“I did,” said Stevens, his face set.
Sampson ventured a swift look at Alexandra Hildebrand. She was looking down at the table, her face half averted. It struck him as exceedingly brutal of Mr. O'Brien to drag this poor girl's dead mother into the public light of—But the lawyer asked another question.
“You and young Mr. Hildebrand remained friends for a number of years after his marriage, did you not?”
“I always thought so.”
“You never bore him any ill will?”
“What do you mean?”
“I withdraw the question. When was it that you and James Hildebrand, Jr., ceased to be friends?”
“I—I don't know. I cannot go into that matter, Mr. O'Brien. I—” Mr. Stevens was visibly distressed.
“Wasn't it in 1895 that you and he ceased to be friends?” persisted the lawyer.
“There was a terrible misunderstanding, I—that is, I should say—”
“In 1895, wasn't it?”
“I think so.” Mr. Stevens was perspiring. He looked beseechingly at the district attorney, who happened to be gazing pensively out of the window at the time.
“You were a frequent and welcome visitor at young Hildebrand's home up to 1895, weren't you?”
“It was through no fault of mine that the friendship was broken off. Mr. Hildebrand behaved in a most outrageous manner toward me.”
“Isn't it true, Mr. Stevens, that Mr. Hildebrand ordered you out of his house and told you that you were not to enter it again?”
“Mr. Hildebrand grievously misunderstood my—”
“Answer the question, please. Were you not ordered out of your friend's house?”
“Am I obliged, your Honour, to answer—”
“Answer yes or no,” said the Court, leaning forward and fixing the witness with a very severe stare. (Sampson regarded him as distinctly human, after all.) Miss Hildebrand's, eyes were still lowered. The aged prisoner, however, was looking a hole through the now miserable witness.
“He threatened to kill me,” exclaimed Stevens violently. “He acted like a crazy man over a perfectly innocent—”
“He ordered you out, didn't he?” came the deadly question.
Mr. Stevens swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“And you maintain that he took that step because he misunderstood something or other, eh?”
“Most certainly.”
“Well, what was it he misunderstood?”
“I must decline to answer. I stand on my rights.”
“Wasn't it because Mrs. Hildebrand complained to him that you had been—er—unnecessarily offensive to her?”
“I decline to answer.”
“In any event, you never entered his house again, and you never spoke to him or his wife after that. Isn't that true?'
“I was justified in ignoring both of them. They insulted me most—”
“I understand, Mr. Stevens. We will drop the matter. I have no desire to cause you unnecessary pain. Now will you be good enough to state when you first noticed that there was something wrong with the books and accounts of the defendant? What first caused you to suspect that the funds were being juggled, as you put it in the direct examination?”
Mr. Stevens had an easier time of it after that. He resumed his placid, kindly air, and maintained it to the end, although a keen observer might have observed an uneasy respect for Mr. O'Brien. He appeared to be relieved when the examination was concluded.
Sampson went out to luncheon in a more cheerful frame of mind. It was quite clear to every one that Mr. Stevens was guilty, at least circumstantially, of conduct unbecoming a gentleman.
Two days went by. Mr. Drew, Mr. Schoolcraft and Mr. Kauffman were examined and cross-examined, and after them came the first of the expert accountants employed to go over the books. The situation continued to look black for Mr. Hildebrand—if anything a little blacker, for neither of the foregoing witnesses appeared to have been guilty of offending a lady to such an extent that her husband had to order him out of the house.
Mr. Drew received considerable unpleasant attention from the defendant's counsel, but he came through pretty comfortably. He admitted that he “cleaned up more than half a million” on the deal with the insurance company, and that he was the husband of Mr. Stevens' sister. He always had been sorry for Mr. Hildebrand, and even now was without animus. Mr. Schoolcraft acknowledged buying and selling the younger Hildebrand's shares, but was positive that there had been no collusion with Mr. Stevens.
The case began to drag. Sampson lost interest. He attended strictly and no doubt diligently to the evidence, but when the expert accountants began to testify he found himself considerably at sea. He was not good at figures. They made him restless. The rest of the jury appeared to be similarly afflicted. Politeness alone kept them from yawning. Afterwards it was revealed that only one of the twelve was good at figures of any sort: the automobile salesman. He was a perfect marvel at statistics. He could tell you how many miles it is from New York to Oswego without even calculating, and he knew to a fraction the difference in the upkeep of all the known brands of automobiles in America. He made Sampson tired.
Despite the damaging testimony that seemed surely to be strangling her grandfather's chances for escape, Miss Hildebrand revealed no sign of despair, or defeat. She came in each morning as serene as a May evening, and she left the court-room in the afternoon with a mien as untroubled as when she entered it. .
There was quite a little flutter in the jury box—and outside of it, for that matter—when, on the third morning, she appeared in a complete change of costume—a greyish, modish sort of thing, Sampson would have told you—very smart and trig and comforting to the masculine eye. Sampson who knew more than any of his companions about such things, remarked (to himself, of course)—that her furs were chinchilla. Chinchilla is nothing if not convincing.
It struck him, as he took her in—(she was standing, straight and slim, conversing with that beardless cub of an assistant-assistant district attorney)—that she was, if such a thing were possible, even lovelier than she was in the other gown. No doubt Sampson failed in his sense of proportion. She was undeniably lovelier today than yesterday, and she would continue to go on being prettier from day to day, no matter what manner of gown she wore.
It also occurred to him that the young assistant-assistant was singularly unprofessional, if not actually fresh, in dragging her into a conversation that must have been distasteful to her. He wondered how she could smile so agreeably and so enchantingly over the stupid things the fellow was saying.
Near the close of the noon recess he was constrained to reprove No. 7 for an act that might have created serious complications. He was standing in the rotunda finishing his third cigarette, when Miss Hildebrand approached on her way to the court-room. It had been his practice—and it was commendable—to refrain from staring at her on occasions such as this. A rather low order of intelligence prevented his fellow jurors from according her the same consideration. They stared without blinking until she disappeared from view.
Now, No. 7 meant no harm, and yet he so far forgot himself that he doffed his hat to her as she passed. Fortunately she was not looking in his direction. As a matter of fact, she never even so much as noticed the nine or ten jurors who strewed her path. No. 7 was mistaken, there can be no doubt about that. He thought she looked at him instead of through him, and in his excitement he grabbed for his hat. Perhaps he hoped for a smile of recognition, and, if not that, a smile of amusement. He would have been grateful in either case.
“Don't do that,” whispered Sampson, gruffly.
“Why not?” demanded No. 7, blinking his eyes. “No harm in being a gentleman, is there?”
“You must not be seen speaking to her—or to any one of the interested parties, for that matter. Do you want to have her accused of bribery or—er—complicity?”
“I thought she was going to speak to me,” stammered No. 7.
“Well, she wasn't. She has too much sense for that. Good Lord, if counsel for the State saw you doing that sort of thing, they'd suspect something in a second.”
“Haven't you read about those jury-fixing scandals?” exclaimed the chubby bachelor, surprisingly red in the face. He had almost reached his own hat when Sampson spoke. Four or five of the others glowered upon the offending No. 7. “We can't even be seen bowing to anybody connected with the case.”
“I saw you throw your cigar away when she came in the door,” retorted No. 7, in some exasperation. “What did you do that for?”
The chubby bachelor looked hurt. “Because I was through with it,” he said. “I don't hang onto 'em till they burn my lips, you know.” He deemed it advisable to resort to sarcasm.
“Just remember that you are a juror,” advised No. 4 in a friendly tone. One might have thought he was compassionate.
“No harm done,” said No. 12. “She didn't even see you. I happen to know, because she was lookin' right at me when you took off your lid. You didn't notice me fiddling with my head-piece, did you? I guess not. She don't expect us to, and so I didn't make any crack. I—”
“I'd suggest,” said Sampson, with dignity, “that we devote a certain amount of respect to the ethics.”
It was a little puzzling. Ethics is a word that calls for reflection. You've got to know just what it means, and after you know that much about it, you've got to fix its connection. Several of the gentlemen nodded profoundly, and two of them said: “Well, I should say so.” That night Sampson sat alone in front of his fireplace, his brow clouded by uneasy, disturbing thoughts. A woodfire crackled and simmered on the huge Florentine andirons. Turple, coming in to inquire if he would speak with Mrs. Fitzmorton on the telephone, was gruffly instructed to say that he was not at home, and when Turple returned with the word that Mrs. Fitzmorton was at home and still expecting him to dine at her house that evening, notwithstanding the fact that her guests and her dinner had been waiting for him since eight o'clock—and it was now 8:45—Sampson groaned so dismally that his valet was alarmed. The groan was succeeded, however, by a far from feeble expression of self-reproach, and a tremendous scurrying into overcoat and hat. He reached Mrs. Fitzmorton's house—it happened to be in the next block north—in less than three minutes, and he was so engagingly contrite, and so terribly good-looking, that she forgave him at once—which was more than the male members of the party did.
They were all married men and they couldn't forgive anybody for being late. They were always being implored, either pathetically or peevishly, to stop complaining.
Sampson had cause for worry. He had been slow in arriving at the truth, but that afternoon his conviction was established. Miss Hildebrand was depending on him to swing that jury!
She was counting on his intelligence, his decision, his insight, his power to see beyond the supposed facts in the case as presented by the witnesses for the State. He was sure of it. There was nothing in the cool, frank scrutiny that she gave him from time to time that could be described by the most critical of minds as even suggestive of a purpose to influence him, and yet he was sure that she depended on his good sense for a solution of all that was going on.
What disturbed him most was this: there was no distinction between the look she gave him when the State scored a point and when the condition was reversed. The same confident, reasoning expression was in her lovely eyes, as much as to say: “You must see through all this, No. 3—of course you must, or you couldn't look me in the eye as you do.”
It was as clear as day to him: she was certain that her grandfather was incapable of doing the thing he was charged with doing, and she could not see how a man of his (Sampson's) perception could possibly think otherwise.
The revelation caused him to forget all about his dinner engagement. Also it caused him to pass an absolutely sleepless night. When he closed his eyes she still looked into them—always the same clear, understanding, undoubting gaze that he had come to know so well. When he lay with them wide open, staring into the darkness, the vision took more definite shape, so he closed them tightly again.
Turple noticed his haggardness the next morning and was solicitous. Now, Turple, at his best, was not entitled to a stare of any description. But Sampson's rapt gaze was so prolonged and so singularly detached from the object upon which it rested—Turple's countenance—that the poor fellow was alarmed. He had never seen his master look just like that before. Later on, Sampson told him to go to the devil. Turple was relieved.
The accountants, the detectives and two bookkeepers who formerly had worked under Mr. Hildebrand testified and then the State rested. Through it all the prisoner sat unmoved. Sampson wondered what was going on in the mind of that gaunt, fine-faced old man. What would be his answer to the damning evidence that stood arrayed against him? Whatcouldbe his defence!
He was sorry for him. He would have given a great deal to be able to rise now from his seat in the jury box and announce candidly that he did not feel that he could bring in a verdict against the old man, reminding the Court and the district attorney that he had said in the beginning that he could not answer for his sympathies.
During the noon recess he took account of his fellow jurors. They were a glum, serious looking set of men. He knew where their sympathies lay and, like himself, they were depressed. The justice—even he—had lost much of the geniality that at the outset had warmed the atmosphere. He no longer smiled; no more did he exploit his wit, and as for his brisk moustache, it drooped.
To the amazement of every one, the defendant's counsel announced that they had but one witness: the prisoner himself. And every one then knew that no matter what the prisoner said in his own defence, his testimony would be unsupported; it would have to stand alone against odds that were overwhelming.
Slowly but surely it became evident to these more or less discerning men that James Hildebrand's plea would be for sympathy and not for vindication. By his own story of the dealings with Stevens and Drew and the others he hoped to reach their hearts and through their hearts a certain sense of justice that moves in all men's minds.
Sampson's heart sank. While he was convinced that the old man had been cruelly tricked by his business associates, that they had squeezed him dry in order to profit by his misery, that Stevens at least was actuated by a personal grudge which found relief in crushing the father of the man he hated, and that the others may have been innocently or pusillanimously influenced by the designs of this one man who sought control, there still remained the fact that Hildebrand, according to the evidence, had violated the law and was a subject for punishment—if not for correction, as the prison reformers would have it in these days. In no way could the old man's act be legally or morally justified. Sampson, after hearing the announcement of his counsel, realised that he would have a very unpleasant duty to perform, and he knew that he was going to hate himself.
He had never spoken a word to Alexandra Hildebrand; he had not even heard the sound of her voice—her conversation with counsel was carried on in whispers or in subdued tones—And yet he was in love with her! He was the victim of a glorious enchantment.
And he knew that No. 7 was in love with her—foolishly in love with her; and so was the once supercilious No. 12; and the chubby bachelor; and No. 9 who wanted to stay off the jury because he had to get married in three weeks; and No. 8 who had two sons in the high school, one daughter in Altman's and two wives in the cemetery; and the sombre-faced No. 1; and all the rest of them! No. 2, who chewed gum resoundingly, no longer chewed. His jaws were silenced. He had an impression that Miss Hildebrand disapproved of gum-chewing, so he stopped. More than this, no man could sacrifice.
The spruce young men from the district attorney's office were visibly affected—(they really were quite sickening, thought Sampson); and the deputy clerk, the court-room bailiffs, and the stripling who carried messages from one given point to another with incredible speed, now that he had something to keep him moving.
All of them, in a manner of speaking, were in love with her. And she was not in love with any one of them. There could be no doubt about that. They meant absolutely nothing to her.
Sampson wondered if she had a sweetheart, if there was some one with whom she was in love, if those dear lips—and he sighed bleakly. He hated, with unexampled venom, this purely suppositious male who harassed him from morning till night. Common-sense told him that she must have a sweetheart. It was inconceivable that she shouldn't possess the most natural thing in the world. She just couldn't help having one. What sort of a fellow was he? Of course, he didn't deserve her; that was clear enough, assuming that the fellow actually existed. In his present frame of mind, Sampson could think of only one man in the world who might possibly be deserving of her.
Nevertheless, he felt that he was behaving in a silly, amateurish manner, falling in love with her like this. It was to be expected of ignorant, common louts such as No. 7—a very ordinary jackass!—and the other ten men in the box, to say nothing of the suddenly adolescent yet middle-aged horde outside. It was just the sort of thing that they would be certain to do. They were a fatuous—but there he stopped, scowling within himself. What right had he to call these other men fools? He was no better than they. Indeed, he was worse, for he always had believed himself to be supremely above such nonsense as this. They made no pretentions. They fell in love with her just as they would have fallen in love with any pretty girl—and, Heaven knows, pretty girls are always being fallen in love with. But that he, the unimpressionable, experienced Sampson, should lose his heart—and head—over a girl who had never spoken a word to him, whom he had never seen until six days before, and who doubtless would go out of his life completely the instant the trial was over—why, it ought to have been excruciatingly funny. But it wasn't funny.
It was very far from funny. Putting one's self in a class with No. 7 and No. 12 and the rest of them was certainly not Sampson's idea of something to laugh at. So he scowled ominously every time he chanced to think of any one of them—which happened only when Miss Hildebrand deigned to look at that particular individual.
And he would have to send her beloved grandfather to the penitentiary. He would have to hurt her; he would have to bring pain and despair and, worse than these, astonishment to her beautiful eyes. He knew that he would be haunted for the rest of his life by the look she would give him when the verdict was announced.
James Hildebrand wentonthe stand on the afternoon of the sixth day. A curious hush settled over the court-room. Men shifted in their chairs and then slumped down dejectedly, as if oppressed by the utter futility of the tale he would have to tell. Alexandra Hildebrand alone was bright-eyed and eager. Her lips were slightly parted as the old man, grey and erect, took the oath. She knew that the truth and nothing but the truth could fall from the lips of this gentle old grandfather of hers. Now they would have the truth! Now the case would crumble! She sent one swift, reassuring look through the jury box, and, for the first time, gazed into no man's eyes. She was puzzled. Every face was averted. Long afterwards she may have recalled the queer little chill that entered her heart, and stayed there for the briefest instant before passing.
0081
The defendant's voice was low, well-modulated, unemotional; his manner simple and yet impressive. Throughout the entire story that he told, his hearers listened with rapt attention.
She sent one swift, reassuring look through the jury box.
They were hoping that he could convince them. They watched his fine, distinguished face; they watched his sombre, unflinching eyes; they watched his steady hands as they rested on the arms of the chair; they watched him with fear in their hearts: the fear that he would falter and betray himself.
He entered a simple, direct denial of the accusation made against him. His story was not a long one, and it would have to go uncorroborated, for, as he said himself, there was no one upon whom he could call for support. In the first place, he declared that he did not know that he was suspected of having robbed his partners until after many months had passed. He was aware of the investigation, but it had never entered his head that he could be the person under suspicion. He admitted taking a hurried and perhaps ill-advised departure from New York, and, in answer to a direct question from his own counsel, declared that he would never reveal his reason for leaving so secretly and in such haste.
Facing the jury he stated calmly, deliberately and in a most resolute manner that he would go to prison for the rest of his days, that he would suffer lasting ignominy and disgrace, before he would publicly account for this action on his part.
When he learned that a true bill had been returned against him by the Grand Jury, his first impulse was to return to his own country and fight the charge. Reflection convinced him that he was safe as long as he remained in his sequestered home in Switzerland, and he made up his mind to remain there and die with unlifted disgrace bearing down upon his good name rather than to return and face the probability of having to account for his absence. That, and that alone, was responsible for his decision to remain where he was. No one knew of his whereabouts, not even his own kith and kin. He was as safe as if he were already dead. Then, in solemn, unforgettable tones he declared that he had never taken a penny belonging to the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company, that he was innocent of the charge brought against him, notwithstanding the fact that appearances were sufficient to convict.
Time brought a change in him. He decided to return and face his accusers. He did not hope to convince them that he was innocent. He only wanted the opportunity to stand before the world and proclaim his innocence. He had no testimony to offer. He could only say that he had not done this monstrous thing of which he was accused.
His testimony was given as a simple statement. He was allowed to tell his brief story without the interpolation of a single question by his counsel. Succinctly but with scant bitterness, he recited the story of his own unfair treatment at the hands of his former partners. He touched very casually upon that phase of the matter, as if it were of small consequence to him now. There were no harsh words for the men who had tricked him. One could not help having the feeling that he looked upon them as beneath his notice.
He came home of his own free-will, after years of deliberation. He had been influenced by no one in this singular crisis. He was alone in the world. Except for his beloved granddaughter, there was no one else who could suffer through the result of this trial. He was prepared to accept the verdict of the twelve gentlemen who listened to him and who had listened to the testimony of others before him.
There was not a sound in the court-room when he paused and drew a long deep breath. Every eye was upon him. Then, in a clear, resonant voice he said:
“Gentlemen, I repeat that I am absolutely innocent of this charge. I ask you to believe me when I say this to you. If you do not believe me, I must be content to accept your judgment. I do not ask you to discredit the testimony of the men who have appeared against me. They have told all they know about the circumstances, I dare say, and I am convinced that they are honest men. They have only shown you that there was a colossal theft, that a large sum of money is unaccounted for in their business. They have not shown you, however, that I am the man who took it. They have only shown you that fifty thousand dollars is missing and unaccounted for. I admit I was responsible as treasurer of the company for the safe-keeping and guardianship of all that money. It disappeared. I can only say to you, gentlemen, that I did not take it.”
His voice was husky. There was a long pause, and then he settled back in his chair and turned wearily to the district attorney for crossexamination. It was then that the crowd knew he had finished his story. A deep breath came from the lips of every one, as if for many minutes it had been withheld.
Sampson's gaze involuntarily sought Alexandra Hildebrand's face. He did not mean to look at her. He could not resist the impulse, however. It was stronger than the adamantine resolution he had made. The light of triumph was in her glowing eyes, the flush of victory in the cheek. Her grandfather had cleared himself!
Sampson's heart ached as it sank to depths from which it would never rebound. He turned hopelessly to the man in the witness chair, and waited for the district attorney to open his grilling cross-examination. He knew what the State would demand: why did he go away? Who replaced a large portion of the amount originally missing? Why did he sell his real-estate and his interest in the business? A hundred vital questions would be discharged at him, and he would—But, even as he delved in these dismal reflections, the district attorney arose in his place and said, clearly, distinctly—although no man at first believed his ears:
“No questions, your Honour.”
There was utter silence while this amazing announcement sank into the minds of the listeners. Counsel for the defence sat rigid and uncomprehending in their chairs; the justice leaned forward and stared; the prisoner's eyes widened for a second and then slowly closed. His chin fell; his attitude was one of acute humiliation. His story was not even worthy of notice! No questions! The acme of derision!
Argument by counsel followed, the beardless “assistant-assistant” making the opening address to the jury. He floundered badly. Sampson derived some consolation from his futile, feeble arraignment. If the principal attorney for the State didn't do a great deal better than his singularly ineffectual confrere, there was still hope that the prisoner's counsel might by impassioned pleas stir the hearts of twelve men to mercy. The sympathies of all were—But even as he speculated on the probable lengths to which sympathy would carry his companions in arriving at a verdict, there suddenly flashed into his brain a vast illumination. James W. Hildebrand was not guilty! He was shielding some one else! His reluctance to tell why he left New York was explained. He could not tell without betraying a secret that must forever remain inviolate! Sampson breathed easier. Why, it was as plain as day to him! At least, it was something on which to base a conclusion. It might come in very handy too when the jury, in seclusion, began to grope for a favouring light. On reflection they would all agree that no witness actually had sworn that Hildebrand took the money. The evidence was decidedly circumstantial. By deduction alone was he guilty. On the other hand he had solemnly sworn that he didn't take it. And if he didn't take it, who did? That, said Sampson, was a very simple thing to answer: Some person unknown to the jury.
Miss Hildebrand's spirits undoubtedly fell after that significant move of the State. There was an anxious, bewildered expression in her eyes, and a rather pathetic droop at the corners of her adorable mouth.
The argument proceeded. Mr. O 'Brien made the closing speech for the defendant. Her spirits revived under the eloquent, fervent plea of the now brilliant Irishman. Sampson experienced a feeling of real affection for the earnest, though unkempt orator, who more than once brought tears almost to the surface of his eyes. He had great difficulty in suppressing a desire to blubber, and, when he saw her velvety eyes swimming in tears, he blew his nose so violently that he started an epidemic. No. 7, instead of blowing his nose, sniffed so repeatedly and so audibly that every one wished he'd blow, and have it over with.
And when her eyes flashed with indignation during the uncalled-for tirade of the assistant district attorney, Sampson developed a bitter hatred for the man. When she appeared crushed and bewildered by the vicious attacks of the fellow, and shrank down in her chair like a frightened child, Sampson wanted to take her in his strong, comforting arms and—But, of course, there wasn't any use thinking about such a thing as that. It was not one of his duties as a juror.
The case went to the jury at four o'clock that afternoon, after a somewhat protracted and, to Sampson, totally unenlightening charge by the justice, who advised the jurors that they must weigh the evidence as it was found and forbear allowing their sympathies to overcome their sense of justice. And so on and so forth. He made it very hard for the jurors. If they went entirely by the evidence, there wasn't anything left for them to do but to find the defendant guilty. Sampson had hoped for ameliorating suggestions from the learned justice on which he could base a sensible doubt as to the guilt of the defendant.
But, in so many words, the justice announced that the preponderance of the evidence was in favour of the State. He told the jurors it was their duty and privilege to take the defendant's unsupported testimony for what they considered it to be worth and to place it in opposition to the evidence produced by the State. It was then their duty to render a fair and impartial verdict on the evidence.
As the twelve men filed out of the box on their way to the jury room, Sampson shot a glance at Alexandra Hildebrand. He would not see her again until he returned to the seat he had occupied for six days, and after that she was to pass out of his life entirely. He hoped that she would not be there when he came back with his verdict. It would be much easier for him. He did not attempt to deceive himself any longer. If he lived up to his notions of honour and integrity, there was but one verdict he could return. (He wondered if his companions would prove to be as rigid in this respect as he.)
She was looking in the opposite direction, her chin in her hand. She did not meet his unhappy gaze. He was grateful for that.
Whatcheb say your name was?” demanded No. 8, aggressively.
“I didn't say,” said Sampson coolly. “Call me No. 3, if you don't mind. I'll answer to it.”
“Well, my name is Hooper, and that's what I want to be called.”
“I'm not going to call you anything,” said Sampson, turning away in his loftiest manner.
“Well, I guess it's just as well you don't,” snorted No. 8, sticking out his chest, and it wasn't a very obtrusive chest at that. Putting it back to where it normally belonged was a much less arduous job for No. 8 than sticking it out. He couldn't have stuck it out at all if he hadn't possessed the backing of ten men.
In short, the jury had been out for seven hours and the last ballot stood eleven to one for acquittal. Sampson was the unit.
No. 12 tried diplomacy. “Say, now, fellers, let's get together on this thing. We don't get anywhere by knockin' Mr. Sampson. He's got a right to think as he pleases, same as we have. So let's be calm and try to get together.”
“My God,” groaned No. 1, “can you beat that? Eleven of us have been together since five o'clock this afternoon, and you talk about being calm. Now, as foreman of this jury, I think I've got some right to be heard. You'll admit that, won't you, Mr. Sampson?”
“Certainly. Up to this moment, I've had no difficulty in hearing you. It isn't necessary to shout, either. I'm not deaf.”
“Now, let me talk,” went on the foreman. “Keep still a minute, you fellers. Mr. Sampson is a gentleman. He's got as much sense, I suppose, as any of us. He—”
“Thanks,” said Sampson.
“Well, here we are, 'leven to one. You admit that your sympathies are with the old man, same as the rest of us. You say you'd sooner be shot than to send him up. Well, now let's—wait a minute, Hooper! I'm talking. Let's talk this thing over as friends. I apologise for what I said just after supper. You've got a right to be pig-headed. You've got a legal right to hang this jury. But is it right and fair? If 'leven of us are willing to go on record as—er—as putting credence in the testimony of Mr. Hildebrand, I can't see why you're afraid to come in with us. Down in your soul you don't think he's guilty. You say that maybe he is shielding some one else. If that's the way you feel, why not come out like a man and give the poor old lad the benefit of the doubt? Lord knows I'm a hard man. I don't want to see any guilty man escape. I believe in putting 'em where they belong, and keeping 'em there. By Gosh, nobody dares to say to my face that I'm easy on criminals. I'm as hard as nails. My wife says I'm as hard as all get-out. And she ought to know. She's heard me talk about crime here in New York for nearly fifteen years, and she knows how I feel. Well, if I am willing to give the old man a chance, it ought to stand for something, oughtn't it? Hard as I am? Just reason it out for yourself, Mr. Sampson. Now, we all agree that the evidence against him is pretty strong. But it is circumstantial. You said so yourself in the beginning. It was you who said that it was circumstantial. You said—just a minute, Hooper! You said that while everything pointed to him as the guilty man, nobody actually swore that he saw him take the money. On the other hand, he swears he didn't take it. He ought to know, oughtn't he? If he knows who did take it, why that's his business. I don't believe in squealers. I wouldn't have any mercy on a man who turned State's evidence to save himself. Well, now, supposing old man Hildebrand knows who got away with the stuff. He is too much of a man to squeal. We oughtn't to send him up just because he won't squeal on the man—a friend, for all we know—even though it might save him from going to the pen. I leave it to you, Mr. Sampson: ought we?”
“Of course we oughtn't,” broke in the irrepressible Mr. Hooper. “Any damn' fool ought to see that.”
Sampson eyed Mr. Hooper severely. “He's leaving it to me, Mr. Hooper; not to you.” He leaned a little closer, his eyes narrowing. “And, by the way, Mr. Hooper, before we go any farther, I should like to call your attention to several facts entirely separate and apart from this trial. It may interest you to know that I am six feet one in my stocking feet, that I weigh one hundred and ninety-five pounds, that I am just under thirty years of age, that I was one of the strongest men in college, and that up to a certain point I am, and always have been, one of the gentlest and best-natured individuals in the world.”
“What do you mean by that?” blustered No. 8.
“Gentlemen!” admonished the foreman. The automobile salesman stopped picking his teeth.
“I am merely trying to convince you, Mr. Hooper, that there is a great deal more to be said for circumstantial evidence than you might think. You might go on forever thinking that I am a meek, spineless saphead, and on the other hand you might have it proved to you that I'm not. Please reflect on what I have just said. It can't do you any harm to reflect, Mr. Hooper.”
“Oh, piffle!” said Mr. Hooper, getting very red in the face.
“Sic 'em!” said No. 12, under his breath.
“Moreover,” went on Sampson, smiling—but mirthlessly—“I am assuming that your exercises as a hat salesman are not such as one gets in a first-class gymnasium. I hope you will pardon me for asking you to repeat the word you just uttered. I think it was 'piffle.'”
Mr. Hooper grinned. He didn't feel like grinning but something psychological told him to do it—and to do it as quickly as possible. “Aw, don't get sore, old man. Forget it!”
“Certainly,” said Sampson.
The foreman seized the opportunity. “There, now, that's better. At last we seem to Be getting together.”
No. 7 spoke up. “This might be a good time to take another ballot. It's 'leven minutes to one by my watch. We stand 'leven to one. That's a good sign. Say, do you know that's pretty darned smart, if I do say it myself who—”
“Let's have Mr. Sampson's revised views on the subject and then take a final ballot for tonight,” said the foreman, wearily.
“I haven't revised my views,” said Sampson.
There were several draughty sighs. “I've stated them five or six times to-night, and I see no reason to alter them now. Deeply as I regret it, I cannot conscientiously do anything but vote for a conviction.”
“Now, listen to me once more, Mr. Sampson,” began the chubby bachelor. “I'll try to set you straight in—”
“See here,” said Sampson, arising and confronting his companions, “we may just as well look this thing squarely in the face. I don't want to send him up any more than the rest of you do. But I am going to be honest with myself in this matter if I have to stay out here for six months. We've heard all of the evidence. It seems pretty clear to all of us that the defendant was responsible for the loss of that money, even if he didn't take it himself. He was the treasurer of the concern. He had absolute charge of the funds. So far as we are concerned the State has made out its case. We are supposed to be impartial. We are supposed to render a verdict according to the law and the evidence. We cannot be governed by sympathy or conjecture.
“When I left the court-room with the rest of you gentlemen to deliberate on a verdict, I will confess to you that I had in my heart a hope that you men would do just what you have done all along: vote for acquittal. When I came into this room seven hours ago, I was eager to vote just as you have voted. Then I began to reflect. I asked myself this question: how can I go back to that court-room and look the district attorney and the Court in the face and say that James Hildebrand is not guilty? If I did that, gentlemen, I am quite sure I could never look an honest man in the face again. We have all been carried away by our sympathies—I quite as much as the rest of you. I am convinced that there isn't a man among you who can stand up here and say, on his honour, that the evidence warrants the discharge of the defendant.
“God knows I want to set him free. I am inclined to believe his story. He is not the sort of man who would steal. But, after all, we are bound, as honest men, to carry out the requirements of the law. The Court clearly stated the law in this case. Under the law, we can do nothing else but convict, gentlemen.
“You, Mr. Foreman, have said that Hildebrand perhaps knows who took the money. You will admit that you are guessing at it, just as I am guessing. In his own testimony he was careful to say nothing that would lead us to believe that he knows the guilty man. The State definitely charges him with the crime and it produces evidence of an overwhelming nature to support the charge. Against this evidence is his simple statement that he did not take the money. He had already pleaded not guilty. Is it to be expected of him, therefore, that he should say anything else but that he did not rob his partners?
“Only the criminals who are caught redhanded confess that they are guilty. The guiltiest of them go on the stand, as we all know, proclaiming their innocence, and, not one, but all of the men who go to the chair after making such pleas maintain with their last breath that they are innocent. Gentlemen, this is the bitterest hour in all my life. I want to set this old man free, but I cannot conscientiously do so. I took my oath to render a fair and impartial verdict. You all know what a fair and impartial verdict must be in this case. I shall have to vote, as I have voted from the beginning, for conviction.”
He sat down. No. 7, who was directly opposite him across the long table, leaned forward suddenly with an odd expression in his eyes. Then he blinked them.
“Why, by jingo, he's—he's crying!” he exclaimed, something akin to awe in his voice. “You got tears in your eyes, darn me if you haven't.”
There were tears in Sampson's eyes. He lowered his head.
“Yes,” he said gruffly; “and I am not ashamed of them.”
“Oh, come now, old feller,” said Mr. Hooper, uncomfortably; “don't make a scene. Pull yourself together. We're all friends here, and we're all good fellers. Don't—”
“I'm all right,” said Sampson coldly. “You see I'm not as hard-hearted as you thought. Now, gentlemen, I shall not attempt to argue with you. I shall not attempt to persuade you to look at the case from my point of view. As a matter of fact, I am rather well pleased with the attitude you've taken. The trouble is that it isn't going to help the poor old man. All we can do is to disagree, and that means he will have to be tried all over again, perhaps after many months of confinement. I should like to ask you—all of you—a few rather pointed questions, and I'd like to have square and fair answers from you. What do you say to that?”
“Fire away,” said the foreman.
“It's one o'clock,” said No. 7. “Supposin' we wait till after breakfast.”
“Gawd, I'm sleepy,” groaned No. 12.
“No,” said the foreman firmly; “let's hear what Mr. Sampson has to say. He's got a lot of good common sense and he won't ask foolish questions. They'll be important, believe me.”
They all settled hack in their chairs, wearily, drearily.
“All right. Go ahead,” sighed the chubby bachelor. “I'll answer any question except 'what'll you have to drink,' and I'll answer that to-morrow.”
Sampson hesitated. He was eyeing No. 7 in a retrospective sort of way. No. 7 shifted in his chair and succeeded in banishing the dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.
“Assuming,” began the speaker, “that we were trying a low-browed, undershot ruffian instead of James W. Hildebrand, and the evidence against him was identical with that which we have been listening to, would you disregard it and accept his statement instead?”
“The case ain't parallel,” said No. 8. “His face wouldn't be James W. Hildebrand's, and you can bank a lot on a feller's face, Mr. Sampson.”
The others said, “That's so.”
“That establishes one fact very clearly, doesn't it? You all admit that with a different sort of a face and manner, Mr. Hildebrand might be as guilty as sin. Well, that point being settled, let me ask you another question. If Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, the granddaughter who has faced us for six working days, were a sour-visaged, watery-eyed damsel of uncertain age and devoid of what is commonly called sex-appeal, would your sympathies still be as happily placed as they are at present?”
No man responded. Each one seemed willing to allow his neighbour to answer this perfectly unanswerable question.
“You do not answer,” went on Sampson, “so I will put it in another form. Suppose that Miss Alexandra Hildebrand had not been there at all; suppose that she had not been where we could look at her for six short consecutive days—and consequently think of her for six long consecutive nights—or where she couldn't possibly have looked at us out of eyes that revealed the most holy trust in us—well, what then? I confess that Miss Hildebrand exercised a tremendous influence over me. Did she have the same effect upon you?”
Several of them cleared their throats, and then of one accord, as if moved by a single magnetic impulse, all of them said, in a loud, almost combative tone, “No!”
The chubby bachelor qualified his negative. “She didn't have an undue influence, Mr. Sampson. Of course, I liked to look at her. She's easy to look at, you know.” He blushed as his eyes swept the group with what he intended to be defiance but was in reality embarrassment.
No. 7: “I was awfully sorry for her. I guess everybody was.”
No. 9; “She's devoted to the old man. I like that in her. I tell you there's nothing finer than a young girl showing love and respect for—”
No. 12: “She's a square little scout. Take it from me, gents, she wasn't thinking of me as a juror when she happened to turn her lamps on me. I'm an old hand at the game. I can tell you a lot about women that you wouldn't guess in—”
Sampson: “We may, therefore, eliminate Miss Hildebrand as the pernicious force in our deliberations. She has nothing to do with our sense of justice. We would be voting, I take it, just as we have been all along if there were no such person as she. However, it occurs to me that each of you gentlemen may have had the same impression that I had during the trial. I had a feeling that Miss Hildebrand was depending on me to a tremendous extent. You may be sure that I do not charge her with duplicity—God knows I have the sincerest admiration for her—but I found it pretty difficult to meet her honest, serene, trustful eyes without experiencing a decided opinion that it was my bounden duty to acquit her grandfather. Anybody else feel that way about it?”
There was a long silence. Again each man seemed to be waiting for the other to break it. It was the foreman who spoke.
“I'll be perfectly honest, for one,” he said. “I thought and still think that she looked upon me as a friendly juror. Nothing wrong about it, mind you—not a thing. I wouldn't have you think that she deliberately—er—ahem! What have you to say, No. 7?”
No. 7 blushed violently. “Not a word,” said he. “I profess to be a gentleman.”
No. 8 snorted. “Well, then, act like one. Mr. Sampson's a gentleman. He don't hesitate to say that he was—Say, Mr. Sampson, just what did you say?”
“I said, without the slightest desire to create a wrong impression, that I was deeply affected by the trust Miss Hildebrand appeared to place in me. She believes her grandfather to be innocent, and I think she believes that I agree with her. That's the long and the short of it.” No. 4 slammed his fist upon the table. “By thunder, that's just exactly the fix I'm in. Right from the start, I seemed to feel that I got on this jury because she liked the looks of me. Not the way you think, Hooper, but because I looked like a man who might give her grandfather a square trial and—”
Mr. Hooper interrupted him hotly: “What do you mean by 'not the way you think'? That sounded kind of disparaging, my good man—disparaging to her. Explain yourself.” Sampson interposed. “I think we all understand each other, gentlemen. Miss Hildebrand practically picked the whole dozen of us. She inspected us as we came up, she sized us up, and she had the final word to say as to whether we were acceptable to the defence. She believed in us, or we wouldn't be here to-night. What makes it all the harder for us, gentlemen, individually and collectively, is that we believe in her. Now, what are we to do? Live up to her estimate of us, or live up to a prior estimate of ourselves?”
“Well, let's sleep over it,” said the foreman uneasily. “I guess we're all tired and—”
“I guess we won't sleep much,” broke in No. 7 miserably. “Damn' if you'll ever get me on a jury again. I'm a nervous man anyhow and now—I'm a wreck. I don't know what to do about this business.”
“If it were not for Miss Hildebrand, gentlemen, we'd all know what to do,” said Sampson. “Isn't that a fact?”
“Well, you seem to have made up your mind,” said No. 8 gloomily. “I thought mine was made up, but, by gosh, I—I want to do what's right. I took my oath to—”
“We will take a ballot before breakfast in the morning,” said No. 1 decisively. “Now, let's sleep if we can.”
They disposed themselves in chairs, stretched out their legs and—waited for an illuminating daybreak.
Sampson's decision was final. He would not stultify his honour. He would not be swayed by the sweetest emotion that ever had assailed him. Besides, he argued through the long, tedious hours before dawn, when all was said and done, what could Alexandra Hildebrand ever be to him? She would go out of his life the day that—
But there he was at it again! Why couldn't he put her out of his thoughts? Why was he continually thinking of the day when he would see the last of her? And what a conceited fool he had been! She had been most impartial with her mute favours. Every man on the jury was figuratively and literally in the same boat with him. Each one of them believed as he believed: that he was the one special object of interest to her.
But still—he was quite sure—shehadcommuned with him a little more—was he justified in using the word?—intimately than with the others? Surely he could not be mistaken in his belief that she looked upon him as a trifle superior to—But some one was nudging him violently.
“Wake up, Mr. Sampson,” a voice was saying—a voice that was vaguely familiar. It was a coarse, unfeminine voice. “We're ready to take a ballot before we go out to breakfast. Want to wash up first or will you—”
“What time is it?” muttered Sampson, starting up from his chair. Was it the chair that creaked, or was it his bones? He was stiff and sore and horribly unwieldy.
“Half past seven,” said the foreman. Then Sampson recognised the voice that had interrupted his personal confession. Moreover, he recognised the unshaven countenance. It was really quite a shock, coming so closely upon... “You've been hitting it up pretty soundly. No. 7 says he didn't sleep a wink. Afraid to risk it, he says.”
At eight o'clock an attendant rapped on the door and told them to get ready to go out to breakfast.
“Go away!” shouted the foreman. He was in the midst of an argument with No. 7 when the interruption came, and he was getting the better of it.
“I'm willing to go half way,” said No. 7 dreamily. “Hungry as I am, I'll go half way. I've got the darnedest headache on earth. If I had a cup of coffee maybe I'd—”
“What do you mean half way?” exploded Mr. Hooper. “You can't render a half-way verdict, can you?”
The ballot had just been taken. It stood eleven to one for conviction! This time No. 7 was the unit.
“No,” said the dreamy No. 7, unoffended. “What I want to do is to make it as light for him as possible. Can't we find him guilty of embezzlement in the third degree or—” Sampson interrupted. He too wanted his coffee. “Let's have our breakfast. Afterwards we can discuss—”
“I want to settle it now,” roared Mr. Hooper. “It's all nonsense talking about breakfast while—”
“Well, then,” said Sampson, “suppose we agree to find him guilty as charged and recommend him to the mercy of the Court.”
This was hailed with acclaim. Even No. 7, emerging temporarily from his mental siesta, agreed that that was “a corking idea.”
“Find him guilty,” he explained, satisfying himself at least, “and then ask the Court to discharge him. Maybe a little lecture would do him good. A few words of advice—”
“And now, gentlemen,” broke in Sampson crisply, “since we have reached the conclusion that we are trying Mr. Hildebrand and not Miss Hildebrand, perhaps we would better have our coffee.”
At ten o'clock the jury filed into the courtroom and took their places in the box. Each was conscious of what he was sure must look like a ten days' growth of beard, and each wore the stem, implacable look that is best described as “hang-dog.”
A dozen pairs of eyes went on an uneasy journey in quest of an object of dread. She was not there. There were a dozen sighs of relief. Good! If they could only get it over with and escape before she appeared! What was all this delay about? They were ready with their verdict; why should they be kept waiting like this? No wonder men hated serving on juries.
The Court came in and took his seat. He looked very stern and forbidding. He looked, thought Sampson, like a man who has been married a great many years and is interested only in his profession. A few days earlier he looked more or less like an unmarried man.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” began the Clerk after the roll-call, “have you arrived at a verdict?”
“We have,” said No. 1, with an involuntary glance in the direction of the door.
The verdict itself was clear and concise enough. “We, the jury, find the defendant, James W. Hildebrand, guilty as charged.”
The old man's eyes fell. A quiver ran through his gaunt body. An instant later, however, he sat erect and faced his judges, and a queer, indescribable smile developed slowly at the corners of his mouth. Sampson was watching him closely. Afterwards he thought of this smile as an expression of supreme indulgence. He remembered feeling, at the moment, very cheap and small.
Before the defendant's counsel could call for a poll of the jury, No. 1 arose in his place and laboriously addressed the Court. He announced that the jury had a communication to make and asked if this was the proper time to present it. The Court signified his readiness to hear the communication, and No. 1, nervously extracting from his pocket a sheet of note paper, read the following recommendation:—“The jury, having decided in its deliberations that the defendant, James W. Hildebrand, is legally and morally guilty as charged in the indictment, craves the permission of this honourable Court to be allowed to submit a recommendation bearing upon the penalty to be inflicted as the result of the verdict agreed upon. We would respectfully urge the Court to exercise his prerogative and suspend sentence in the case of James W. Hildebrand. The evidence against him is sufficient to warrant conviction, but there are circumstances, we believe, which should operate to no small degree in his favour. His age, his former high standing among men, and his bearing during the course of this trial, commend him to us as worthy of this informal appeal to your Honour's mercy. This communication is offered regardless of our finding and is not meant to prejudice the verdict we have returned. In leaving the defendant in the hands of this Court, we humbly but earnestly petition your Honour to at least grant him the minimum penalty in the event that you do not see fit to act upon our suggestion to suspend sentence.”
The document, which was signed by the twelve jurors, had been prepared by Sampson, and it was his foresight that rendered it entirely within the law. He was smart enough not to incorporate it in the finding itself; it was a supplementary instrument which could be accepted or disregarded as the Court saw fit.
The Court gazed rather fixedly at the sheet of paper which was passed to him by an attendant. His brow was ruffled. He pulled nervously at his moustache. At last, clearing his throat, he said, addressing the counsel for the defence:
“Gentlemen, do you wish to poll the jury?”
Mr. O 'Brien waived this formality. He and his partner seemed to be rather well pleased with the verdict. They eyed the Court anxiously, hopefully.
“The Court will pronounce sentence on Friday,” announced the justice, his eye on the door. He acted very much like a man who was afraid of being caught in the act of perpetrating something decidedly reprehensible. “I wish to thank the jurors for the careful attention they have given the case and to compliment them on the verdict they have returned in the face of rather trying conditions. It speaks well for the integrity, the soundness of our jury system. I may add, gentlemen, that I shall very seriously consider the recommendation you have made. The prisoner is remanded until next Friday at ten o'clock.”
Half an hour later Sampson found himself in the street. He had spent twenty minutes or more loitering about the halls of the Criminal Courts building, his eager gaze sweeping the throng that was forever changing. It searched remote corners and mounted quadruple stairways; it raked the balcony railings one, two and three flights up; it went down other steps toward the street-level floor. And all the while his own gaze was scouting, the anxious eyes of four other gentlemen were doing the same as his: No. 7, No. 8, No. 6 and No. 12. They were all looking for the trim, natty figure and the enchanting face of Miss Alexandra Hildebrand—vainly looking, for she was nowhere to be seen.
And when Sampson found himself in the street—(a bitter gale was blowing)—he was attended by two gentlemen who justly might have been identified as his most intimate, bosom friends: the lovesick No. 7 and the predatory No. 12. They had him between them as they wended their way toward the Subway station at Worth Street, and they were smoking his cigars (because hecouldn'tsmoke theirs, notwithstanding their divided hospitality)—and they were talking loudly against time. Sampson had the feeling that they were aiming to attach themselves to him for life.
They accepted him as their guiding light, their mentor, their firm example. For all time they would look upon him as a leader of men, and they would be proud to speak of him to older friends as a new friend worth having, worth tying up to, so to say. They seemed only too ready to glorify him, and in doing so gloried in the fact that he was a top-lofty, superior sort of individual who looked down upon them with infinite though gentle scorn.
Moreover, they thought, if they kept on the good side of Sampson they might reasonably expect to obtain an occasional glimpse of Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, for, with his keenness and determination, he was sure to pursue an advantage that both of them reluctantly conceded.
In the Subway local No. 7 invited Sampson to have lunch with him. He suggested the Vanderbilt, but he wasn't sure whether he'd entertain in the main dining room or in the Della Robbia room. He seemed confused and uncertain about it. No. 12 boisterously intervened. He knew of a nice little place in Forty-second Street where you can get the best oysters in New York. He not only invited Sampson to go there. They clung to him, however, until they reached Times Square Station with him but magnanimously included No. 7, which was more than No. 7 had done for him.
Sampson declined. They clung to him, however, until they reached Times Square station. There he said good-bye to them as they left the kiosk.