CHAPTERXXXIII.THE TRIAL.
A thick, murky fog hung over London on the morning of Alec Lindsay’s trial. Waves of chill mist rolled up from the river, and met the sulphurous vapours which filled the air. The sun was not visible at all. In every street and building gas was flaming, as if it had been midnight. Rain or snow would have been a relief from the stifling yellow vapour; but neither fell. The cold, clammy, omnipresent fog reigned supreme.
As it happened, Hubert Blake had slept at his uncle’s the night before. He had, of course, determined to be present at the trial; and when he came down to breakfast, an hourearlier than usual, he was surprised to see that both Sophy Meredith and Miss Elmwood were dressed ready to go out.
‘You are not thinking of shopping on a day like this?’ asked Hubert in some surprise.
‘No, indeed,’ answered Sophy, almost indignantly. ‘We are going to the court.’
Blake said no more at the time; but when Miss Elmwood had left the breakfast-room to put on her bonnet, he returned to the subject.
‘I really think you had better stay at home,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘It is quite unnecessary for you to be there, and it may be a very painful scene.’
Sophy’s fingers were trembling nervously, as she played with the sugar-tongs. She was obliged to fold her hands, and pause for a second or two before she answered:
‘I think, if there is ever a time when oneshould stand by one’s friends, it is when theyare——’
And then she stopped, as if she could not trust herself to say more.
‘Yes, of course; but, you see, you can’t do Lindsay any good by going; probably he won’t even know you are there. It is not as if you were a relation of his.’
It was all true enough; and Sophy felt only too keenly that her action would seem ridiculous; yet she was none the less determined to go. She had nothing to say in reply, and sat searching her mind for some excuse, while the tears that would no longer be restrained rapidly filled her eyes.
Blake saw her agitation with surprise.
‘I had no idea she was so tender-hearted,’ was his first thought. ‘Can it be that—that Lindsay is something more than a friend to her?’ was his second. ‘She is older than he is, but not so very much older, after all. Itwould not be so very surprising, if it were so. It wouldbe——’
Then his thoughts became more vague. He could not imagine what his uncle’s house would be like without Sophy as its mistress. There would be no one to chat to about his pictures, no one to whom he could bring the gossip of the little world of artists to which he had returned. As for the wandering, unsettled life he had been living the year before, he thought of it now with positive disgust. Yes; if Sophy were to go out of his life, she would leave a sad blank behind.
He did not stop to consider on what a slender foundation he was thus constructing the future. Sophy was surprised at his silence, and glanced at him timidly. He seemed lost in reflection; then suddenly looking up, their eyes met. He was astonished that she looked so beautiful. He had never thought of heras pretty before; but indeed the tender light in her eyes, and the faint colour coming suddenly into her pale cheeks would have made a far plainer face seem fair.
‘Don’t you think we had better be going?’ said Hubert, in a gentle tone. ‘The court may be crowded; and we may find a difficulty in getting seats.’
Sophy rose and left the room without saying anything more.
The fog detained the party from Highgate, so that when they reached the court it was with difficulty that Blake could find seats for his friends. To Sophy the scene was so new and strange, and the effect of the fog so bewildering, that in spite of the gas jets flaring here and there it was some time before she could make out anything distinctly. By degrees she distinguished the Judge in his ermine-trimmed gown, the City dignitaries in their robes of office, the officials of the courton their raised seats under the bench, and the empty jury-box. But the object which fascinated her was the high, spiked iron railing which surrounded a wide space in the centre of the court, facing the bench. That, she knew, was the dock.
It was tenanted by one person, a woman, a forlorn-looking creature, with a dirty shawl thrown over her bare head. On either side of her, but a little behind, stood a policeman. For some minutes after Sophy and her companions took their seats, there was perfect silence in the building, so that they wondered what the reason could be. Then the voice of the Judge broke the stillness.
‘The sentence of the court is that you be kept in penal servitude for the period of seven years.’
Sophy did not know what the woman’s offence had been, but the punishment seemed terrible; and as the poor creature, who hadevidently not expected so long a term, broke out into cries, oaths, and imprecations, Sophy shuddered, and was almost moved to tears. To the Judge, to the barristers, the police, and the other officials, it was only part of the ordinary routine of their lives. To the gentle woman who had lived in shelter all her days, the sight of this sister-woman’s face, coarse, bloated, distorted by passion and despair, was like a glimpse into a world of which she had never even dreamed—a world in which blessings were exchanged for curses, tender thoughts for the fury of selfish passions, and liberty for bondage.
As the woman was led down a staircase inside the dock, which communicated with the cells, the clerk of the arraigns and the counsel on the front row were exchanging a few words. And in another moment the clerk called out:
‘Bring up Alexander Lindsay!’
A subdued rustle of excitement passed through the court, and every eye was turned to the dock. In another moment Alec had taken his place, calm and self-possessed, but very pale. The first thing he saw was his father’s face. The old man was sitting at the solicitor’s table, facing the dock, with Margaret by his side. No emotion of any kind was visible on his features; but Alec fancied—probably it was only his fancy—that a look of reproach was in his eyes. Margaret, unable to meet her brother’s gaze, was looking stedfastly at the table in front of her. Opposite her sat Beattie; and behind him, with his back to Alec, sat Mr. Corker, who had, of course, been instructed for the defence.
As the clerk was reading the indictment, Alec’s eyes were fixed on the ledge in front of him. He knew that Duncan Cameron was somewhere in the building; and thethought comforted him. Then, somehow, he fell to thinking of his College-days; and was only recalled from his reverie when the clerk’s voice was raised to ask him:
‘How say you, Alexander Lindsay; are you guilty, or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
Then the clerk proceeded to swear in the jury; and then Mr. Collithorne, Q.C., rose to open the case for the Crown.
Mr. Collithorne was famed at the bar for his ‘deadly moderation’ as a prosecuting counsel. Never raising his voice, over-stating nothing, admitting beforehand the facts on which he knew the defence would be based, his words had with the jury the weight which attaches to the utterances of a Judge rather than that which belongs to the speech of an advocate.
‘May it please your worship,’ he began. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, this is a very painfulcase, and one which well deserves that close and careful attention which I am sure you will bestow upon it. Fortunately the facts are few and simple. The prisoner is a grand-nephew of the late Mr. James Lindsay, who, as some of you may know, was a very wealthy man. Some time before his death, Mr. Lindsay conceived the idea of bequeathing by his will a large sum of money, no less than half a million sterling, to the religious body of which he was a member, the Free Church of Scotland. He talked over that intention with an old friend of his, the Reverend Dr. Mackenzie, of Glasgow; and (though that is not really important to the matter in hand) Dr. Mackenzie will tell you that he neither suggested this idea to Mr. Lindsay nor in any way pressed him to make this bequest.
‘Having settled in his mind the disposition which he intended to make of his property,Mr. Lindsay sent to his solicitors, asking them to call and take instructions for his will. His solicitors were Messrs. Hatchett, Small, and Hatchett, a most respectable firm; and I must tell you that the prisoner was at that time a clerk in Messrs. Hatchett’s office. Well, the solicitors sent their managing clerk, a Mr. Beattie, to take Mr. Lindsay’s instructions. We have subpœnaed this Mr. Beattie; and I have no doubt he will tell you that Mr. Lindsay distinctly informed him that the bequest to the Free Church of Scotland was to be five hundred thousand pounds. The paper on which these instructions were written by Mr. Beattie was sent to Mr. Lindsay with the draft-will, and was not returned by him. It was not found among the testator’s papers. Probably Mr. Lindsay, thinking that it was of no importance, destroyed it.’
Mr. Collithorne then went on to speak ofMr. Lindsay’s request that his nephew should personally prepare his will, and of the fact that the prisoner actually did write the draft with his own hand. ‘That fact, gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘will hardly be disputed; and if it is not admitted I will prove it to you by unimpeachable evidence. The draft itself, as well as the man who engrossed it, has disappeared. It ought to have been found with other drafts of a like nature in the prisoner’s room. It has been searched for, and cannot be found. But while it was in Mr. Lindsay’s possession, before he returned it to the solicitors to be engrossed, it was seen and read by Dr. Mackenzie, whom I shall place in the box before you. He will tell you, gentlemen, that it was in the prisoner’s handwriting, and that it contained a bequest of five hundred thousand pounds to certain trustees for the Free Church of Scotland. He will tell you that he read it most carefully, andthat the sum was written both in figures and in words. The draft was sent back on the very night it arrived, Dr. Mackenzie posting it with his own hand.
‘Now, gentlemen, it is a singular fact, that, so far as we have been able to learn, not a single individual in Messrs. Hatchett’s office saw that draft, except the prisoner and a clerk named MacGowan, who engrossed the will; and the theory of the prosecution is, that before handing the draft to MacGowan to engross the prisoner struck out of it the all-important word “hundred,” so that the bequest should run “five thousand pounds” only. Inquiries for this clerk, MacGowan, have been made in all directions; but from the day he engrossed that will he never turned up at the office; he disappeared from his lodgings on the following day, and has not since been heard of.
‘We come now to the actual execution ofthe will. It was brought to Mr. Lindsay’s house by the prisoner. It was read over to the testator by the prisoner; and, in reading it, the prisoner inserted the word “hundred,” which was not in the will, before the word “thousand,” thus leading his uncle, the testator, to imagine that the will was really in accordance with his intentions. This fact will be proved to you on the evidence of Dr. Mackenzie; and it will be for you to judge whether he could possibly be mistaken on a point of such importance, a point on which his attention would naturally be fixed.
‘It is only right that I should tell you, gentlemen,’ continued the barrister, ‘that there was one other person in the room when the will was read besides the testator, the prisoner, and the witness I have named. And you may be surprised to hear that this person does not bear out the statement which the Reverend Mr. Mackenzie will make onoath before you, as to what the prisoner did actually read from the will.’
Here Mr. Corker interposed, and said something in an angry tone to Mr. Collithorne.
‘Perhaps my friend is right, gentlemen,’ said the Queen’s Counsel, majestically waving the Old Bailey barrister back into his seat. ‘It may be better for him to deal with his own witness, if he should think it worth while to call him. You will understand, gentlemen, later on, the reason of my learned friend’s interposition.
‘As I said at the commencement of my observations, this is a painful case. I do not remember that, in all my experience, I have had to do with a prosecution in which one’s natural sympathies would be more strongly excited in favour of the prisoner. His youth and his character, hitherto blameless, will naturally and properly tell in his favour. It would only be natural, also, if you foundyourselves sympathizing with the keen feelings of disappointment with which a young man would hear of an intention on the part of an uncle to alienate the greater part of his fortune from those who may reasonably have looked forward to inheriting it. But these sympathies you are, for the present, bound to forget. Your one thought must be—Did the accused commit the offence with which he is charged? As to the motive for the crime, you must remember that the prisoner is one of the residuary legatees under the will; in other words, the alteration in the legacy would put the sum of two hundred and forty-seven thousand five hundred pounds into the prisoner’s pocket. Crimes much more serious than this have been committed ere now for the tenth part of such a sum, by men who had, up to the moment of temptation, led innocent lives. If you can, after hearing the evidence, entertain a reasonable, a serious doubt of theprisoner’s guilt, you will, of course, let him have the benefit of it. But if the facts as proved point irresistibly, in your opinion, to the conclusion that the offence of which he is accused was committed by him, it will be your duty—however painful that duty may be—to say so by your verdict.’
A faint rustle passed over the court as Mr. Collithorne sat down. Cameron, who from his corner could see the faces of the jurymen, noticed that they wore a very serious look. And Alec? He knew that the counsel for the Crown had spoken nothing but the truth; and his heart died within him. He felt that his character was ruined irretrievably in the eyes of the world. He could almost have wished that the formalities of the trial could be omitted and sentence pronounced at once, that he might hide himself from the cold and curious eyes around him in the quiet seclusion of his cell.
The first witnesses called were the servants who had witnessed the will. The junior counsel for the Crown, a young gentleman with a very new wig and a very nervous manner, asked them the necessary questions, and Mr. Corker did not think it worth while to cross-examine them.
‘Call Mr. William Beattie,’ said Mr. Collithorne, and that gentleman rose from his seat at the solicitors’ table, and slowly made his way to the witness-box. As he did so, Mr. Corker broke into a lively argument—nominally addressed to the Judge, but really aimed at the jury—on the lawfulness of the Crown calling the managing clerk of the defendant’s solicitor as a witness. The Judge, however, ruled—as Mr. Corker quite expected that he would rule—that Mr. Beattie might be questioned as to matters which came to his knowledge before the relationship of attorney and client began, and Mr. Beattie was sworn.
Speaking in a low but clear tone, Mr. Beattie said, in answer to Mr. Collithorne’s questions, that he had received instructions from the late Mr. Lindsay as to his will; that these instructions included a legacy of five hundred thousand pounds to the Free Church of Scotland; that, in accordance with Mr. Hatchett’s directions, he handed the paper on which these instructions were jotted down to the defendant; and, finally, that the missing draft had been searched for in the prisoner’s room and in the office generally, and had not been found.
‘One word more, Mr. Beattie,’ said Mr. Collithorne; ‘at that time was there a clerk in Messrs. Hatchett’s office named MacGowan?’
‘There was.’
‘Look at the will. In whose handwriting is it?’
‘In his handwriting—MacGowan’s.’
‘Did he return to the office after he engrossed that will?’
‘He did not. When he did not come back that afternoon, a letter was written dismissing him.’
‘What was his character?’
‘I know nothing against his character, except that he was unsteady. He would have been dismissed before,but——’
‘Yes. But what?’
‘But Mr. Lindsay interceded for him, and the offence was overlooked.’
‘You mean the prisoner?’
‘Yes.’
A subdued murmur ran round the court as these words were spoken. Then there was a silence.
‘That was months before,’ added Mr. Beattie; but the impression had already been created that there had been a friendship or, at least, a relationship of patronage on the oneside, and gratitude on the other, between the man who was now alleged to have altered the draft, and the man who, after engrossing the will from it, had suddenly disappeared.
Then Mr. Collithorne sat down, and Mr. Corker got up.
‘Did Mr. Lindsay express any hesitation when he said that he wished to leave so large a sum to the Free Church?’
‘Not in words.’
‘In any other way?’
‘By his manner he did. He spoke in a hesitating way, as if he had hardly made up his mind.’
‘Judging from his manner, did you expect that he would perhaps alter these instructions?’ asked the Judge.
‘I quite expected it, my lord.’
Mr. Corker looked hard at the jury, to see that they paid due attention to this answer, and then proceeded:
‘Now, as to the search for the draft. The drafts made in your office are kept in a sort of book-case, I believe—a book-case fitted up with pigeon-holes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this receptacle stands in Mr. Lindsay’s room?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not kept locked?’
‘No. Anyone in the office may have access to it.’
‘I suppose, Mr. Beattie, papers do get lost occasionally, even in an office so well regulated as yours?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And sometimes, after a long time perhaps, they turn up again?’
‘Sometimes that happens, certainly.’
‘It seems almost an impertinence to Mr. Lindsay to put the question, but I believe that he came to your office with high recommendations,and that until this affair his character was blameless?’
‘Absolutely without reproach; and I may say that I do not for a momentbelieve——’
‘You are not asked anything about your belief, sir,’ said the Judge sternly.
Mr. Beattie fully anticipated the rebuke; but he had accomplished his purpose. He had let the jury and the whole court see that he was doing what he could for the prisoner. And yet now, for the first time, a doubt as to Beattie’s integrity crossed Alec Lindsay’s mind. He seemed too cool, too calm and collected, to be sincere. It looked as if he were performing a part which had been rehearsed beforehand. ‘Can it be all his doing?’ The thought flashed through Alec’s mind only to be rejected. He could not see how Beattie could have interfered in the matter, even had he wished to do so.
Mr. Hatchett was the next witness, but hewas put into the box chiefly to give the junior counsel his turn, so that the examination of the important witness, Dr. Mackenzie, might fall to Mr. Collithorne, without a violation of the rule that senior counsel and junior shall take the witnesses alternately.
The minister was examined very minutely; the Judge’s note of his evidence was as follows:
‘I am a minister of the Free Church of Scotland. In the autumn of last year I came to London to see the testator, who was an old friend of mine. He declared to me his intention of leaving the sum of half a million sterling to the Church to which I belong. I did not suggest his doing so. I did not in any way urge him to do it. Nor did I disapprove of the bequest. One or two days after that, he put a paper in my hands, and told me it was the draft of his will. It was in the prisoner’s handwriting. The prisoner hadwritten to me before this, and I knew his handwriting. The bequest mentioned in it to the Free Church of Scotland was five hundred thousand pounds. It was written in words and also in figures—first in words and then in figures. That I swear.
‘I was present at the execution of the will. The prisoner brought it. That is the will, so far as I can judge. I did not examine it. The prisoner read it aloud, at the testator’s request. He read the bequest ‘five hundred thousand pounds.’ He read slowly and distinctly. I paid particular attention to that part of the will. No one was present except the testator, the prisoner, Mr. James Semple, who, I believe, is also a grand-nephew of the deceased, and myself. The servants who witnessed it did not hear it read over. The testator expressed his satisfaction with the will as it was read to him.
‘When the prisoner finished reading thewill, he left the room for a short time. I believe some one called to see him. He did not take the will away with him. He left it with the deceased. I think he laid it on the bed. I did not look at it, nor touch it. When he returned the servants were called in, and the will was signed.’
As the minister ceased speaking, a sound ran round the court, as of long-drawn inspirations. Then a slight buzz of conversation arose. Every man looked at his neighbour and smiled, and then looked at the prisoner.
Alec’s pale face was set, and his eyes fixed on the minister.
Sophy shuddered, and felt bewildered. She was not surprised that a girl sitting beside her whom she did not know gave a half-hysterical sob. The girl was Laura Mowbray. She was at that moment suffering something like agony. She saw that Alec was about to be condemned. She believed that her evidencemight save him. Yet she dared not speak. She knew not what the consequences might be to herself, if she confessed that she had meddled with the will. She might even be accused of the fraud, and tried herself; and she shuddered at the thought.
Then Mr. Corker rose to cross-examine the witness.
‘You approved of this singular bequest, Mr. Mackenzie?’
‘I did not disapprove of it.’
The minister looked at the barrister disdainfully for an instant, and then turned his eyes back to the Judge, whom he had addressed throughout.
‘It would have been a very fine thing for you if it had been carried out, eh?’
‘The bequest was not to me.’
‘Look at me, sir, and answer my questions in a straightforward manner!’ shouted Mr. Corker.
Dr. Mackenzie mutely appealed to the Judge for protection; but his lordship contented himself with pointing in Mr. Corker’s direction with the feather of his pen.
‘I know very well the bequest was not to you; but it would have been a very good thing for you if it had been half a million instead of five thousand pounds, wouldn’t it?’
‘I was to be secretary to the trust,’ answered the minister, after a pause.
‘Exactly. For nothing, eh? Come now.’
‘I could not be expected to devote a large portion of my time to work of that kind for nothing.’
‘Of course not. You expected that it would be a snug little berth for you?’
The minister did not answer.
‘You foresaw this when Mr. Lindsay declared his intention of making this bequest, did you not?’
‘I knew that I was to be the secretary.’
‘So that, so far from your coming here as a pure, impartial, disinterested witness, as my friend would have had the jury believe,you——’
Here Alec leaned over the edge of the dock, caught the speaker by his gown, and whispered something energetically into his ear.
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Mr. Corker, shaking off his client’s grasp.
‘Now, just listen to me, sir,’ he began.
‘My lord,’ said Alec, ‘I may say at once that Mr. Mackenzie is only telling the truth. I believe Ididread “five hundred thousand pounds.”’
There was a silence, then a murmur of astonishment.
‘You had better be quiet, and leave your case to your counsel,’ said the Judge in a stern voice.
Mr. Corker had indignantly thrown down his brief; but a few words from the Judge persuaded him to take it up again.
‘Your lordship will excuse me for a few moments,’ he said, as he turned to consult with Mr. Beattie on the change which Alec’s interposition had rendered necessary in the defence.
The defence had to be altered suddenly, at the critical moment. Mr. Corker’s intention had been to maintain that Mr. Lindsay had changed his mind, and had given private instructions to his nephew to prepare a will leaving only five thousand pounds to the Free Church. He had resolved to rely on Semple’s evidence to neutralize, or at least to weaken, the effect produced by Dr. Mackenzie’s statement. But the prisoner had just declared that Dr. Mackenzie had told the truth! It would be useless to put Semple in the box now.
‘Did you ever know of such a complete idiot?’ asked Mr. Corker in a whisper, as he leant over the desk before him to speak to Mr. Beattie.
‘What shall we do now? We must say it was an accident—absence of mind,’ whispered Beattie.
‘I may say it, but the jury won’t believe it for a moment. The other theory theymighthave believed.’
‘You have the legal argument still.’
‘Yes; but the verdict is gone. However, I suppose we must go on.’
And Mr. Corker straightened himself up and fell back into his seat, with the air of a man who has been very ill-used.
‘Do you ask this witness any more questions, Mr. Corker?’ asked the Judge.
‘No, m’ lud,’ said Mr. Corker, without troubling himself to rise.
‘That is the case for the prosecution, mylord,’ said Mr. Collithorne. ‘Do you call any witnesses?’ he added to Mr. Corker.
‘No!’
‘Then, may it please your lordship, gentlemen of thejury——’
‘My lord, may I say a word?’
It was a woman’s voice. Laura Mowbray was standing up, pale and resolute, at the back of the court.
‘No; certainly not. Go on, Mr. Collithorne.’
‘But I took the will myself, just before it was signed, from Mr. Lindsay’s bedroom.’
Laura’s good angel had triumphed. Till the last moment she had been declaring that she dared not tell what she knew—besides, it would be of no use. But in a moment, when Alec’s counsel had declared that he had no witnesses, and she felt that the last moment for speech had come, she had, withoutdeliberation, yielded to the impulse which bade her speak.
Meanwhile Mr. Collithorne and Mr. Corker were both busily disowning this disconcerting witness, and suggesting that she should not be heard. But the Judge took a different view of the matter. If anyone had touched the will, he remarked, between the time when the prisoner read it to the testator and the time when it was signed, that was clearly very important. He thought the ends of justice required that the young lady should be heard.
‘I don’t see that calling her can injure the defendant,’ he said by way of apology to Mr. Corker.
That gentleman grunted and said nothing.
Laura was piloted to the witness-box by an usher, and in a few clear words she told how she had at Semple’s request taken the will from her uncle’s room, and had given it to him to read.
‘Did he do anything to it, while it was in his hands?’ asked the Judge.
‘No.’
‘And you never allowed it to go out of your sight?’
Laura hesitated.
‘He took it to the window to read it, and I was standing by the door. I don’t think he did anything to it. There was not time.’
‘As he walked to the window, had he his side or his back to you?’
‘He would have his back to me. But I don’t think I was looking at him then. I don’t exactly remember.’
‘Well, Miss—Miss Mowbray, have you mentioned this to anyone before to-day?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘I did not wish it to be known, if possible, that I had meddled with the will at all,’ said the girl in a low voice. ‘And I remember,too,’ she added, ‘that one night just after Mr. Lindsay died, I was at a railway-station; and I saw Mr. James Semple there, with a gentleman I do not know. And the gentleman said tohim——’
But here the Judge, Mr. Collithorne, and Mr. Corker, interposed in chorus; and Laura, thoroughly disconcerted, stopped and almost burst into tears.
‘That will do,’ said the Judge, in a kindly tone. ‘You were quite right to speak now; but you ought to have spoken sooner.’
So Laura turned away, and crept back to her seat, disappointed and humiliated. She had made the sacrifice, and all for nothing! She had been prevented telling what she considered the most important part of her story. In her agitation she had forgotten to speak of the incident of the paper which Semple had managed to obtain from his uncle’s desk. But, as she reflected, shewould probably not have been allowed to mention it, as she could not say that she knew it had anything to do with the will. She had expected that her testimony would cause Alec to be set at liberty. It had produced no effect whatever, beyond covering her with shame.
In this, however, she was mistaken. The Judge was eyeing the counsel, and they were eyeing him; and the thought in the minds of the three shrewd men was—‘Here there was an opportunity for exchanging the will read by the prisoner for another document.’
‘I think you had better go on, Mr. Collithorne,’ said the Judge at length; and the Queen’s Counsel was proceeding to obey, when he was interrupted for the second time.
‘Let me by; I tell ye I’m a witness; let me by.’
These words, uttered in a shrill Scotch voice, were heard at one of the entrancesto the court; and in another moment a queer-looking, under-sized individual, dressed in a shabby overcoat with a velvet collar, many sizes too large for him, pushed through the crowd in the passage.
‘MacGowan!’ exclaimed Alec involuntarily.
‘Who is this?’ asked the Judge testily.
‘The clerk who engrossed the will, I believe, my lord,’ said Mr. Collithorne, who had overheard Alec’s exclamation.
‘You cannot call him; you have closed your case,’ said Mr. Corker to his opponent.
‘But he may give evidence for the defendant, unless you object, Mr. Corker,’ said the Judge.
‘It’s what I’ve come here for,’ put in Mr. MacGowan.
‘Really, my lord, I cannot take the responsibility of calling this witness,’ saidMr. Corker; ‘I know nothing of what he may say.’
‘I’m no’ surprised at that,’ said MacGowan, as without further invitation he stepped round to the witness-box.
‘I shall take his evidence,’ said the Judge, after a pause.
‘Ma loard,’ said MacGowan, as soon as he was sworn, ‘I engrossed the wull wi’ my ain haun’. The bequest to the Free Kirk was fivehunderthoosan’ pounds. So it was in the draft, an’ so I wrote it in the wull, and so I read it to Maister Alexander Lindsay, when him and me compared them.
‘That nicht, ma loard,’ he continued, dramatically raising his right hand, ‘I was refreshin’ mysel’ after the toils o’ the day in a maist respectable public-hoose, wi’ some freends, when Maister Wulliam Beattie, that is the managin’ clerk at the office, cam’ in and withdrew me to a private room. Hetelled me there had been a mistak’ made, an’ I would hae to copy the draft ower again; an’ naething would serve him but I maun copy it ower again, then and there. I did sae, and he dictated it to me, frae the same blue draft I had had before. Only he read itfive thoosan’ pounds, leavin’ oot thehunder.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ asked the Judge sharply.
‘Certain sure, my lord.’
‘Well?’
‘Then he gied me half a sovereign and gaed awa’.’
‘I leave him to you, Mr. Collithorne,’ said the Judge.
‘How does it happen that you immediately disappeared after this took place?’ asked Mr. Collithorne.
‘Weel, Messrs. Hatchett and me had a bit of difference.’
‘You were dismissed, in fact?’
‘Ye may ca’ ’t that if ye like.’
‘And how was it that you have not turned up till now?’
‘I have been very ill; and I only noticed to-day that the trial was coming on. If you send for my landlord he will tell ye I was in bed an’ deleerious when Maister Lindsay was at the police-court.’
‘You were drunk when Mr. Beattie—is that his name?—came to see you at the gin-palace, or whatever it was?’
‘It isnota gin-palace, and I wasnotdrunk. I had been drinking certainly.’
‘You know perfectly well what you were about?’ put in the Judge.
‘Brawly—that is, just so, my lord.’
‘Hadn’t we better have this Mr. Beattie in the box, and see what he says to all this,’ suggested the Judge.
‘Certainly, my lord. He had better be called outside. He was here a minute ago.’
But Mr. Beattie was not to be found. As soon as MacGowan’s voice fell on his ears, he had realized that he had come to tell what had passed at the public-house; and he left the court by one door as his former subordinate entered by another. Taking a hansom he drove to the bank at which he kept his account, and drew out all that was due to him. Then he disappeared and was heard of no more.
The reason why Beattie had absconded was apparent to everyone in court. The plot which he had concocted was laid bare.
‘I don’t know whether you will think it worth while to address the jury, Mr. Collithorne,’ said the Judge, after waiting some minutes. ‘If the last witness is to be believed, it is plain that two wills were engrossed, in one of which the original bequest to the Free Church of Scotland was altered to five thousand pounds; and MissMowbray has proved that the latter document may have been substituted for the other without the defendant’s knowledge. There is nothing to show that Mr. Alexander Lindsay instigated either Beattie or MacGowan to get the second engrossment made, or that, in fact, he knew of its existence.’
‘That is true, my lord; and I am altogether in your lordship’s hands,’ said Mr. Collithorne slowly. ‘If your lordship thinks——’ he paused, for the jury were putting their heads together in a significant way.
‘If you would like the case to go on, gentlemen——’ began the Judge; but the jurymen separated and returned to their places.
‘Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?’ asked the Clerk of the Arraigns.
‘We are,’ said the foreman.
‘Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
Something very like a cheer broke out in the court; and the usher cried ‘Silence!’ with the air of a man who cared nothing for public opinion.
As for Alec, something seemed to swell in his throat, as if it would choke him; and his hand trembled as it had not trembled since his trouble had fallen on him. He looked around, and could see nothing but a sea of faces.
Then someone guided him to a little doorway in the iron railing, and helped him down the steps into the body of the court. He was a free man once more.