McGrath hesitated, but Mixley went on:—
"Will you smell it please—just the end of it—the muzzle. What do you smell?"
Mrs. Challoner smiled faintly.
"A Fourth of July smell," she ventured; "gunpowder, of course."
"Burnt powder, exactly, ma'am," they said, and smiled, too. But McGrath had still another card to play.
"Look at this here figure on this here gun, will you, ma'am? Here—there it is. I want you to tell me what it is."
"What is it, Shirley?" asked Miriam, bringing it closer to the light.
Shirley shook her head.
"I'd rather not."
"Please," asked Mrs. Challoner.
Shirley peered at it. Finally she declared:—
"It's '.38,'" touching the gun lightly; "the figures are '.38.'"
Mixley fell back admiringly.
"There now—no one can say we ain't been fair. You saw us take it from him; you examined it; and you told us what you saw. That's fair. You're fair and we're fair—see?"
"Yes. But what of it?" asked Shirley and Miriam in one breath.
McGrath opened his eyes in mock wonder.
"Why bless me, didn't you know? This here Colonel Hargraves was shot by a bullet that came out of a thirty-eight calibre revolver. That's all. We wanted to be fair."
Shirley rubbed vigorously the hand with which she had touched the gun.
"Fair!" she cried bitterly. "And Mr. Murgatroyd sanctions such methods—will use us for evidence—make a case by us?"
But even then Miriam did not understand. She was watching Mixley, who had returned to Challoner; watching Mixley and McGrath, who were lifting Challoner up and dropping him—watching them draw him up to a standing posture and then throw him back again on the sofa, calling the while:—
"Wake up! Wake up!"
"I've got to sleep," was all they could get out of Challoner.
At last, however, a lift and a drop a trifle more vigorous than the preceding ones caused Challoner to open his eyes and look about him. Then he closed them again.
"Are you James Lawrence Challoner?" asked Mixley loudly, peremptorily.
"I am," Challoner answered; "now leave me alone."
And now again the bell; and a moment later Murgatroyd, the prosecutor, stood in the doorway. The heat of much haste was on his brow; he looked neither at Mrs. Challoner nor at Shirley; it was toward Challoner and his men that he directed his gaze.
"Has he talked?" Murgatroyd asked, standing over Challoner.
"No," answered the men, "he ain't awake yet."
"Lift him to his feet," ordered the prosecutor.
The men did so.
And then it was that the women heard him say in a tone that cut into their souls:—
"Challoner, wake up! This is Murgatroyd, prosecutor of the pleas." It was a summons; Challoner obeyed it. He opened his eyes, closed them, yawned stupidly, and then, awake, stood squarely on his feet without any help.
"Hello, Murgatroyd!" he said.
"Challoner," said Murgatroyd severely, "remember that I am not here as your friend—I am the prosecutor, do you hear?"
"I understand," said Challoner.
"Very well then," went on Murgatroyd, "you know why I am here. You are charged—I charge you now, Challoner, with the murder of Colonel Richard Hargraves. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," was Challoner's reply. "You want to take me into custody? All right—only let me sleep when I get there, will you? I——"
"Wait a minute, Challoner," persisted Murgatroyd. "It's my duty to inform you that anything you say will be used against you. You must not forget that I am the prosecutor."
Miriam came forward quickly.
"Oh, Laurie, dear, don't say anything, just yet," she cried in alarm.
Shirley seconded her warning, saying quickly:—
"Don't say a word to Mr. Murgatroyd until you have seen a lawyer."
Challoner, still sullen, looked over his shoulder at his wife.
"Who's saying all this? Only a lot of women—what do they know?" And turning back to Murgatroyd: "See here, Murgatroyd, let's get this straight, shall we?" And he looked him full in the eye. "You're the prosecutor—and anything I say will be used against me. Is that right? Well, this little matter is just as simple as A, B, C." And suddenly drawing himself up to his full height, he went on in a loud, clear voice:—
"I waited for Richard Hargraves with——"
"I warned you," cried Murgatroyd, stretching forth a hand.
Challoner scornfully refused to listen.
"... and when I found him—" he glanced about him defiantly and gave an imitation of a man taking aim and shooting. "There, now, you know the facts."
Murgatroyd turned to his two men.
"It's a case of wilful, deliberate, premeditated murder—murder in the first degree. Take him away!"
Shirley was on her feet in an instant.
"Oh, Mr. Challoner," she cried, springing forward, "why did you tell him?"
"Come on!" Challoner called out gruffly to the men. "Take me away!" He did not even glance at his wife, who clung to the girl, and sobbed on her breast.
The prosecutor nodded to his subordinates, and immediately they seized Challoner by the arm and started toward the door.
"No, no," cried Miriam, tearing herself from Shirley's hold, "don't take him away!" And again and again with all the force left in her: "No! No! No!—Oh, Laurie!—--"
The doors closed behind the men. Then Miriam sank down upon the soiled sofa where he had lain, and sobbed as though her heart would break.
On the morning after Challoner's arrest the prosecutor of the pleas was sitting at his desk in his private office in the court-house when Mixley and McGrath entered.
"You've done as I instructed? You've got Challoner outside?" the prosecutor asked.
The men replied in the affirmative.
"Bring him in," commanded Murgatroyd.
In a few minutes they returned with the prisoner. Challoner looked better than he had the night before. In a thoroughly impersonal way, curtly but not unpleasantly, Murgatroyd addressed him.
"Good-morning! How do you feel?"
The prisoner, still half man, growled:—
"Better. I got some sleep, but I'm still tired as thunder."
"I sent for you this morning," went on the prosecutor, "because of what you said last night. I am not sure that you meant all you said—indeed whether you remember it?"
This interrogation evidently struck Challoner as amusingly superfluous, for he laughed aloud; but the laughter had a note of aching bravado.
"Of course, I remember it," he said presently, and pointing with a steady forefinger to a weapon on the prosecutor's desk, "I shot him with that gun there."
Murgatroyd could not restrain a movement of surprise at Challoner'sSang Froid; neither could those trained witnesses, Mixley and McGrath, leaning well forward lest they should miss a word.
"Most decidedly, then," continued the prosecutor, "you do not recall that I told you that anything you might say would——"
"I heard all you said," the prisoner broke in, shrugging his shoulders, "but what's the use—it had to come—I knew it. I was getting tired of hiding in out-of-the-way places, and never having a wink of sleep. Besides, I knew that Pemmican—Cradlebaugh's man—saw the whole affair. There was no sense in trying to escape."
Murgatroyd's face adequately expressed his approval of the prisoner's point of view. His voice, however, was distinctly non-committal in tone when he observed easily:—
"Pemmican saw it all, then?"
"Certainly he did," Challoner volunteered.
There was a short pause, in which the prosecutor turned over some papers lying on his desk; when he spoke again he did so without looking up from the documents he was scanning.
"I haven't examined Pemmican—my men have, though," he said. "I've got him under lock and key; he's in the house of detention; and he'll have to stay there until——"
Challoner moistened his lips.
"Until my trial, I suppose," he interposed. "Poor devil! That's hard lines!"
The prosecutor ignored the comment, but he reminded the prisoner again that he must be careful not to say anything that could be used against him, concluding with:—
"You came here from the jail quite willingly this morning?"
"Don't you think we can cut all that sort of thing out, Mr. Prosecutor?" a little scornfully.
Before answering, Murgatroyd shot a glance at his men as if to sharpen their attention.
"Very well, then," he said finally, "if you're quite willing I should like to know the exact details. As I understand it, both Hargraves and you were fatally infatuated with an actress at the Frivolity—quarrelled over her—is that right?"
Challoner reddened. For an instant a wild look came into his eyes.
"Surely there is no necessity of bringing any other names into this," he answered hotly; and then little by little calming down he recounted graphically all the incidents leading to and of that memorable night, saying in conclusion:—
"... And then Room A at Cradlebaugh's and——"
A most unusual performance on the part of the prosecutor cut him short. All the time Challoner had been laying bare the facts as he remembered them, Murgatroyd had been toying silently with a pigskin wallet on which appeared in gold the initials: "R. H."; and just when his prisoner was on the point of ending his story, he tossed it over to him.
Challoner caught it "on the fly."
"Do you recognise that?" Murgatroyd demanded. The prosecutor desired, if possible, to add robbery to the motive in the case.
Challoner never winked an eyelash.
"Know it?" he replied glibly, "I should think I did! It was Hargraves's. When I saw it last there was ten thousand dollars in it." And turning it almost inside out, he asked in an offhand manner:—
"Where's the money gone?"
Murgatroyd's eyes searched the face of the man before him as if he would read his very soul.
"You took it," he asserted coldly.
Challoner passed his hand across his face, striving to clear away his muddled recollections.
"I took it? Decidedly not!" he exclaimed indignantly. But the man's dipsomaniacal doubts and fears tinged the tone of his voice and lessened the impressiveness of his denial, though he added: "Why, your witness, Pemmican, can tell you that—he saw the whole thing."
Mixley and McGrath had something to say now. In chorus they wanted particularly to know whether Challoner was positive that Pemmican saw "the whole thing." This joint interrogation seemed to have an irritating effect on the prisoner; and when Murgatroyd silenced them by inquiring of Challoner whether it was not a fact that he had tried to borrow money all over town, the "Yes" he elicited was muttered angrily.
"But I didn't touch that," Challoner resumed, the beads of perspiration standing out on his brow. "In any event, it is not one of the main facts in my memory. If I did take the money, what in the world have I done with it—tell me that? But look here, Murgatroyd, let's get down to business and have this over with. I'm tired of the whole affair. I told you that I waited for Hargraves for two nights. We had a game in Room A—there was a compact—Hargraves won out! Hang him, he always won out! We had a row then and there.... I pulled that gun and fired at him point blank!"
"And then?"
"I killed him; and I would do it over again, I assure you. I don't remember any more—but Pemmican was there—you've got his story—he knows all about it."
"His story," observed Murgatroyd, laying a forefinger on the edge of the desk, "amounts to just what you said last night—that drunk and sober, you watched your chance, and when you got it, you made good—or bad, whichever way you please."
"You've got it," returned Challoner, "now take me back."
There was a loud rap on the door. Mixley answered it, and left the room, holding a conversation in somewhat strenuous tones on the other side. He returned in an instant.
"It's Counsellor Thorne," he announced to the prosecutor. "He wants to see you."
Murgatroyd shook his head impatiently. He and Thorne did not pull well together.
"Tell him to wait," he said brusquely.
"He won't wait," persisted Mixley. "He insists...."
"You tell him that he's got to wait," returned Murgatroyd.
But Thorne did not wait. No sooner had Mixley left the room than Thorne entered and strode up to the prosecutor's desk. Mixley followed him.
Resting one hand on the table Thorne waved the other toward Challoner.
"Murgatroyd," he cried fiercely, with an injured air, "what's this? You call yourself a reputable member of the bar; you call yourself a reform prosecutor of the pleas; this is a most unfair advantage."
Murgatroyd sighed wearily.
"What now, Thorne, what now?"
"Most unfair," repeated the other counsellor-at-law. "You've got my client here—my client!"
Murgatroyd looked at Mixley and then at McGrath.
"Your client! Where is your client?"
"There he is," pointing, "James Lawrence Challoner!"
Murgatroyd rose and said suavely:—
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Thorne. Are you retained? I didn't know. Challoner said nothing of it. Why didn't you tell me, Mr. Challoner?"
"I didn't know it," Challoner told him shortly. "But it's all right—I suppose Mrs. Challoner retained him."
"Yes, she did," Thorne informed him.
"Well, I'm sorry, Thorne," said Murgatroyd. "If I had known you were in the case——"
"Sorry!" echoed Thorne. "This is outrageous! I went up to the jail this morning and my client was not there." He waved his arm as if addressing a jury. "And when they told me that you—you had the effrontery to have him brought down here—for the third degree—This is a matter for theMorning Mail."
Murgatroyd lolled back in his chair and lit a fresh cigar. Presently he said:—
"Thorne, my duty is to the people as well as to your client; so far I've done my duty to both. Go to theMorning Mailif you want to."
"And leave my client here alone!" said Thorne, doggedly. He shook his head to let Challoner see what a determined man he was.
Murgatroyd leaned back over his desk and for a moment busied himself with his papers. Then he announced:—
"Mr. Thorne, your client is going back to jail at once;" and added jokingly: "If you wish to ride with him in the van, you may do so." And with that he ordered Challoner taken away.
Before going, Challoner stretched out his hand and said half genially:—
"I've no fault to find with you, Mr. Prosecutor; it had to come to this."
"But I won't forget this—not for a moment, Prosecutor Murgatroyd," said Thorne grandiloquently, as he stalked out of the door, followed by the prisoner and his guards.
After the men had left Murgatroyd paced the floor for a while in deep meditation. Something in the prisoner's attitude had moved him, puzzled him. "There's a discrepancy somewhere," he told himself; "and yet where the deuce is it?—Challoner killed this man as sure as fate. The motive, the opportunity, were there.... And then there's his confession.... But—" He pushed a button; and when McGrath answered the call he was ordered to have Pemmican sent down from the house of detention, his order ending with: "I wish to see him at once."
"Yes, sir." The officer then placed a card upon the prosecutor's desk and added: "That's a party who wants to see you, sir."
Murgatroyd picked up the card negligently and glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. Instantly a dull flush mounted to his face, and rising to his feet, he said:—
"Tell the lady to come in, please."
There was a flush on the face of Shirley Bloodgood as she entered the prosecutor's office, which was fully as deep as that on the face of the man eagerly awaiting her. Jauntily she held out a gloved hand and said with a breeziness that was perhaps a trifle forced:—
"You must excuse me, Mr. Prosecutor; I'm quite alone—" and she drew attention to her unconventional act by placing her finger on her lips, which were pursed into a big O—"I have no chaperone."
"Won't I answer?" suggested the prosecutor lightly, as he took her hand; and placing a chair close to his desk, "Sit here, please."
"The fact that I'm alone," went on Shirley, taking the seat indicated, but moving it a little farther away from him, "should prove conclusively that I'm not afraid to beard the lion in his den."
"Did it require so very—much courage?" he asked with mock seriousness.
Shirley made a little moue.
"After last night, seems to me you're a bear."
Murgatroyd seated himself; it was thoroughly characteristic that he should waste little time on a preliminary skirmish with any one.
"Then itisabout this Challoner affair that you have come to see me?" he asked tactlessly. "I warn you, Shirley—don't! Hands off!—--"
At once Shirley assumed an aggressive, business-like attitude; close to his desk she drew her chair, and then leaning on both elbows looked Murgatroyd squarely in the face and said with great earnestness:—
"Billy Murgatroyd, you've got to help these people out!"
Murgatroyd flushed and answered with a smile:—
"If such a thing were possible, Shirley, you're the one person to make me do it."
His compliment found her unresponsive; she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts.
"You must do it," she persisted, and looked at him appealingly. "Of course the man could not have been himself."
"Probably not," he said coldly. "But of one thing you may be sure, Challoner had a purpose in all this."
Shirley frowned; the man changed the tone of his voice with a versatility that she declared to herself was little short of scandalous; he went on:—
"That purpose was to kill Hargraves. Last night you heard his confession to that effect; this morning he substantiated it in detail."
Shirley wrapped one hand over the other and sat looking at Murgatroyd with white drawn face.
"I suppose you realise that this thing is going to kill Miriam Challoner?"
The man shook his head vigorously.
"Bosh! If grief could kill the woman, living with Challoner would have accomplished that long ago."
"How unfeeling! How like a man! You understand women so well!" she declared, looking up at him with a mocking smile; and then went on to plead: "You must do something—you must get him free! Surely it remains for his friend to do this much for him! You will—won't you?" There was a suspicion of moisture in the girl's eyes.
Shaking his head, Murgatroyd rose and began to pace the floor, not because he wanted to think, but merely to give the girl time to regain her composure. At last he stopped directly in front of her.
"Shirley"—it was surprising how gentle his voice could be at times—"I want you to realise the circumstances of this case, which you seem to have forgotten. In the presence of several people, including yourself, this man has deliberately confessed to a premeditated murder; a man in my custody is a witness to the facts; at least five men know of the motive—his quarrel with Colonel Hargraves. No," he concluded severely, "if Challoner were my brother or my father, more than that, if you were in Challoner's place to-day, I should have to try you—convict you. There would be no escape."
"But the condition that made him do this thing was abnormal," she persisted; "bad companions and bad habits had warped his mind."
"Like other men of his kind," returned Murgatroyd, "Challoner's decent at times—conducts himself like a man; but generally speaking, he's irretrievably bad."
"But can't you delay the trial—get him off in some way—some time? There are ways—the thing is done every day, and you know it."
Murgatroyd smiled grimly.
"My dear girl, if I would do this thing, I couldn't. I shall go a step farther. If I could do it, I wouldn't. I couldn't look you in the face, guilty as I should be of gross malfeasance in my office." He waved his hand in finality. "Not another word on the subject, please."
"You're immovable! You're cruel!" she cried, rising to her feet. "I ought not to have come! However, I have done what I could for a friend," she flung back at him, looking him straight in the eye, and started toward the door.
Murgatroyd blocked her way.
"No," he said good-humouredly, not the least disconcerted by her parting shot, "it's my turn now. You have attempted to corrupt me, swerve me from my duty and——"
"And wasted your time, I suppose, as you were good enough to remind me on a previous occasion," she returned, looking up saucily at him under her lashes.
Murgatroyd was quick to detect her change of mood and took his courage in both hands, saying:—
"Won't you for the moment forget the Challoners, Shirley? Be kind—you give me little opportunity to see you alone these days. Think only of yourself and me——"
"If you're going to make love to me in that awfully serious way of yours or, for that matter, in any other way, I'll go."
"Aren't you going to marry me, Shirley?" he demanded with characteristic directness.
"Same old story," laughed the girl.
"Yes, this is the sixth time now that I've asked you. Again, will you marry me?"
"Don't be silly! This is hardly the place, Billy...."
"I quite agree with you. But one has to make the most of opportunity. As I said before, the occasions are all too rare when I find myself alone with you. And unless you want me to keep asking you, speak the word now, Shirley—make me happy. You may as well say it first as last, for I'm determined to win you—I'm going to have you!" he wound up energetically.
"Sure of that, Billy?" she asked coquettishly.
"Positive." And there was a world of determination in the way he said it.
"Then why bother about my consent?" A flicker of a smile hovered around her lips.
"Why do you persist in refusing me?"
Shirley flushed. She seemed amused and serious, in turn. Finally she looked up at him quizzically for a moment, then asked:—
"Do you really want to know?"
He did not answer the question, but ventured:—
"Is it because of Thorne? Is he my successful rival?"
Shirley looked perturbed. She was struggling for expression.
"No, it's not because of Thorne. I wish it were ..." And after a moment: "Do you still want to know?"
"Yes. I've got to know, Shirley." And he waited for her words as though his life hinged upon them.
"Will you be very quiet and stay right where you are if I tell you?"
"I promise," raising his right hand half playfully.
"Well, then, it's because—I love you," she said easily.
Murgatroyd sprang toward her, the colour rising in his face, fire flashing from his eye.
"Shirley!"
The girl quickly waved him back.
"It's because I love you or believe that I do that I shall never marry you. I mean it," she hastened to add, for the faintest shade of doubt had appeared on his face.
"But why?" he faltered, turning his eyes inquisitively on her.
Shirley sighed unconsciously.
"It is time that I made myself plain, understood to you. Not because you're entitled to an explanation, but because, well, because I like you just a bit——"
Again Murgatroyd took a step forward; but with laughter still lingering in her eyes, the girl made a pretty little movement of her wrist and motioned toward his chair. Instantly he stopped, catching his breath in sheer admiration of her beauty. He was dimly conscious of putting his hands behind his back; it seemed the only means of preventing them from touching her. But now as he gazed upon her, he saw that there was something behind those laughing eyes. A serious look was on her face. She seemed suddenly to have changed. The thousand and one little mannerisms that were so large a part of the girl's attractiveness were all there, but the voice was no longer the mirthful voice of the Shirley that he knew and loved. She spoke as though in a trance:—
"Can you understand me when I say that I have got to have something more than love? I am too practical, Billy, to fool myself—or you! Perhaps I'm cursed with the instincts of my kind—of the American girl. Oh, let me tell you how it is!" she exclaimed impulsively. "All my life I've been surrounded by men who were failures. My grandfather was a failure; my father was a failure; and my brothers are failures. They have tainted my happiness—don't misunderstand me—I love them, but I can't look up to them."
Murgatroyd nodded appreciatively. He believed that he should feel the same way about these men.
"But—you don't want money?" he protested. "You're too much the right sort of an American girl for that."
"No, not exactly money; but the man who appeals to me is one who can surmount all obstacles," she answered with grave tenderness; "who has success running in his veins." Not a shade of her former gravity now showed on the speaker's face; it lighted as if a flame of enthusiasm had escaped from the temple of her soul. She paused for a moment and lifted her head, and in the transporting gaze that seemed to pass beyond him and was lost into space, for the first time the man read and understood the girl's nature.
"Have you ever lain awake at night, Billy, ever curled up on a window-seat in the daytime and planned your future?" She did not wait for an answer, but kept on: "I have; and in these dreams of mine I would always take my place by the side of my great knight errant, helping him to become greater—the damsel riding on the pillion of my lord's war-horse as he goes to war. At times he has been a diplomatist, a jurist, a law-maker; and I have always lent him strength. When I marry, Billy, my husband's work will be my work; his struggles, my struggles; but the man must have greatness running through his veins."
Murgatroyd smiled sheepishly. He had his full proportion of conceit, and he did not quite relish this.
"Then I haven't figured often in the limelight of your dreams?"
"If only you had, Billy, but you haven't, much as I have tried my best to fit my knight's armour on you and place you on his war-horse. Now can't you see what it would mean if we tried the experiment of marriage? Marriage would not make me happy; it would be misery——"
"Misery?" he snatched the word from her lips.
"Yes, misery for you," she finished. "Can the girl who must have money make a poor man happy, much as she may love him? Can the butterfly make a bookworm happy, much as she may love him? A woman with social ambitions loves a man with none; can she make him happy? No! And while I am none of these, yet, somehow, I've got to fulfil my destiny; and I'm not going to chafe, anger and everlastingly offend the man who doesn't belong—doesn't fit in with my ideas!"
"But I do fit in, as you phrase it," Murgatroyd maintained. "Haven't I ambition? And am I not a fighter?—You'd think so if you knew the devil of a fight I am having right now with my own organisation—with Cradlebaugh's; and I'm going to win!"
Shirley smiled faintly at his almost boyish earnestness, but she shook her head.
"You are too much of a reformer, too much of a crank—no, I'm sorry to tell you so, but in my inmost soul I believe you will fail. You're built that way! I don't know why, but men of influence have weighed you in the balance and found you wanting. William Murgatroyd, politically you're dead—that's what they tell me. There's no future for you; you have ruthlessly antagonised every valuable interest needlessly. That's not success!"
Murgatroyd's face paled; his hand trembled as he raised it in protest.
"But the people—the people believe in me?"
Shirley smiled again in spite of herself.
"You haven't an ounce of diplomacy in your whole body!"
"Not if you call obeying orders from Peter Broderick, diplomacy."
Still the girl was merciless.
"You hit from the shoulder wildly; it lands on and hurts your opponent, but it kills you. You're only honest, Billy, nothing else."
Murgatroyd swung about nervously and glanced out of the window as he cried:—
"Only honest! Doesn't that count with you—doesn't it signify?"
"It's easy enough to be honest, but it is great to make your honesty save and not destroy you. To get these men behind you instead of opposed to you; to make your organisation do what you want it to do; to rise upon its shoulders because you make it lift you up—Ah!..."
"But, Shirley," interposed Murgatroyd, "can't you see that the man who stands up for a principle cannot fail?"
"What have you done so far?" she kept on persistently. "You're prosecutor of the pleas, your first, last and only office. Am I right?"
"I'm afraid you are," he answered dully. "In a way what you say is the truth. Politically I shall die—" Murgatroyd shuddered as he spoke—"unless I can force this issue to a finish while my office lasts."
"And then?" Her manner in putting the question nettled him.
"Well, then I suppose I shall live and die poor. But at least I shall die honest," he added.
Shirley shifted her mode of attack.
"Look at Mr. Thorne!"
"Ah, itisThorne, then."
"A while ago I told you it was not Mr. Thorne." She paused a moment and then, as if speaking to herself, said: "But some day I shall meet the man I'm looking for—some day——"
"When you do, Shirley Bloodgood," he was quick to remind her, "it's an even chance that he won't care for you."
Shirley lost no time in retorting:—
"It's a chance I'm going to take! I can love," she went on wistfully, "yes," and then blushing, added very tenderly: "I am laying my soul bare to you, William Murgatroyd, because I believe somehow that you have a right to see it. Again I repeat: Look at Mr. Thorne!—a prospective United States senator!"
"You admire him?"
"He succeeds."
"Do you know why it may be possible for him to get the nomination for senator? Have you any idea, young woman, what it costs in this State to be chosen senator?"
"Does it cost anything?" was her naïve rejoinder.
"Just about three-quarters of a million to swing the thing! Thorne has money and backing and——"
"And you have neither," she finished for him.
"Precisely."
"Why not emulate Mr. Thorne and get both? To be a United States senator is one of the few great real successes possible of achievement in this country."
"His methods are not mine," pleaded the prosecutor, falling back upon his platform.
"Exactly. He secures support; you, opposition."
"Would you have me adopt his methods?"
"I would have you secure his results," she declared firmly.
There was a hungry look in the man's eyes as he spoke:—
"And if I do?..."
"Oh, if you only would!" her young voice rang out clearly, hopefully.
"And I'll find you waiting for me?"
"At the top of the hill, Billy!" She held out her hand. "Think over what I've said—Good-bye!"
After seeing Miss Bloodgood to her carriage Murgatroyd's thoughts were in a maze of bewildering complexity. As a matter of fact, his peace of mind was wholly gone; and it was with a far different feeling than any he had heretofore experienced that he sought his down-town club for luncheon. It chanced to be at a time when stocks were buoyant, and in consequence the atmosphere of the dining-room was charged with cheerfulness. But Murgatroyd was in no mood to join any of the various groups lunching together; on the contrary, he took particular pains to seat himself at a small table apart from the others, where he gave himself up at once to a mental rehearsal of the scene in his office a half hour ago.
Success at any cost! Yes, that was the way she had put it. Well, and why not? Was not that the modern idea—the spirit of the age? And should he hold a mere slip of a girl responsible for putting into words what every woman thinks? Ridiculous!... And the United States Senate was her conception of greatness! Ah, that was for Thorne! The organisation, the brewers, the railroads, would send him there—buy him the job! Yes, her friend Thorne would be a success, achieve greatness; while he, William Murgatroyd, would be likely at the expiration of his present term of office to find himself dead politically, become a cipher professionally as well.
Presently the waiter brought his luncheon. None of the dishes suited him; the servant was taken to task; the head-waiter was summoned; the dishes were changed, and still they did not taste right. Finally muttering to himself comments derogatory to the club's cuisine, Murgatroyd pushed away his plate, lit a cigar and hastened out of the building.
Lost in an abyss of depression he sank wearily into the seat at his desk. It was thus that McGrath found him when he entered to announce that he had brought down Pemmican.
Murgatroyd stared at him dully.
"Pemmican?" he repeated. "Who the deuce is Pemmican?"
"Thunderation!" burst from the lips of McGrath. "Why, your star witness in the Challoner case!"
This brought Murgatroyd to earth.
"Well, don't bring him in," he said impatiently; "I'll ring when I want you."
McGrath was dumbfounded. In fact, his astonishment at his superior's evident disinclination to proceed immediately with the examination of Pemmican was such that it came very near to making him forget that there was another reason for his presence there.
"Another lady to see you, counsellor," said McGrath half-apologetically. "It's Mrs. Challoner this time."
Murgatroyd looked up quickly.
"Mrs. Challoner! Why didn't you say so before? Show her in at once!" And as that person came through the door Murgatroyd rose and went forward to meet her, saying:—
"How do you do, Mrs. Challoner? If you had let me know that you wished to see me, I should have been glad to call on you. What can I do for you?"
For a moment Mrs. Challoner did not answer, but looked suspiciously about to see whether any one else was present.
"Mr. Murgatroyd, I do not wish it to be known that I have come here," she began, as she dropped into a chair. She looked haggard, pale and worn. Her manner, the tone of her voice, at once indicated to the prosecutor that she was labouring under some suppressed excitement. It was a situation not at all to his liking, and he watched her narrowly while she proceeded:—
"I have come to see what can be done for my husband."
"Miss Bloodgood was here a short time ago on the same errand," he observed, to put her at ease.
"Miss Bloodgood!" Amazement leaped into the young wife's tired, brown eyes. "She did not tell me she was coming—but that's just like her—she never tells half the good things she does. She's a friend—indeed, Shirley's a good friend."
There was an embarrassing pause in which both were silent. Apparently she was nerving herself to go on. Presently courage came, and she said:—
"Will you tell me, please, what my husband's chances are?"
"Every man is supposed to be innocent until he is proven guilty.... But first as last, I may as well inform you, Mrs. Challoner, that I can do nothing, absolutely nothing for you. Your husband must stand trial!"
"Yes, yes, I know. But you don't quite understand. The man was not himself. Surely you must know that! Let him live, Mr. Murgatroyd; he's worth saving. Give him time—a chance. He'll be good—I shall make him good. I have tried, and I shall continue to try all the harder...."
Murgatroyd sat motionless. His profile was toward Mrs. Challoner. It was a clean-cut profile, and upon its contour there was no sign of yielding. After a while he looked up and said:—
"I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Challoner, and I dislike intensely to hurt your feelings. But do you realise that your husband ... shot this man in a quarrel over——"
Mrs. Challoner quickly cut him short.
"That woman! What do I care for that! You don't know what my husband is to me! I love him no matter what he has done. Besides, it was all my fault. Let me tell you how it was. Laurie wanted money—his money was gone—he had spent it all, and——"
Murgatroyd held up his hand.
"I cannot let you speak this way. You are simply supplying me with evidence against him."
"And I refused him," continued the woman, too excited to hear what the prosecutor was saying. "I hardened my heart against him—drove him from home, and then—this dreadful thing happened."
"It would be dastardly in me to listen further. You are making your husband's guilt more evident with every word. When Hargraves was found he had been robbed of ten thousand dollars!" And with that Murgatroyd rose as if to indicate that the interview was at an end. "There is nothing I can do, Madam," he declared flatly; and then added: "There never was but one way to cure a man like Challoner; it's too late now."
Minutes passed.... Murgatroyd watched her intently; but she did not move: she sat rigid as if preparing herself for some ordeal yet to come. All of a sudden her attitude changed. Mistrustfully she peered about her once more, then leaning far over toward Murgatroyd, she whispered:—
"We are alone?"
The lawyer regarded her with pardonable curiosity before he answered:—
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
Mrs. Challoner wrung her hands; she seemed uncertain how to proceed. In the end she said:—
"I am going to do a terrible thing. It frightens me almost to death. I don't know how to begin, but my love for Laurie is my excuse for what I have to say. I hope you won't misunderstand me. Supposing Shirley was in Laurie's place—if she were accused of crime, what wouldn't you do for her?"
"The cases are hardly parallel," he answered indifferently.
"They are precisely parallel," she maintained. "You love Shirley as I love Laurie—I know you do. Don't say no—women have a way of knowing those things." Her eyes sought his for confirmation. "Am I not right?"
"I would do anything to win her," he spoke up quickly; evidently she took the rest for granted, for she continued to persevere:—
"I know that you have great ambitions; and with such a girl at your side there is no reason why you should not become a great man."
This sudden interest on her part in matters concerning his future, for the moment rattled him. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a decided sensation of relief that the conversation had taken its present course; and her words: "With such a girl at your side" found a welcome in his heart. On her part, Mrs. Challoner was becoming more and more composed. And now in a voice that seemed to him ringing with conviction, she went on:—
"You will have up-hill work, I know. Your party is against you and all that sort of thing; but if only for Shirley's sake, I want you—you must succeed!"
For some reason which he did not attempt to explain Murgatroyd found himself actually confessing to this woman that he thought he deserved to win out.
"It's only money that you lack, I know," she ventured now. "With money they couldn't keep you down. With money of your own—" she stopped abruptly; the tension was getting too much for her. Presently she cried out: "Oh, Mr. Murgatroyd, don't you see what I mean, and won't you help me?"
But he failed to understand her meaning, and was obliged to ask her to explain herself. He was staring hard at her now.
And then at last it came out.
"Only this, Mr. Murgatroyd," she said, meeting his gaze. "I will give you one hundred thousand dollars to set my husband free!"
Murgatroyd instantly sprang to his feet.
"You mean to bribe me!"
Miriam Challoner cowered before him. She had not put the matter to him in quite the way she had intended. She was desperately afraid that she had destroyed all hope of success by blurting it out like this. "Please don't be hard on me—condemn me," she begged as one before the judgment seat. "I know it's awful!"
For a full half minute Murgatroyd fastened his gaze on her face. Then he walked to the door, stepped inside the vault and satisfied himself that there was no one there, looked into every corner of the room and underneath the table; and when at last he was convinced that he had taken every precaution, he came back and stood directly in front of the woman and told her to repeat what she had said.
In fear and trembling she reiterated her words:—
"I will give you one hundred thousand dollars to set my husband free!"
"Mrs. Challoner," the prosecutor asked, falling into his habit of putting finger-tip to finger-tip, "how much money have you?"
"In all?"
Murgatroyd nodded.
"In just a minute...."
With a hard look on his face Murgatroyd watched her pull a little book from a bag, watched her take out the stub of a pencil, waited while she busied herself in adding figures, waited until at the end of a short calculation she looked up at him and made known the result.
"In all, I have about eight hundred and sixty thousand dollars left."
"What?" exclaimed the prosecutor, unable to conceal his astonishment. For since he had begun his investigations it had come to him that Mrs. Challoner's affairs were in a bad way. A moment later he said: "And that eight hundred thousand dollars or so is——"
"All in negotiable securities," she promptly assured him, "payable to bearer. I get six and seven per cent. on some of them—the old ones."
"Where are these securities?"
"In the Fidelity Safe Deposit vaults."
"In addition to these," went on Murgatroyd, "you have your house on the Avenue?"
"Yes. There's a small equity in it."
He raised his eyebrows.
"It is subject to mortgage, then?"
"Of course," she answered glibly. "I get six per cent. on most of my securities, and have to pay only four and a half on my mortgage. It would have been foolish to pay it off."
Murgatroyd smiled a cold smile.
"You're quite a business woman, Mrs. Challoner."
"I have to be," she acknowledged with a smile that was intensely pathetic.
"And that's all you have?" he asked a moment later.
"Absolutely."
"Your house," mused Murgatroyd, half to himself, "will take care of Thorne's fee."
"How much will that be?"
Murgatroyd jerked his head nervously.
"Thorne?—Oh, he'll take all he can get!" There was a short silence which Murgatroyd suddenly broke. "Mrs. Challoner, your attempt to bribe is no longer an attempt. You have succeeded. I shall set your husband free!"
Mrs. Challoner smiled while the tears trickled down her cheeks.
"I shall get you the hundred thousand dollars right away," she said, as if it were a mere bagatelle.
"Just one moment, please," continued Murgatroyd, waving her back into her seat, for she had risen. "I shall set your husband free foreight hundred and sixty thousand dollars!"
Miriam Challoner leaned back in her chair. She seemed to hesitate.
"For everything I have!" she muttered half aloud.
Murgatroyd reached over and touched her on the arm, and repeated in the same tone:—
"Everything you have!" And added: "Surely you did not think that I would sell myself for less?"
"No, no, of course not," she faltered. "I wish I had millions to give you. You are a good man—you are doing a good act."
Murgatroyd shook his head and said somewhat impatiently:—
"Mrs. Challoner, this is a business transaction; let us close it. You can get those securities to-day, I suppose?"
"Yes," she replied in the next breath, the flush of joy still on her face.
"Then do so, please." His voice was hoarse now. "And bring them to me here wrapped up in brown paper. You understand that nobody must know about this. You know what it would mean to me, to you, to Challoner ..."
"Yes, yes," she cried eagerly, and held out her hand. "It's an agreement."
But Murgatroyd purposely ignored her hand and abruptly turned away, saying:—
"This matter must be closed at once."
And with a confident "I'll be back in half an hour," Mrs. Challoner passed out of the door, which Murgatroyd had softly and noiselessly unlocked.
The man who presently was brought out of the barred ante-room and taken before the prosecutor might have been anything from a floor-walker of a big department store to a manager of a renowned rathskeller. It was evident from the manner in which he bore himself while under the constant surveillance of the minions of the law, that he was perfectly at home in the presence of strangers, and that unusual situations did not feaze him. In the matter of general adornment of the person, however, Pemmican of the low brow was an exception to his class: no diamond blazed from his shirt-front or fingers; moreover, he was dressed in the most sombre of blacks, and under his soft felt hat of the same colour the hair was brushed forward with scrupulous care. The long, thin, smooth-shaven face, the little, deep-set eyes, the abnormally low brow, which was accentuated by this odd arrangement of his hair, the pasty complexion, all gave one the impression of dignified sleekness. In other words, one could easily have pictured the man as performing in a most impressive manner the last offices needed by man here below. To sum up, the attitude of the man now waiting for the prosecutor to address him—Pemmican of the low brow always knew his place—produced the effect of distressed meekness.
"Pemmican," said Murgatroyd, all geniality and good-fellowship now, "how are they treating you?" And then, with a chuckle: "You look peaked, my man!"
It was second nature to Pemmican to swallow his indignation and simulate cheerfulness, but he answered peevishly:—
"No wonder I'm all to the bad. But why am I kept locked up in this house of detention?"
McGrath grinned and spoke for the prosecutor.
"Witnesses is wary game and scarce; it ain't always the open season, so we got to keep 'em in cold storage, see?"
Pemmican ignored this remark, but turned to the prosecutor, and there was a whine in the voice that said:—
"You made my bail so infernally large that my friends would not put it up for me."
"I did it purposely," Murgatroyd declared, still smiling. "This is an important case; you are the only witness; and I've got to keep you where your friends cannot reach you—" here a faint flush spread over the prosecutor's countenance—"cannot corrupt you, Pemmican."
Suddenly Murgatroyd rose from his revolving chair. He nodded a dismissal to McGrath; and then going over to a table in the centre of the room, he drew to him a sheet of foolscap from a pile lying there, and said:—
"Come over here, Pemmican!" There was an article of some kind in the hand that rested on the table. "Just sketch me here—on this paper—a little plan showing the position of the men in Room A that night."
"Sure," volunteered Pemmican, taking the proffered pencil; "now, here was Colonel Hargraves, here was——"
He stopped abruptly. For he had seen that the article in Murgatroyd's hand was a wallet marked "R. H."
"Go on!" said Murgatroyd.
"And here was—" Pemmican stopped again.
"What are you looking at?" Murgatroyd asked. "Oh, that?" he said casually, and passed the wallet to Pemmican.
Pemmican started and backed away.
"I don't want it. It ain't mine. I don't know what it is—what is it, anyhow?" he gulped. "No, counsellor," he added; "and besides, I wasn't looking at it."
Murgatroyd patted the wallet.
"It was Colonel Hargraves's pocketbook," he said. "I thought you recognised it."
"Never saw it before, counsellor," he repeated sulkily; "never saw it before."
"You must have seen it," persisted Murgatroyd; "it's pretty well worn, and he must have carried it a long time. He was one of your patrons. The fact is, Pemmican," he went on, "this wallet was the occasion of my sending for you just now. I am informed that when Hargraves last carried it the wallet was full of bills; and when he was found in the street it was quite empty. It is a mere detail, but I should like to know whether Challoner robbed this man as well as killed him."
Pemmican slowly shook his head.
"Can't help you out," he answered, "for I never saw the wallet. I don't know...."
Murgatroyd went off on another tack.
"Very well, then; but there's another thing that you may clear up.... By the way, Pemmican, perhaps you don't know that Challoner has confessed?"
Pemmican's physiognomy lost its doleful appearance. And he cried joyfully:—
"Confessed? Gee, that's good—great! Confessed? Well, say, counsellor, it just had to come to that!"
"Yes," conceded Murgatroyd; "but there's another thing which bothers me, though I don't know that it complicates matters exactly. It's a mere detail again. Challoner says he shot his man in Room A in Cradlebaugh's; you say the quarrel took place there, that Hargraves went out first, and that Challoner followed him. Hargraves, as we know, was found dead in the street above. That's right—isn't it?"
"Sure," returned Pemmican, positively. "I didn't see him fire the shot; nobody saw that. It's a good thing, though, because between you and me, Prosecutor, notwithstanding my testimony I thought that you'd have some trouble in making out a case. Circumstances is something, but they ain't everything, you know."
Murgatroyd agreed to this, and added:—
"We've got certainty now, because he's confessed—but he's mixed as to the place of the shooting. He thinks it was in your place—that you were present, that's all."
Murgatroyd seemed satisfied. He sat down at his desk and from a drawer he drew a box of cigars. Now he leaned toward Pemmican and said confidentially:—
"Pemmican, I want your testimony in this case—I want itright. Have a cigar?"
Pemmican accepted, and finding a ready match in his pocket, struck it on the heel of his boot and lighted the cigar before the slow-moving Murgatroyd could pass him his matchbox.
"Thank you, counsellor, I have one," he said, and blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. "You can depend on me; I'll tell the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me—" His gaze returned again to the pigskin wallet on the desk. "But say, I never saw that thing before."
Murgatroyd picked it up and spoke in a still lower tone now.
"Pemmican, suppose I were to fill this with, well, say ten thousand dollars and give it to you; how would you testify in this case, eh?"
"But," protested Pemmican, "I never saw ten thousand dollars in it—No...."
"No," repeated Murgatroyd; "but if you should right now have it filled with ten thousand dollars, how would you testify for me?"
Pemmican stolidly shook his head and answered:
"To the truth, counsellor—I'm an honest man."
Murgatroyd still persisted.
"How much would you take, Pemmican," he went on, "to swear that Challoner did not commit this crime?"
Pemmican started back in alarm, and once more shook his head.
"Counsellor, I'm an honest man," he answered doggedly.
Murgatroyd gave it up as a bad job.
"You're honest, all right, Pemmican," he said. "You can go back now; but I'll have you down again before the trial, and together we'll go over the testimony carefully." He placed his hand upon the other's arm. "You see, I'm most particular about this case." The next moment Mixley and McGrath entered and took Pemmican away.
Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Challoner arrived. She was accompanied by Stevens, the butler, carrying a large parcel, which he deposited on the prosecutor's table as directed. He was then dismissed; and when the door had closed on him, the man and the woman stood for a few minutes listening in silence to his retreating footsteps. Then in low, rapid tones Mrs. Challoner assured the prosecutor that she had accomplished her purpose without arousing the suspicions of any one—not even the servant. Murgatroyd noiselessly locked the door, and putting his hand upon the parcel on the table, looked at her interrogatively.
"Yes—the securities—they're all there," she hastened to assure him.
"Shall I——"
Mrs. Challoner's hand waved her permission. The big, heavy parcel had been clumsily tied up with brown paper. This, Murgatroyd tore off, and there stood revealed two long, sheet-iron boxes, old and somewhat battered. They were heavily sealed, and across each on a pasted piece of paper appeared in big letters the name "Miriam Challoner."
"I brought them just as they were," she went on to explain. "You may break the seals, scratch off my name, and then they will be yours to do with as you please."
"For the present," Murgatroyd told himself, as his eyes fell on the vault door, "that will be their resting place." And turning to her, he said aloud:—
"The deal is closed. You understand the terms? Everything is left to me—I am to free your husband—I am to keep your money?"
"Yes," she breathed, as if some heavy burden had rolled from her young shoulders.
And now for the first time Murgatroyd looked Miriam Challoner full in the face, and said solemnly:—
"One thing more: absolutely no one must know of this. Not Challoner, nor Thorne, and above all, not Miss Bloodgood. Everything depends on your silence—your silence is the essence of this contract. You agree?"
Mrs. Challoner bowed.
"I do." And she might have been taking an oath from the way she said it.
"Remember you will say nothing to Miss Bloodgood...."
"Shirley will never know of it."
"Most decidedly not Shirley." But the prosecutor remarked this to himself when once more he was alone.
The trial of James Lawrence Challoner had progressed with uncommon haste, the fourth day finding all the witnesses heard and the case ready to sum up to the jury. The court-room was crowded: the newspapers were there; the people were there; public opinion was there. Brief and to the point had been the State's case—made up out of Pemmican's evidence and the confession of the prisoner. But in the prosecutor's presentment of his evidence there had been an undercurrent as unusual as it was unexpected: every question that he hurled at Pemmican had a hidden meaning; every interrogation point had a sting hidden in its tail. Not that he made any attempt to switch the issue or to side-track the facts, but it was clearly apparent that from start to finish he was making a supreme effort to include within his facts, to embrace within the issue and to place on trial, together with the prisoner, one other culprit in this celebrated case—Cradlebaugh's.
However, if such were the prosecutor's chief purpose, it failed. Thorne, the counsel for the defence—who represented more than one client in this case—met him at every turn, parried his every thrust.
"Objection sustained," the Court had ruled wearily many times during the trial, "the prosecutor will proceed."
And upon such occasions Graham Thorne, from the counsel's table in the front, had flashed a triumphant glance at Peter Broderick; and Peter Broderick, in turn, from his seat in the rear of the court-room, would return the gaze with a smile, the brilliancy of which was outshone only by the big diamond that blazed from where it rested comfortably on his highly coloured shirt-front. To these two—not in the least interested in the outcome of the trial, so far as Challoner was concerned—the case was highly satisfactory. There was no crevice in the mystery of Cradlebaugh's in which Murgatroyd could insert the thin edge of a wedge; its foundation still remained unshaken after the impact of his battering ram; the Challoner case was to be the Challoner case, and nothing more.
"... That's all, Mr. Pemmican," were the words with which the prosecutor had concluded the examination of his principal witness.
On Pemmican of the low brow leaving the witness stand, he had glanced expectantly toward the counsel for the defence. Throughout the trial there was in his manner a peculiar deference toward Thorne which had been there from the first day. Under Murgatroyd's sharp interrogation he had seemed quite at ease; but his attitude toward Thorne had always appeared to be that of a man whose hand was constantly kept raised to ward off blows. However, notwithstanding that he had been recalled at least five times, Pemmican, on the whole, apparently was well satisfied with his performance. Unquestionably he had been loyal and wary, and had confined his testimony as to motive to the woman in the case—a row over a lady—keeping that portentous game of cards well into the background—out of sight.
"Surely you're not going to detain me any longer?" whispered Pemmican to the officers who had placed themselves on either side of him. "What! You're not going to let me go?"
"Not on your life!" remarked one of them genially; and showing to the prisoner a slip of paper which he drew from his pocket: "There's a warrant for your arrest."
Pemmican for a moment looked bewildered and murmured incredulously:—
"... my arrest?"
"Sure," replied the officer. "The chiefs begun his raid on Cradlebaugh's, and you're one of the main guys...."
Pemmican wiped his forehead and stammered sulkily:—
"And—and the prosecutor's goin' to lock me up after all I've done for him?"
"That's what!" replied the officer, and a moment later added complacently: "Unless you can get bail."
"Confound 'em!" exclaimed Pemmican. "They won't go my bail!"
The detective placed his ear quite close to Pemmican.
"Whowon't go your bail?" he queried interestedly.
Pemmican smiled.
"They," he returned, not for an instant off his guard.
"If Prosecutor Murgatroyd only knew whotheyare," went on the detective, "if he knew who backed you up, there'd be some interesting goings on 'round here."
"He won't find out from me," replied Pemmican, doggedly. "I play a straight game with the men who hand out my bread and butter. You can lay your bets on that!"
"Sh-h-h-! The prosecutor's talkin' over there," whispered the detective, raising his hand, and he hustled the prisoner out of the room, as Murgatroyd, rising once more, bowed toward the bench and announced:—
"The State rests, if the Court please."
And then Thorne at his end of the table also rose to his feet and declared:—
"The defence rests."
Presently he began to address the Jury. During the trial his line of defence had been insanity—the defence of the defenceless, the forlorn hope of the hopeless. The Bench had frowned at it; the Jury had shaken its head as one man: insanity to juries in the metropolis had become as a red rag to a bull. But the crowd in the court-room had leaned forward with huge expectation,—waiting for the hidden places to be revealed with much the same anticipation and interest one experiences in waiting for the dénouement of a stage drama.
Before turning to the jury, however, for his last effort, Thorne stooped down for an instant and whispered to Mrs. Challoner:—
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Challoner, that we couldn't do better with our facts. It seems to me to be the weakest defence I have ever seen put up in any case. Indeed, it seems to me we have no defence at all."
But somewhat to his astonishment this remark was received by Miriam Challoner with that same degree of confidence that had characterised her attitude all through the trial. On her face was a certain unexplainable something which not only he had noted but which the people had noted, the men at the press-table had noted, and commented upon freely in their copy—a glow that had never faded from the eyes of the woman, a flush upon her cheek that had never paled, and which said more plainly than words that she was certain of the acquittal of her husband.
"Devilish fine actress!" Thorne thought to himself, for such optimism in a case like this was wholly beyond his comprehension; and it was with a certain feeling of admiration that he heard her whisper with a reassuring smile:—
"You're making a glorious fight, Mr. Thorne; you're bound to succeed."
And indeed, such was her marvellous hopefulness, that it succeeded in enheartening him, and was reflected in his illustrations to the jury when dwelling at some length on the many fine points in the character of the accused. He was particularly happy in impressing upon his hearers that Challoner was a man with a most peculiar temperament and mental bias; that if Challoner had taken the life of Colonel Hargraves, it was only after the man's soul and mind had eaten poison from the hands of his enemy—Colonel Hargraves.
Of the life and character of that gentleman, he had little to add to what was already known, and was seemingly content to dismiss him with:—
"The least said of him the better, now that he is gone."
Thorne paused.
Suddenly he assumed a dramatic pose, and now turning toward a beautiful and fashionably gowned young woman with a bar of sunlight streaming down her face, who occupied a seat underneath the third high window in the court-room, he riveted his gaze on her, all eyes following in that direction.
"There," he said, his voice sinking to a whisper, but a whisper that could be heard all over the court-room, "is the woman in the case—the real culprit! A temptress! A vampire! A Circe! A woman who has made a mess of the lives of two men, and only God knows how many others! A woman who played the game to her own selfish ends!... And here you have the result!"
For a full minute Letty Love unblushingly returned the lawyer's probing glances; plainly she rejoiced in the stares which she felt were focused upon her,—for no one knew better than she that her beauty was infecting all present,—and it was not until she had drunk her fill of the cup of publicity that she turned her head away and looked out upon the sunlit street.
From where he sat Challoner, too, was able for a brief moment to see the face of the woman who was responsible for his misfortunes. That same second, however, brought his wife also into his line of vision, making it possible for him to contrast the two countenances; and he was surprised to find himself not only admiring the wealth of colouring and glow upon Miriam's face, but actually loathing himself for ever having admired the ugly lines which he now saw on the sunlit face of Letty Love; and his whole nature revolted against her.
"If only I had left her to Colonel Hargraves," he muttered to himself; and immersed in similar bitter reflections, he lost all but his counsel's concluding words:—
"... and all that I want, all that I ask of you, gentlemen of the jury, is that you give us what we have not had so far—a fair, square deal!"
Thorne sat down, satisfied that he had made an impression. At all events, he had done the best he could—under the circumstances. Out of his material he had hewn the inevitable result—debauchery; out of this debauchery he fashioned the conclusion—insanity; out of a victim he had made a murderer; out of a murderer he had made a hero whose irresponsible emotions cried out to a jury of his peers for justice, even for retribution against the murdered man. Base metal though it were, it seemed pure gold to his listeners. Even the jurors drew long breaths and looked each other questioningly in the eye; the crowd murmured its sympathy; and Thorne, glancing at the little coterie behind the prisoner, was pleased to see that even in the eyes of Shirley Bloodgood he had raised a new hope for Challoner.