in his own room at Woodlawn,' said he, consulting his notes. 'It was eighty-three beats to the minute.'"
"Rather high," said Robert.
"'Abnormal,' Dr. Whipple observed, 'something on his mind, I should say. Overexcitement, worry, the fever of modern life.' His diagnosis was incorrect; but the time is important. The fire was discovered, you remember, at 3:30."
"So Harry couldn't have set it and got to Woodlawn," said Robert, as if sincerely glad.
"Not in his mother's carriage, as I had surmised," said Shagarach. "But an express train leaves the Southern depot at 3:29. It arrives in Woodlawn at 3:45. Harry crossed Broad street from the passageway after setting fire to the study—it is barely a minute's walk—there caught the train and reached Woodlawn at 3:45. His house is close to the station. Dr. Whipple found him feverish and with rapid pulse from the excitement of his crime and the hurried escape."
"His mother stated, however, when she called, earlier in the afternoon, that she had left him at home ill," said Robert, thoughtfully.
"She is solicitous about his delicate health," said Shagarach, with almost imperceptible irony. The delicate health of the powerful canoeist, the victorious steeplechaser, need hardly weigh on the most tender mother's mind. This was their last consultation before the trial, and the lawyer shook Robert's hand with a word of encouragement when he left the young man to his hopes and forebodings.
The lawyer turned into a byway which carried him through the Ghetto.
Solomon and Rachel were sitting on their doorsteps, fanning away the heat of the August afternoon.
"There goes Shagarach," said someone.
"He who fawns on the gentiles," said another, "that he may obtain places from them."
"He is ashamed of his father's blood; he will deny his mother," was the taunt of a third.
"Who is it?" asked the boys, flocking up.
"It is Shagarach, who was called an apostate in the Messenger last week."
Jewish boys nearly all learn enough of Hebrew to read the characters. They understood the answer and passed it along to their comrades.
"Here comes Shagarach, who was printed among the apostates," they cried, edging near the lawyer, while the older folks prudently contented themselves with passing remarks.
Shagarach only turned a deaf ear and a pitying glance upon his misguided people. But as he chanced to look into the window of Silberstein's store, the first page of the Messenger, conspicuously spread out, attracted his attention, and he saw, under a black heading, among a list of "apostates" his own name, with the description "Gentile Judge." The malevolent features of Simon Rabofsky scowled at him from within, but were instantly withdrawn. Shagarach, however, stopped and rung the bell, while the circle around him stared in wonder. Was the pervert going into Nathan Silberstein's house?
There was a long pause before any one answered. The maid who finally came was wiping her hands on her apron.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Silberstein," said the lawyer. "I am Meyer Shagarach, of whom you have doubtless heard. I desire to see Simon Rabofsky, who, I perceive, is within."
A great flurry of moving chairs could be heard, as though the convocation was breaking up.
"Bid him not depart." Shagarach was already in the narrow entry, with the door closed behind him, and the stupefied woman in front. "Simon Rabofsky," he cried, after the form which was disappearing through a rear door. It stopped reluctantly.
"I wish to confer with you and with Moses Cohen. He is there. I saw him through the window. The others may go or stay, as they please."
Cohen and Rabofsky stood before Shagarach in the store.
"Sit down. Draw down the curtain," said the lawyer to Mrs. Silberstein, who with her husband and the others stood on the threshold listening.
"'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. As an interpreter of the scriptures, you have met that text, Simon Rabofsky?"
"It is graven on my heart," said the money-lender, with unction.
"Liar, thief and hypocrite!" cried Shagarach, "you are as vindictive as the viper, who stings the hand of his benefactor. Our conference shall be short. I spare your white hairs before these people who respect you. See to it that I walk through this street unmolested and I may forbear for a time to punish you for the perjury you committed and the receipt of stolen articles."
"I had not known the people of Israel so far forgot their good teachings," said Rabofsky, "as to insult a peaceful passer-by, like the gentile ruffians."
"Go forth without excuses," said Shagarach sternly.
"I will gladly remind them," said the cowed usurer, leaving the room.
"Moses Cohen, you will retract and apologize in your next issue, or I shall prosecute the Messenger for slander."
"I have only told the truth," answered the young editor, doggedly. "You are no longer a Jew."
"I am always a Jew," said Shagarach. "Though I worship not with the ancient rites and forms, adapted for simple minds, my God is the God of my fathers and my heart is with my people. I value them, I love them, better than some who prey on their prejudices and wring ducats by pretended piety."
"But——" urged Cohen, stiff-necked and arrogant.
"I have spoken," said Shagarach. "You have slandered me. Retract."
When he left Silberstein's house the Ghetto was deserted. The people had fled within, and he saw Rabofsky far up the street, warning them with uplifted hands. Only two or three children, with eyes like jewels, played on the curbstone, innocent of the guile that comes with years. Shagarach lifted one of these in his arms and kissed her. "Good-by," lisped the baby, as he continued his walk.
Bitter tears came into the strong man's eyes.
That night he wrote late in his chamber; and though he was usually the earliest of risers, the next morning his mother knocked on his door repeatedly in vain.
"It is the trial day, my son," she said, loudly. Slowly he arose and rubbed his eyes. His clothing was dusty with the bedding lint. And when he came down to the breakfast table his look was mournful and abstracted.
"This is the gravest charge known to the law," said the district attorney, "and the man found guilty of it by a jury of his peers is condemned, under the statutes of this commonwealth, to be hanged by the neck until he is dead."
Dead! The solemn word reverberated through every listener's heart. The crowded court-room was hushed. The jurymen had just been contemplating their own portraits in the last newspaper which they would see for many days, and now bent forward in the first flush of eager attention. Court officers were carrying whispered messages to and fro. On the bench sat Chief Justice Playfair, silver-haired and handsome, between two of his judicial brethren. The case was considered of such importance that three judges had been assigned to decide upon the legal questions which might arise.
On the threshold of an ante-room Inspector McCausland was cordially shaking hands with Shagarach. In the front row of the spectators sat Mrs. Arnold, thin-lipped and cold, beside a sad-faced woman in black. She had bowed distantly to the prisoner—no longer fettered, but permitted to occupy a seat in the "cage" in full view—between Dr. Silsby and Emily Barlow, who had bravely elected to join him. Evidently he was not one of those who grow plump on jail regime and batten under the shadow of the scaffold. The young man's dark cheek was lean, his eyes unwontedly bright, but he never flinched from the district attorney's gaze.
"You have learned from the reading of the indictment," thundered the district attorney, stroking his patriarchal beard with one hand and holding his notes in the other, "that the immediate act committed by the accused was not murder but arson. It is true that he did not deliberately procure the deaths of the seven persons who were deprived of their most precious property, of life itself, in that calamity with which our city rung on the evening of June 28. He did not draw their blood personally with the usual weapons of homicide—pistol, dagger, bludgeon or ax. But the evidence will show you that a new weapon, more dangerous, because more deadly, than any of these, was used on this occasion, and that he set on foot forces which did procure the deaths of the victims, and which, but for the vigilance of man and the mercy of Providence, might have doubled or trebled their number—yes, laid the greater part of our fair city in ruins.
"For myself, I might be willing to suppose that the accused did not foresee the consequences which would follow his rash deed; that he trusted to a confined and local destruction, of property merely, following his application of the match to his deceased uncle's study. But the law, justly and wisely, we must admit, presumes foresight, imputes deliberation and malice, when loss of life follows the commission of a felony, and taxes the felon not alone with the initial damage but with all damages that accrue. I leave it to your own good sense, gentlemen, whether the fire-fiend who applies the torch in the heart of a crowded city is not potentially as guilty as the Malay running amuck with brandished dagger or the anarchist hurling his bomb. There can be only one answer to the question. Our own lives, the lives of our wives, sisters, children, are imperiled by any other doctrine than that which the law lays down.
"Therefore, reluctantly, sorrowfully, with misgivings and fear, we have impeached Robert Floyd of the murder of Ellen Greeley, who was burned to death in her chamber; of Rosanna Moxom, Katie Galuby, Mary Lacy and Florence F. Lacy, who died of injuries received while attempting to escape from the Harmon building; of Alexander Whitlove, who was caught between the floors of that building, in a heroic attempt to conduct his elevator to the imprisoned occupants of the upper story; and of Peter Schubert, the fireman who lost his life nobly in the performance of his duty."
This catalogue of the victims moved the spectators, and Emily noticed the woman in black crying softly in her handkerchief.
"I will not attempt to instruct your consciences or call to your minds the responsibility which rests upon your shoulders as well as upon mine. For I am convinced that every man before me approaches this case with the same unwillingness which I myself have felt, but also with the same determination to uphold the law, to do justice and nothing more or less than justice, to all parties, that I myself have formed."
The district attorney spoke this disclaimer of officiousness or persecution with genuine feeling, but it was scarcely necessary for any who knew him. The name of Noah Bigelow, like that of Shagarach, was guaranty in itself that the cause would be tried with courtesy and fairness. Yet something in his bearing might have told the psychologist that the nature of the man, unsuspicious, candid and slow to entertain a conviction of guilt, would be equally slow to part with such a conviction when it had once obtained a lodging.
The outline of the evidence to be presented consumed more than an hour in its delivery; and the reading, in a high drawl, of the minutes of the previous trial, occupied the remaining time until the noon recess tediously. If the jury had not been provided with a typewritten copy it would have profited little by this latter proceeding.
Assistant District Attorney Badger conducted the examination of the first witness for the government, who gave his name as the Rev. St. George Thornton and wore the manner of an Oxford graduate.
"You knew the uncle of the accused, Prof. Arnold?"
"Excellently. He had been for many years an attendant at my church."
"The Church of the Messiah, of the Episcopal denomination?"
"The Episcopal church, sir; we do not consider it a denomination."
"You officiated at Prof. Arnold's funeral service, I believe?" said Badger, disregarding this nice distinction.
"I did."
"This took place on June 26, I believe?"
"On Thursday, June 26; yes, sir."
"And saw the accused, Robert Floyd?"
"Yes, sir."
"Kindly describe his actions and appearance on that occasion, Dr. Thornton."
"In common with others who knew him, I was greatly struck by the absence of any signs of grief."
"Such as what?"
"Such as tears and—and general signs of dejection."
"As though he were meditating upon something else than the death of his uncle?"
"As though his thoughts were far away."
"That is all," said Badger, and Shagarach, who had apparently expected something more substantial than this, arose.
"You have officiated at hundreds of funerals, I presume, Dr. Thornton?"
"At many hundreds, sir," answered the clergyman, gravely.
"And the ordinary marks of grief, as you say, are tears?"
"It is a rare burial in which tears are not shed."
"So rare that the exceptions impress themselves upon you, like the burial of Prof. Arnold?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you say that in this class of rare exceptions the absence of tears was always due to callousness in the mourners?"
"Always? No, sir; not always."
"Generally?"
"I should not attempt to say, sir."
"You would scarcely judge the sincerity of a mourner's sorrow by the copiousness of flow from his lachrymal glands?"
"Hardly."
"One moment," said Badger, detaining Dr. Thornton for the redirect. "Did you mean to emphasize the tearlessness of the accused as the principal feature of his bearing which attracted your attention?"
"No, sir; it was the coldness, I may say the general indifference expressed in his countenance, which struck me."
"Will you allow me to see your eyeglasses, Dr. Thornton?" asked Shagarach. "The lenses are concave. You are near-sighted?"
"Yes, sir."
"Badly so, I should say?"
"Yes, sir."
"That will do."
"John Harkins," answered the next witness to Badger's preliminary question.
"Were you ever employed by Prof. Arnold?"
"I was."
"In what capacity?"
"As coachman."
"When?"
"About a year ago, just before Mungovan."
"How long did you remain in his household?"
"About two weeks."
"Did you notice anything unusual in the relations between the accused and his uncle?"
"Well, I heard them quarr'ling two or three times."
"What do you mean by quarreling?"
"Oh, they were talking angrily to each other."
"Did you listen so as to hear the import of any of these conversations?"
"Well, I didn't listen, but I heard what they were saying."
"How often did you hear what they said?"
"I heard the old gentleman say once that he was a young rogue to be herding with the like of them cattle."
"Who?"
"The young fellow—his nephew."
"Called his nephew a rogue to be herding with such cattle?"
"Yes, sir."
"Those were his own words?"
"As near as I can remember."
"What kind of a master was Prof. Arnold?" asked Shagarach.
"He was a pretty good man. I haven't anything against him."
"Particular, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was particular."
"Why were you discharged at the end of a fortnight?"
"He didn't give any reason; just said I didn't suit, that was all."
"But he paid you in full?"
"Oh, yes."
"And you found him not unreasonably exacting?"
"Well, he used to grumble a good deal."
"At you?"
"At me, yes, and the others, too."
"You never heard the others complaining, however?"
"No, sir."
"What did they say when you told them of his grumbling at you?"
"Oh, they said when you get used to him you won't mind."
"When the two 'quarreled,' as you call it, how many of the voices were raised in what you took to be anger?"
"How many?"
"One or both?"
"Why, it was the professor that was angry."
"Didn't he always talk loudly?"
"Yes, sir."
"When he 'grumbled' at you?"
"Yes, sir."
"When he 'grumbled' at the other servants?"
"Yes, sir."
"But they didn't mind it?"
"No; they said I wouldn't mind it after awhile."
"Did Floyd seem to mind it, when you saw him after these 'quarrels,' as you call them?"
"I didn't notice."
"Will you, upon reflection, swear that these quarrels were anything more than frank, warm discussions, misunderstood by you at the time, but such as any two men of independent mold and opposite views might indulge in?"
The witness was greatly puzzled.
"Well, I can't say. It was pretty loud talking, that was all."
The redirect by Badger brought out nothing new for the government's case. It was felt that their attempt to show strained relations between uncle and nephew was no great success. But the next witness was looked to curiously. He gave his name and position as James L. Carberry, secretary of Bricklayers' council No. 31, C. L. U. He was a powerful man, with a conspicuously well-filled sleeve, suggesting that mighty flexed arm, grasping a mallet, which is the workingman's favorite symbol. But the low brow hinted at a degree of honest dullness. While Carberry was taking the stand Badger asked leave to submit a newspaper clipping to the jury.
"This bears upon the point we shall now endeavor to prove, your honors—namely, the anti-social opinions of the accused."
Against Shagarach's protest and exception, Chief Justice Playfair allowed the jury to read an article from the Beacon, signed "Robert Floyd," in which the following sentence was marked as especially obnoxious:
"When the highest court in the land decides that offensive combination of capitalists in trusts is right, but defensive combination of workingmen in labor unions is wrong, then the time is ripe for revolution."
"When the highest court in the land decides that offensive combination of capitalists in trusts is right, but defensive combination of workingmen in labor unions is wrong, then the time is ripe for revolution."
Shagarach's defense of his client's right to freedom of speech and thought was eloquent. But courts are and no doubt should be the sanctuaries of orthodoxy, and any other conclusion than that which Chief Justice Playfair and his two colleagues reached, in a matter so personal to themselves, could hardly be expected.
"You know the accused?" asked the district attorney of Carberry.
"I have met him," answered the witness.
"State to the jury the occasion upon which you met him."
"It was at a meeting of the union one Sunday afternoon, about six months ago."
"Did you have any conversation with him at that time?"
"Yes, sir."
"On what topic?"
"On strikes and labor questions and anarchy and——"
"Will you state what opinions, if any, the defendant expressed in regard to anarchy?"
"He told me he sympathized with the anarchists."
"Anything further?"
"Yes, sir; he said in his opinion assassination was justifiable."
"Where did this conversation take place?"
"In a little smoking-room off the hall."
"Were you alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you remember the particular occasion which started your discussion of anarchism with the accused?" asked Shagarach, after a consultation with Floyd.
"No, sir."
"Wasn't it the arrest of Dr. Hyndman in London?"
"Oh, yes, I believe it was."
"It was for Dr. Hyndman that Floyd expressed sympathy, was it not?"
"Yes, sir, it was Hyndman."
"Do you happen to know whether Dr. Hyndman is a philosophical anarchist or not?"
"Sir?"
"Do you know what school of anarchism Dr. Hyndman represents?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know whether he advocates bomb-throwing?"
"I suppose so."
"You take it for granted, then, that all anarchists are bomb-throwers?"
"Yes, sir."
"Had Dr. Hyndman thrown a bomb?"
"I don't remember."
"Don't you remember that he merely made an anarchistic speech, in denunciation of society?"
"No, sir."
"You didn't inquire into the matter much?"
"No, sir."
"But Floyd, you say, expressed sympathy with the anarchists?"
"Yes, sir." This was said emphatically.
"Didn't he say that he sympathized with Dr. Hyndman?"
"That's what I told you."
"No, sir, it is not what you told me. Didn't Floyd say he sympathized with Dr. Hyndman as opposed to the bomb-throwing anarchists?"
"I don't remember that he did."
"Didn't he say that he sympathized with Dr. Hyndman's objects, but not his methods?"
"I don't remember anything about that."
"Then you didn't carry away a very clear idea of the conversation, did you?"
"I think I did," the witness replied with positiveness. Then the cross-examiner dismissed him, satisfied to have made it apparent that fine distinctions would pass through Mr. Carberry's mind like beach sand through a sieve. The redirect examination went over the same ground, and Badger placed a Mr. Lovejoy on the stand.
"You are treasurer of the Beacon company, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"All checks in payment for services rendered pass through you?"
"Through my subordinates or myself."
"Have you calculated, as requested, the total sums paid to Robert Floyd for special articles during the time of his employment?"
"I have."
"Will you state to the jury the earning capacity of this young man at the time of his uncle's death?"
"The question is prejudicially framed, Brother Badger," said Shagarach. "Please do not incorporate your own inferences when examining a witness."
"How much had Floyd earned while with you?" asked Badger.
"From January to June, inclusive, six monthly checks were made out payable to Robert Floyd, for services, and three smaller checks for expenses incurred. The amount of the former checks was $309."
"During six months?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Hero Leander," said the next witness.
"City editor of the Beacon, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you state any conversation you had with Inspector McCausland on Monday morning, June 30?"
"The conversation on my side was conducted in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet. Mr. McCausland entered our office and inquired which was Floyd's desk."
"And what did you do?"
"I pointed."
"To Floyd's desk?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. McCausland."
A buzz of expectancy went around when the inspector walked in from the ante-room and mounted the stand. He wore a rose in his buttonhole, but the smile had left his countenance. With his testimony, it was felt, the real case for the prosecution began.
"You arrested the accused, I believe, Mr. McCausland?" asked the district attorney, amid the breathless attention of the court.
"I had that disagreeable task to perform."
"Where was the arrest made?"
"On the steps of the Putnam hotel."
"What was your first act upon reaching the station?"
"I stripped the accused and confiscated the clothes he wore."
"These were the clothes he had worn at the time of the fire, also?"
"He stated so."
"You have preserved those garments?"
"Yes, sir."
"You also confiscated the desk which Floyd had occupied at the Beacon office?"
"The drawers of it, yes, sir."
"Have you preserved the contents of that desk?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you inform the jury what you found in the drawers of Robert Floyd's desk?"
"Three copies of the anarchist organ, Freiheit. There they are."
"Do these papers preach philosophical anarchy, Mr. McCausland?"
"I should say not. They are in German, but the leading editorial of this one—which was kindly translated for me by a friend—recommends the 'stamping out by fire and sword of John Burns and all such peace-mongering worms.'"
"A forcible expression, surely. It is the Most organ, in short?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you state the further results of your search in the desk?"
"I found this paper of powder, a part of a fuse, a written formula for manufacturing a bomb, a blotter with part of a note on it, legible by the help of a mirror——"
"That will do for the present, Mr. McCausland. And will you state what you may have found in the pockets of Floyd's coat?"
"A quantity of powder. There were grains of it also on the knees of his trousers."
"Similar to that found in his desk?"
"Yes, sir."
"What else?"
"A burnt match," said the inspector, just as the clock struck five and the constable's gavel sounded a prelude to adjournment.
Nearly the same gathering was admitted to the courtroom on the second day as on the first. But, wedged in between Mrs. Arnold and the unknown woman in black, Emily had pointed out to her the famous novelist Ecks, who sat with his head inclined toward the still more famous playwright Wye. Wye was mooting volubly the chain of testimony which had been spun around the accused on the foregoing day, which seemed to possess for him all the circumscribed but inexhaustible interest of the chessboard or a dramatic intrigue. But Ecks was sketching in pencil the principal characters of the trial.
"We shall summon Mr. McCausland again," said the district attorney. "At present we surrender him to the counsel for the accused."
A keen glance shot from lawyer to witness, comparing the two great opponents. Shagarach's face was a mask, stern and impenetrable, but McCausland visibly braced himself for the encounter. Equal they might be in a sense, as Mount Everest is the peer of the Amazon, but as different in their spheres as the river and the mountain. In the detective's subtle eye the keen observer might have discovered a finesse and a suppleness not altogether remote from the corresponding traits in the cracksman whom he had impersonated. But Shagarach could no more have counterfeited Bill Dobbs than McCausland could have acted with success the role of Count L'Alienado.
"Would you hang a kitten on the evidence of a burned match, inspector?" asked the lawyer.
"If he were old enough to scratch it," answered the detective.
"Will you turn out the contents of your upper right vest pocket?"
McCausland's face became rosy with embarrassment, but he obeyed the request. A ripple of laughter went around when among the broken-up fractions of a card of lucifers there appeared one that was blackened at the end. The inspector allowed the merriment to die, then coolly remarked:
"It is the match I found on Floyd."
And it was felt that he had held his own.
"Phineas Fowler," called the district attorney. The old chemist tottered to the stand and held a parchment hand high in air while the clerk administered his oath.
"What is your business, Mr. Fowler?"
The pantaloon trembled visibly and twisted the two horns of his forked board one after the other with nervous fingers, blinking about all the while like an old Rosicrucian projected into the daylight world.
"A chemist," he piped, in a treble so high that the thoughtless smiled, but so feeble the chief justice bent forward to hear and the stenographer requested him to raise his voice. Ecks began sketching away rapidly at the advent of this character. The very odor of acids seemed to exhale from his shivering person.
"What lines of trade do you supply?"
"Photographers, dyers, armorers——"
"The last class with explosives and fulminating compounds, I presume?"
"Also with oils and varnishes," answered the pantaloon, his voice breaking in the desperate effort he made to be audible.
"Would you call him senile or venerable?" whispered Ecks.
"He must have sold Floyd the powder," answered Wye, intent on the imbroglio.
"Have you ever met the accused?"
"Yes, sir."
"When and where?"
"In my office twice."
"What was the date of the first visit of the accused to your office?"
"June 23."
"And of the second?"
"June 27."
"On what business did the accused call to see you, Mr. Fowler?"
"He was inquiring about bombs," answered the witness, a strong back-country twang coming out as he proceeded and adding to his other peculiarities.
"What did he especially desire to know about bombs?"
"How they were made."
"Were you able to inform him? Have you made a study of this subject?"
"Oh, yes. There's nothing mysterious about it."
"You entered into a minute discussion, then, with Floyd on the subject of bomb-making?"
"Well, no; I answered his questions. Didn't volunteer nothing." Mr. Fowler grew reckless of the niceties of speech as he accelerated his replies. "Don't believe it's a proper matter to be preached from the housetops."
"Your room is tolerably near the top of the house, however?"
"Top story, sir."
"Well, proper or improper, what was the upshot of your conversation?"
"He was coming again and I was to sell him some powder."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, three feet of fuse."
"Will you describe this fuse?"
"Why it's just common fuse, made out of linen cloth, sprinkled with a slow-burning mixture—nitre, sulphur and a little powder—sheathed in rubber and fitted into a metal plug."
"You sold Floyd three feet of this fuse?"
"Yes, sir."
"And how much of the powder?"
"Two pounds."
"Common gunpowder?"
"Yes, sir; American army powder."
"You were to sell him these commodities, you say. Did he actually return and purchase them?"
"Yes, sir; I had them all done up when he called again."
"Called on June 27, as he had promised to?"
"Called on June 27, sir."
"Which was the day before the fire and the day after his uncle's funeral, according to Dr. Thornton's testimony as to the date."
"I dare say you are right, sir," squeaked the pantaloon, who evidently stood in trepidation of his burly examiner.
"For what purpose did you understand that the accused wanted this powder and this fuse?"
"Told me he wanted to make some sort of a bomb."
"Did he ask you for particular directions?"
"Well, yes."
"Did you furnish him the shell or envelope of this projected bomb?"
"Oh, no; he said he had a teakittle to hum," said the pantaloon, whereupon the repressed volcano of merriment exploded once more, to the indignation of John Davidson, who occupied a front seat, listening to the testimony of his townsman. The chief justice looked stern and the district attorney's deep bass rumbled on without a pause.
"A teakettle at home. And how was that to be converted into the covering of a bomb?"
"Why, I told him to put the fuse inside and draw it through the nozzle, so the plug would stop up the spout, then shovel in the powder, tamp her up with nails and pellets, fasten down the lid and you have a bomb ready made. The kettle, I understood, was a frail one, hardly stronger than a canister."
"Not a concussion bomb, Mr. Fowler, I suppose?"
"No, sir. Those are filled with dynamite or giant powder. I don't deal in the high explosives."
"This bomb would have to be fired through the fuse?"
"Yes, sir."
"But it would explode with considerable force."
"Well, I guess it would rip things jest a trifle." Here the pantaloon forced the ghost of a smile himself.
"Kindly bring in the safe."
It came in on the shoulders of two stout porters, all breached and battered and bubbled in places, as if the iron had melted like tar.
"The explosion of this shell, the construction of which you have just described, would blast away a very considerable obstacle, you say?"
"Lord, yes! Slit a cannon."
"Would it be sufficient—I ask your opinion as one having experience in this line—would it be sufficient to cause the mutilation visible in that safe?"
"All that and a sight more."
"And the accused gave you to understand that he had undertaken the construction of just such a bomb?"
"I took him so."
"Very well. So much for that. Did you examine the piece of fuse which Mr. McCausland found in the desk occupied by Floyd at the Beacon office?"
"I did."
"What kind of fuse was it?"
"Same as I sold him."
At this point a small piece of fuse, some six inches in length, was submitted to the jury for inspection and passed along from hand to hand.
"And the powder found in it?"
"Same powder."
"And the powder in Floyd's coat pockets?"
"Same powder."
"And the grains on the knees of his trousers, where they may have spilled?"
"Same powder."
"That's the black side of the shield," whispered Ecks, as the district attorney sat down.
"Now for the white," answered Wye.
"It is not part of your regular business, I presume," said Shagarach, "to furnish anarchists with bombs?"
"Oh, no, sir," answered the witness, making corkscrew curls of his beard points.
"Or incendiaries with igniting material?"
"No, sir; never did it before in my life, sir."
"Why did Floyd say he wanted this powder and fuse and information as to the construction of bombs?"
"Said he was studying up anarchism."
"For what purpose?"
"Wanted to write an article on it, he said."
"And you seem to have believed him?"
"At the time, or I wouldn't have sold him the goods."
"What made you believe him?"
The witness paused, puzzled and shifted from foot to foot.
"Well, I can't say, sir, as to his credentials."
"Couldn't he have procured these materials in some less public way if secrecy had been an object with him?"
"Plenty of other ways of getting such things, sir."
"Yet he walked in openly to your office?"
"Yes, sir."
"Told you his name?"
"No, sir."
"Gave you his card?"
"Yes, sir; business card; said he was a reporter."
"Where is the card?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Did you notice the name?"
"No, sir; took no particular notice. Thought it was all right at the time."
"But the young man stated that he was studying up anarchism?"
"And wanted to see for himself just how easy it was to make a bomb."
"That will do."
"Rather an eccentric whim," said Wye. "Putting up a clever defense, though."
"Did you notice how the defendant's jaws are set?" answered Ecks.
"Mr. Hero Leander," called Badger, and the city editor again took the stand.
"Did the Beacon ever give Floyd an assignment to write up anarchy?"
The witness shook his head.
"Mr. McCausland once more," said Badger, while the city editor, whose occupation had taught him to reduce laconicism to a science, rushed off to write up his own somewhat abbreviated testimony for the evening edition of his paper.
"Did you find any manuscript or notes of an article on anarchism in the desk occupied by the accused?"
"None, sir."
"Or in the garments he wore at the time of the fire?"
"None."
"You had no opportunity," asked Shagarach, "after the fire to search Floyd's room at his uncle's house?"
"I wish I had," replied the inspector.
"Then you could not testify that such notes or such a manuscript were not in existence before the fire?"
"I could offer an opinion."
"Mr. Chandler."
In the interim, during which our old acquaintance, the patrolman, was hunted up, the jury curiously examined the powder, which McCausland handed them.
"You recognize this article, Mr. Chandler?" asked Badger, pointing to the safe.
"I do."
"You removed it or had it removed from the ruins of the Arnold house after the fire?"
"Acting under Mr. McCausland's instructions, I did so."
"It presented the same appearance as now?"
"As far as I know."
"The safe will be removed to the jury-room later for inspection," said Badger.
"What was the date of Prof. Arnold's death, Mr. Chandler?" asked Shagarach.
"He died on a Tuesday. Let me see. The fire was on the 28th; then it must have been the 24th."
"How is that competent, your honor?" objected Badger.
"Perhaps Mr. Shagarach can explain its relevancy," said Chief Justice Playfair.
"Easily, your honor. Fowler, the chemist, has testified that Floyd's first visit was on the 23d, which was Monday. His uncle died on Tuesday, suddenly and unexpectedly. The prosecution asks us to believe that the accused either foresaw in some occult manner his uncle's death or contemplated blowing up the house while his uncle was still alive."
"Admit the testimony," said the judge.
"District Chief Wotherspoon," called the district attorney, relieving his assistant. The witness was rugged and weather-beaten and his uniform was not brushed for inspection. He had just answered an alarm.
"You had charge of the fire forces in the early part of the Arnold fire, did you not?"
"Yes, sir; until Chief McKay arrived I was senior officer."
"Do you recall the explosions which took place?"
"Perfectly."
"How many in number were the explosions?"
"Two."
"Two distinct explosions?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you state to the best of your knowledge the portion of the burning buildings from which the explosions came?"
"The first one was a single discharge. It came from the second story of the Arnold house."
"Where the study was located?"
"Yes, sir."
"You feel positive?"
"I do. I was climbing a ladder at the time and was thrown off my hold by the shock."
"And the second of the explosions?"
"The second came after an interval and was different in character—more like the setting-off of a bunch of firecrackers, but greatly exaggerated in the volume of sound. There can be no doubt this was the fireworks shop in the adjoining building."
"But the first one positively came from the study?"
"Positively."