On Saturday afternoon about three o'clock, the cashier of the Fourth National Bank in the town of Clarksburg called Thomas Woodford as he was passing on the street, and requested him to come at once into the directors' room. Woodford saw by the man's face that there was something serious the matter and he hurried after him to the door of the private office. As he entered, Mr. Izzard arose and crossed the room to him. The old man held a check in his hand and was evidently laboring under great excitement.
"Woodford," he cried, thrusting the check up into the cattle-shipper's face, "this thing is not worth a damn! There is no money here to pay it."
"No money to pay it!" echoed Woodford. "You must be crazy. We put the money in here Monday. There's ten thousand dollars here to pay it."
"Well," said the old man, trembling with anger, "there is none here now. You gave me this check Tuesday on my cattle which you and Harris bought, and you told me there was money here to meet it. I thought you were all right, of course, and I did not come to town until to-day. Now the cashier says there is not a cursèd cent here to the credit of you and Harris."
The blood faded out of the cattle-shipper's face, leaving him as white as a sheet. He turned slowly to the cashier: "What became of that money?" he gasped.
"Why," the officer replied, "it was drawn out on the check of yourself and Harris. Did n't you know about it? The check was properly endorsed."
"Show me the check," said Thomas Woodford, striving hard to control the trembling of his voice. "There must be some mistake."
The cashier went to his desk and returned with a check, which he spread out on the table before the cattle-shipper. The man seized it and carried it to the light, where he scrutinized it closely. It was in proper form and drawn in the firm name of "Woodford & Harris," directing the Fourth National Bank to pay to William Harris ten thousand dollars. It was properly endorsed by William Harris and bore the stamp of the New York Clearing House.
"When was this check cashed?" asked Woodford.
"It was sent in yesterday," answered the cashier. "Is there anything wrong with it?"
For a time Woodford did not speak. He stood with his back to the two men and was evidently attempting to arrive at some solution of the matter. Presently he turned and faced the angry land-owner.
"There has been a mistake here, Mr. Izzard," he said, speaking slowly and calmly. "Suppose I give you my note for the money; the bank here will discount it, and you will not be put to any inconvenience."
To this the old gentleman readily assented. "All I want," he assured the shipper, "is to be safe. Your note, Woodford, is good for ten times the sum."
Thomas Woodford turned to the desk and drew a negotiable note for the amount of the check. This he gave to Mr. Izzard, and then hurried to the telegraph office, where he wired Harris asking for an immediate explanation of the mysterious transaction.
He was a man accustomed to keep his own counsels, and he was not yet ready to abandon them. He gave directions where the answer was to be sent, then he went to the hotel, locked himself in his room, and began to pace the floor, striving to solve the enigma of this queer proceeding on the part of William Harris.
The transaction had an ugly appearance. The money had been placed in the bank by the two men for the express purpose of meeting this check, which he had given to Izzard as a part payment on his stock. Harris knew this perfectly, and had suggested it. Now, how should it happen that he had drawn the money in his own name almost immediately upon his arrival in New York?
Could it be that Harris had concluded to steal the money? This the cattle-shipper refused to believe. He had known Harris for years, and knew that he was considered honest, as the world goes. Besides, Harris would not dare to make such a bold move for the purpose of robbery. His name was on the back of the check; there was no apparent attempt to conceal it. No, there could be but one explanation, considered Woodford: Harris had found the market rising and a great opportunity to make a vast sum of money; consequently he had bought more stock and had been compelled to use this money for the purpose of payment. There could be no other explanation, so the cattle-shipper convinced himself.
Thomas Woodford was not a man of wavering decisions. When his conclusion was once formed, that was the end of it. He went over to the wash-stand, bathed his face, and turned to leave the room. As he did so, some one rapped on the door; when he opened it, a messenger boy handed him a telegram. He took the message, closed the door, and went over to the window. For a moment the dread of what the little yellow envelope might possibly contain, made the big rough cattle-shipper tremble. Then he dismissed the premonition as an unreasonable fear, and with calm finger opened the message. The telegram was from New York, and contained these few words: "Have been robbed. Everything is lost," and was signed "William Harris."
Thomas Woodford staggered as if some one had dealt him a terrible blow in the face. The paper fell from his fingers and fluttered down on the floor. The room appeared to swim round him; his heart thumped violently for a moment, and then seemed to die down in his breast and cease its beating. He sank down in his chair and fell forward on the table, his big body limp under the shock of this awful calamity. It was all perfectly plain to him now. The entire transaction from the beginning to the end had been a deep-laid, cunning plan to rob him. The checking out of the ten thousand dollars was but a small part of it Harris had sold the cattle, and, seeking to keep the money, had simply said that he had been robbed. The story about the probable dissolution of the exporters' combine had been all a lie. He had been the dupe—the easy, willing dupe, of a cunning villain.
William Harris had come to West Virginia with the deliberate intention of inveigling him into this very trap. He had left New York with the entire scheme well planned. He had stopped at Bridgeport and told him the plausible story about what would happen to the combine, in order to arouse his interest and draw him into the plot and to account for his own presence in the cattle region. It was a shrewdly constructed tale, which, under the circumstances, the most cautious man in the business would have believed.
The man winced as he recalled how cunningly Harris had forced him to do the very things he desired done, without appearing to even suggest them. There was the deposit of the fund in the partnership name,—that seemed all reasonable enough. It had not occurred to him that this money would then be subject to Harris's check as well as his own. Then, too, it was reasonable that he should go out and buy the cattle, and Harris ship them,—Harris was a commission-merchant by trade, and this division of the work was natural. Such a robbery had not occurred before in all the history of this business, and how fatally well all the circumstances and the customs of the trade fitted into the plan of this daring rascal!
Then, like a benumbing ache, came the gradual appreciation of the magnitude of this loss. The cattle were worth twenty thousand dollars. He had agreed to pay Izzard that sum for the drove, and then there was the five thousand of his own money. Twenty-five thousand dollars in all. It was no small sum for the wealthiest to lose, and to this man in his despair it loomed large indeed.
Financial ruin is an evil-featured demon at best. The grasp of his hand is blighting; the leer of his sunken face, maddening. It requires strong will to face the monster when one knows that he is coming, even after his shadow has been flitting across one's path for years. When he leaps down suddenly from the dark upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting passer-by, that one must be strong indeed if all that he possesses of virtue and honesty and good motive be not driven out from him.
The old clock on the court-house struck five, its battered iron tongue crying out from above the place where men were accustomed to resort for Justice.
The sound startled Woodford and reminded him of something. He arose and went to the window and stood looking at the gaunt old building.
Yes, there was the Law. He had almost forgotten that, and the Law would not tolerate wrong. It hated the evil-doer, and hunted him down even to the death, and punished him. Men were often weak and half blind, but the Law was strong always, and its eyes were far-sighted. The world was not so large that the rogue could hide from it. In its strength it would seek him out and hold him responsible for the evil he had done. It stood ever in its majesty between the knave and those upon whom he sought to prey; its shadow, heavy with warning, lay always before the faces of vicious men.
In his bitterness, Woodford thanked Heaven that this was true. From the iron hand of the Law; William Harris should have vengeance visited upon him to the very rim of the measure.
Randolph Mason looked up from his desk as William Harris burst into his office. The commission-merchant's face was red, and he was panting with excitement. "Mr. Mason," he cried, "there is trouble on foot; you must help me out!"
"Trouble," echoed Mason, "is it any new thing to meet? Why do you come back with your petty matters?"
"It is no petty matter, sir," said Harris; "you planned the whole thing for me, and you said it was no crime. Now they are trying to put me in the penitentiary. You must have been wrong when you said it was no crime."
"Wrong?" said Mason, sharply. "What fool says I am wrong?"
"Why, sir," continued Harris, rapidly, "Thomas Woodford has applied to the Governor for an extradition, asking that I be turned over to the authorities of West Virginia on the charge of having committed a felony. You said I could draw out the partnership fund and keep it, and that I could sell the cattle and buy foreign exchange with the money, and it would be no crime. Now they are after me, and you must go to Albany and see about it."
"I shall not go to Albany," said Mason. "You have committed no crime and cannot be punished."
"But," said Harris, anxiously, "won't they take me down there? Won't the Governor turn me over to them?"
"The Governor," continued Mason, "is no fool. The affidavit stating the facts, which must accompany the application, will show on its face that no crime has been committed. You were a partner, with a partner's control of the funds. The taking of partnership property by one partner is no crime. Neither did you steal the cattle. They were sold to you. Your partner trusted you. If you do not pay, it is his misfortune. It was all a business affair, and by no possible construction can be twisted into a crime. Nor does it matter how the partnership was formed, so that it existed. It is no crime to lie in regard to an opinion. You have violated no law,—you have simply taken advantage of its weak places to your own gain and to the hurt of certain stupid fools. The Attorney General will never permit an extradition in this case while the world stands. Go home, man, and sleep,—you are as safe from the law as though you were in the grave."
With that, Randolph Mason arose and opened the office door. "I bid you good-morning, sir," he said curtly.
The Governor of New York pushed the papers across the table to the Attorney General. "I would like you to look at this application for the extradition of one Harris, charged with committing a felony in the State of West Virginia," he said. "The paper seems to be regular, but I am somewhat in doubt as to the proper construction to be placed upon the affidavit stating the facts alleged to constitute this crime."
The Attorney General took the papers and went over them rapidly. "Well," he said, "there is nothing wrong with the application. Everything is regular except the affidavit, and it is quite clear that it fails to support this charge of felony."
"I was inclined to that opinion," said the Governor, "and I thought best to submit the matter to you."
"It is usual," continued the Attorney General, "to grant the application without question, where the papers are regular and the crime is charged, and it is not required that the crime be charged with the legal exactness necessary in an indictment. The Governor is not permitted to try the question whether the accused is guilty or not guilty. Nor is he to be controlled by the question whether the offence is or is not a crime in his own State, the question before him being whether the act is punishable as a crime in the demanding State. The Governor cannot go behind the face of the papers nor behind the facts alleged to constitute a crime, and if these facts, by any reasonable construction, support the charge of crime, the extradition will usually be granted. But it is a solemn proceeding, and one not to be trifled with, and not to be invoked without good cause, nor to be used for the purpose of redressing civil injuries, or for the purpose of harassing the citizens; and where on the face of the affidavit it is plainly evident that no crime has been committed, and that by no possible construction of the facts stated could the matter be punishable as a crime, then it is the duty of the Governor to refuse the extradition.
"In this case the authorities in the demanding State have filed an affidavit setting forth at length the facts alleged to constitute a felony. This paper shows substantially that a general partnership was formed by William Harris and Thomas Woodford, and that pursuant to such business relations certain partnership property came into the possession of Harris; this property he converted to his own use. It is clear that this act constituted no crime under the statutes of West Virginia or the common law there obtaining. The property was general partnership property; the money taken was a general partnership fund, subject to the check of either partner. The partner Harris was properly in possession of the cattle as a part owner. He was also lawfully entitled to the possession of the partnership fund if he saw fit to draw it out and use it. If it be presumed that his story of the robbery is false, and that he deliberately planned to secure possession of the property and money, and did so secure possession of it, and converted it to his own use, yet he has committed no crime. He has simply taken advantage of the trust reposed in him by his partner Woodford, and has done none of those acts essential to a felony. The application must be refused."
"That was my opinion," said the Governor, "but such a great wrong had been done that I hesitated to refuse the extradition."
"Yes," answered the Attorney General, "all the wrong of a serious felony has been done, but no crime has been committed. The machinery of criminal jurisprudence cannot be used for the purpose of redressing civil wrong, the distinction being that, by a fiction of law, crimes are wrongs against the State, and in order to be a crime the offence must be one of those wrongs described by the law as being against the peace and dignity of the State. If, on the other hand, the act be simply a wrong to the citizen and not of the class described as being offences against the State, it is no crime, no matter how injurious it may be or how wrongful to the individual. The entire transaction was a civil matter resulting in injury to the citizen, Woodford, but it is no crime, and is not the proper subject of an extradition."
The Governor turned around in his chair. "James," he said to his private secretary, "return the application for the extradition of William Harris, and say that upon the face of the papers it is plainly evident that no crime has been committed."
The blow which Fate had sought to deliver with such malicious cunning against the confidential clerk of Beaumont, Milton, & Company had been turned aside, and had fallen with all its crushing weight upon the shoulders of another man, five hundred miles to westward, within the jurisdiction of a distant commonwealth.
[The lawyer will at once see that the false making of this paper is no forgery, and that no crime has been committed. See the Virginia case of Foulke in 2 Robinson's Virginia Reports, 836; the case of Jackson vs. Weisiger, 11 Ky. (Monroe Reports), 214; and the later case of Charles Waterman vs. The People, 67 111., 91.]
THE morning paper contained this extravagant personal: "Do not suicide. If you are a non-resident of New York in difficulty, at nine to-night walk east by the corner of the ———— Building with a copy of this paper in your right hand."
The conservative foreigner, unfamiliar with our great dailies, would, perhaps, be surprised that the editor would print such a questionable announcement in his paper, but at this time in New York the personal column had become a very questionable directory, resorted to by all classes of mankind for every conceivable purpose, be it gain, adventure, or even crime; no one thought to question the propriety of such publications. Indeed, no one stopped to consider them at all, unless he happened to be a party in interest.
Afew minutes before the hour mentioned in the above personal, a cab came rattling down ————
Street. The driver wore a fur-cap and a great-coat buttoned up around his ears. As he turned the corner to the ———— Building, he glanced down at his front wheel and brought his horses up with a jerk. There was evidently something wrong with the wheel, for he jumped down from the box to examine it. He shook the wheel, took off the tap, and began to move the hub carefully out toward the end of the axle. As he worked he kept his eyes on the corner. Presently a big, plainly dressed man walked slowly down by the building. He carried a half-open newspaper in his right hand and seemed to be keeping a sharp lookout around him. He stopped for a moment by the carriage, satisfied himself that it was empty, and went on. At the next corner he climbed up on the seat of the waiting patrol wagon and disappeared.
The cabman seemed to be engrossed with the repair of his wheel and gave no indication that he had seen the stranger. Almost immediately thereafter a second man passed the corner with a newspaper in prominent evidence. He was a "hobo" of the most pronounced type and marched by with great difficulty. After he had passed, he turned round and threw the newspaper into the gutter with a volley of curses.
The cabman worked on at his wheel. He had now removed it to the end of the axle and was scraping the boxing with his knife. At this moment a young man wearing a gray overcoat and a gray slouch hat came rapidly down the street. At the corner he put his hand quickly into his overcoat pocket, took out a newspaper, and immediately thrust it into his other pocket. The cabman darted across the street and touched him on the shoulder. The man turned with a quick, nervous start. The cabman took off his cap, said something in a low tone, and pointed to his wheel. The two men crossed to the carriage. The cabman held the axle and the stranger slipped the wheel into place, while the two talked in low tones. When it was done, the stranger turned round, stepped up on the pavement, and hurried on by the building. The cabman shut his door with a bang, climbed up on his box, and drove rapidly down ———— Street.
Parks," said Randolph Mason, taking off his great-coat in the private office, "who wanted to see me at this unusual hour?"
"He was a Philadelphia man, he said, sir," answered the little melancholy clerk.
"Well," said Mason, sharply, "did he expect to die before morning that I should be sent for in the middle of the night?"
"He said that he would leave at six, sir, and must see you as soon as possible, so I thought I had best send for you."
"He is to be here at ten, you say?"
"At ten, sir," answered the little man, going out into the other office and closing the door behind him. When the door was closed, Parks went over to a corner of the room, took up a hackman's overcoat and fur cap, put them into one of the bookcases and locked the sliding top. Then he went quietly out of the room and down the steps to the entrance of the building.
In the private office Randolph Mason walked backward and forward with his hands in his pockets. He was restless and his eyes were bright.
"Another weakling," he muttered, "making puny efforts to escape from Fate's trap, or seeking to slip from under some gin set by his fellows. Surely, the want of resources on the part of the race is utter, is abysmal. What miserable puppets men are! moved backward and forward in Fate's games as though they were strung on a wire and had their bellies filled with sawdust! Yet each one has his problem, and that is the important matter. In these problems one pits himself against the mysterious intelligence of Chance,—against the dread cunning and the fatal patience of Destiny. Ah! these are worthy foemen. The steel grates when one crosses swords with such mighty fencers."
There was a sound as of men conversing in low tones in the outer office. Mason stopped short and turned to the door. As he did so, the door was opened from the outside and a man entered, closed the door behind him, and remained standing with his back against it.
Randolph Mason looked down at the stranger sharply. The man wore a gray suit and gray overcoat; he was about twenty-five, of medium height, with a clean-cut, intelligent face that was peculiar; originally it had expressed an indulgent character of unusual energy. Now it could not be read at all. It was simply that silent, immobile mask so sought after by the high-grade criminal. His face was white, and the perspiration, was standing out on his forehead, indicating that he was laboring under some deep and violent emotion. Yet, with all, his manner was composed and deliberate, and his face gave no sign other than its whiteness; it was calm and expressionless, as the face of the dead.
Randolph Mason dragged a big chair up to his desk, sat down in his office chair and pointed to the other. The stranger came and sat down in the big chair, gripping its arms with his hands, and without introduction or comment began to talk in a jerky, metallic voice.
"This is all waste of time," he said. "You won't help me. There is no reason for my being here. I should have had it over by this time, and yet that would not help her, and she is the only one. It would be the meanest kind of cowardice to leave her to suffer; and yet I dare not live to see her suffer, I could not bear that. I love her too much for that, I——"
"Sir," said Mason, brutally, "this is all irrelevant rant. Come to the point of your difficulty."
The stranger straightened up and passed his hand across his forehead. "Yes," he said, "you are right, sir; it is all rant. I forget where I am. I will be as brief and concise as possible.
"My name is Camden Gerard. I am a gambler by profession. My mother died when I was about ten years old and my father, then a Philadelphia lawyer, found himself with two children, myself and my little sister, a mere baby in arms. He sent me to one of the eastern colleges and put the baby in a convent. Thus things ran on for perhaps ten or twelve years. The evil effect of forcing me into a big college at an early age soon became apparent I came under the influence of a rapid and unscrupulous class and soon became as rapid and unscrupulous as the worst. I went all the paces and gradually became an expert college gambler of such high order that I was able to maintain myself. At about twelve my sister Marie began to show remarkable talent as an artist and my father, following her wishes, took her to Paris and placed her in one of the best art schools of that city. In a short time thereafter my father died suddenly, and it developed after investigation that he had left no estate whatever. I sold the books and other personal effects, and found myself adrift in the world with a few hundred dollars, no business, no profession, and no visible means of support, and, further, I had this helpless child to look after.
"I went to supposed friends of my father and asked them to help me into some business by which I could maintain myself and my little sister. They promised, but put me off with one excuse after another, until I finally saw through their hypocrisy and knew that they never intended to assist me. I felt, indeed, that I was adrift, utterly helpless and friendless, and the result was, that I resorted to my skill as a gambler for the purpose of making a livelihood. For a time fortune favored me, and I lived well, and paid all the college expenses of Marie. I was proud of the child. She was sweet and lovable, and developing into a remarkably handsome girl. About two months ago, my luck turned sharply against me; everything went wrong with long jumps. Night after night I was beaten. Anybody broke me, even the 'tender-feet,' I gathered together every dollar possible and struggled against my bad fortune, but to no purpose. I only lost night after night. In the midst of all, Marie wrote to me for money to pay her quarterly bills. I replied that I would send it in a short time. I pawned everything, begged and borrowed and struggled, and resorted to every trick and resource of my craft; but all was utterly vain and useless. I was penniless and stranded. On the heels of it all, I to-day received another letter from Marie, saying that her bills must be paid by the end of the month, or they would turn her out into the city."
His voice trembled and the perspiration poured out on his forehead. "You know what it means for a helpless young girl to be turned out in Paris," he went on; "I know, and the thought of it makes me insanely desperate. Now," said the man, looking Mason squarely in the eyes, "I have told you all the truth. What am I to do?"
For a time Mason's face took on an air of deep abstraction. "This is Saturday night," he said, as though talking to himself. "You should complete it by Friday. There is time enough."
"Young man," he continued, speaking clearly and precisely, "you are to leave New York for West Virginia to-morrow morning. A messenger boy will meet you at the train, with a package of papers which I shall send. In it you will find full instructions and such things as you will need. These instructions you are to follow to the very letter. Everything will depend on doing exactly as I say, but," he continued, with positive and deliberate emphasis, "this must not fail."
The man arose and drew a deep breath. "It will not fail," he said; "I will do anything to save her from disgrace,—anything." Then he went out.
At the entrance of the building Parks stepped up and touched the stranger on the shoulder. "My friend," he said, "I will bring those papers myself, and I will see that you have sufficient money to carry this thing through. But remember that I am not to be trifled with. You are to come here just as soon as you return."
Shortly before noon on Monday morning, Camden Gerard stepped into the jewelry establishment of William Van Broom, in the city of Wheeling, and asked for the proprietor. That gentleman came forward in no very kindly humor. Upon seeing the well dressed young man, he at once concluded that he was a high-grade jewel drummer, and being a practical business man, he was kindly at sales and surly at purchases.
"This is Mr. Van Broom, I believe," said the young man. "My name is Gerard. I am from New York, sir." Then noticing the jeweller's expression, he added, quickly: "I am not a salesman, sir, and am not going to consume your time. I am in West Virginia on business, and stepped in here to present a letter of introduction which my friend, Bartholdi, insisted upon writing."
The affability of the jeweller returned with a surge. He bowed and beamed sweetly as he broke the seal of the letter of introduction. The paper bore the artistic stamp of Bartholdi and Banks, the great diamond importers, and ran as follows:
"William Van Broom, Esq.,
"Wheeling, West Va.
"Dear Sir:
"This will introduce Mr. Camden Gerard. Kindly show him every possible courtesy, for which we shall be under the greatest obligations.
"Most sincerely your obedient servants,
"Bartholdi and Banks"
The jeweller's eyes opened wide with wonder. He knew this firm to be the largest and most aristocratic dealers in the world. It was much honor, and perhaps vast benefit, to be of service to them, and he was flattered into the seventh heaven.
"I am indeed glad to meet you, sir," he said, seizing the man's hand and shaking it vigorously. "I certainly hope that I can be of service. It is now near twelve; you will come with me to lunch at the club?"
"I thank you very much," answered Camden Gerard, "but I am compelled to go to the Sistersville oil field on the noon train. However, I will return at eight, and shall expect you to dine with me at the hotel."
The jeweller accepted the invitation with ill-concealed delight. The young man thanked him warmly for his kindly interest, bade him good-day, and went out.
That night at eight, Camden Gerard and Mr. William Van Broom dined in the best style the city could afford. The wine was excellent and plentiful, and Gerard proved to be most entertaining. He was brilliant and considerate to such a degree, that when the two men parted for the night the jeweller assured himself that he had never met a more delightful companion.
The following morning Camden Gerard dropped into the store for a few moments, and while conversing with his friend Van Broom, noticed a little ring in the show window. He remarked on its beauty, and intimated that he must purchase a birthday present for his little daughter. The jeweller took the ring from the case and handed it to Gerard. That gentleman discovered that it was far prettier than he had at first imagined it, and inquired the price.
"It is marked at twenty-five dollars," said the jeweller.
"Why," said Camden Gerard, "that is very cheap; I will take it."
The jeweller wrapped up the ring and gave it to the New Yorker. That gentleman paid the money and returned to his hotel.
The next day Camden Gerard was presumably down in the great Tyler County oil field. At any rate he returned to the city on the evening train and dined with Van Broom at the club. As the evening waned, the men grew confidential. Gerard spoke of the vast fortunes that were made in oil. He said that the West Virginia fields were scarce half developed, but that they had already attracted the attention of the great Russian companies and that gigantic operations might be soon expected. He denounced the autocratic policy of the Czar in regard to oil transportation, and hinted vaguely at vast international combines. He spoke of St. Petersburg and the larger Russian cities; of the manners and customs of the nobility; of their vast fortunes, and their very great desire to invest in America. He intimated vaguely that there now existed in New York a colossal syndicate backed by unlimited Russian capital, but he gave the now excited and curious jeweller no definite information concerning himself or his business in West Virginia, shrewdly leaving Van Broom to draw his own inferences.
It was late when William Van Broom retired to his residence. He was happy and flattered, and with reason. Had he not been selected by the great firm of Bartholdi & Banks to counsel with one who, he strongly suspected, was the private agent of princes?
About two o'clock on the following Thursday afternoon, Mr. Camden Gerard called upon William Van Broom and said that he wished to speak with him in his private office. The New Yorker was soiled and grimy, and had evidently just come from a train, but he was smiling and in high spirits.
When the two men were alone in the private office, Camden Gerard took a roll of paper from his pocket, and turned to Van Broom. "Here are some papers," he said, speaking low that he might not be overheard. "I have no secure place to put them, and I would be under great obligations to you if you would kindly lock them up in your safe."
"Certainly," said the jeweller, taking the papers and crossing to the safe. He threw back the door and pulled out one of the little boxes. It contained an open leather case in which there was a magnificent diamond necklace.
"By George!" said Camden Gerard, "those are splendid stones."
"Yes," answered Van Broom, taking out the case and handing it to the New Yorker. "They are too valuable for my trade; I am going to return them."
Camden Gerard carried the necklace to the light and examined it critically. The stones were not large but they were clear and flawless.
"What are these worth?" he said, turning to Van Broom.
"Thirty-five hundred dollars," answered the jeweller.
"What!" cried Gerard, "only thirty-five hundred dollars for this necklace? It is the cheapest thing I ever saw. You are away under the foreign dealers."
"They are cheap," said Van Broom. "That is almost the wholesale price."
"But," said Camden Gerard, "you must be mistaken. Your mark is certainly wrong. I have seen smaller stones in the Russian shops for double the price."
"We can't sell the necklace at that figure," said Van Broom, smiling. "We are not such sharks as your foreign dealers."
"If you mean that," said Camden Gerard, "I will buy these jewels here and now. I had intended purchasing something in the east for my wife, but I can never do better than this."
The New Yorker took out his pocket-book and handed Van Broom a bill. "Before you retract," he said, "here is fifty to seal the bargain. Get your hat and come with me to the bank."
"All right," said Mr. Van Broom, taking the money. "The necklace is yours, my friend." Camden Gerard closed the leather case and put it into his pocket. The jeweller locked the safe, put on his hat, and the two went out of the store and down the street to the banking house of the Mechanics' Trust Company. Mr. Gerard enquired for the cashier. The teller informed him that the cashier was in the back room of the bank and if he would step back he could see him. The New Yorker asked his companion to wait for a moment until he spoke with the cashier. Then he went back into the room indicated by the teller, closing the door after him.
The cashier sat at a table engaged with a pile of correspondence. He was busy and looked up sharply as the man entered.
"Sir," said the New Yorker, "have you received a sealed package from the Adams Express Company consigned to one Camden Gerard?"
"No," answered the cashier, turning to his work.
"You have not?" repeated Gerard, excitedly, "then I will run down to the telegraph office and see what is the matter." Thereupon he crossed hurriedly to the side door of the office, opened it and stepped out into the street. The cashier went on with his work.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour William Van Broom waited for his companion to conclude his business with the cashier. Finally he grew impatient and asked the teller to remind Mr. Gerard that he was waiting. The teller returned in a moment and said that the gentleman had gone to the telegraph office some time ago. The jeweller's heart dropped like a lead plummet. He turned without a word and hurried to the office of the Western Union. Here his fears were confirmed, Camden Gerard had not been in the office. He ran across the street to the hotel and enquired for the New Yorker. The clerk informed him that the gentleman had paid his bill and left the hotel that morning. The jeweller's anxiety was at fever heat, but with all he was a man of business method and knew the very great value of silence. He called a carriage, went to the chief of police, and set his machinery in motion. Returning to his place of business he opened the safe and took out the package of papers which Camden Gerard had given him. Upon examination this proved to be simply a roll of blank oil leases. Then remembering the letter of introduction, he telegraphed to Bartholdi & Banks. Hours passed and not the slightest trace of Camden Gerard could be found. The presumed friend of the great diamond importers had literally vanished from the face of the earth.
About four o'clock the jeweller received an answer from Bartholdi & Banks, stating that they knew no such man as Camden Gerard and that his letter of introduction was false. Mr. William Van Broom was white with despair. He put the letter and answer into his pocket and went at once to the office of the prosecuting attorney for the State and laid the whole matter before him.
"My dear sir," said that official, when Mr. Van Broom had finished his story, "your very good friend Camden Gerard owes you thirty-four hundred and fifty dollars, which he will perhaps continue to owe. You may as well go back to your business."
"What do you mean?" said the jeweller.
"I mean," replied the attorney, "that you have been the dupe of a shrewd knave who is familiar with the weak places in the law and has resorted to an ingenious scheme to secure possession of your property without rendering himself liable to criminal procedure. It is true that if the diamonds were located you could attach and recover them by a civil suit, but it is scarcely possible that such a shrewd knave would permit himself to be caught with the jewels, and it is certain that he has some reasonably safe method by which he can dispose of them without fear of detection. He has trapped you and has committed no crime. If you had the fellow in custody now, the judge would release him the moment an application was made. The entire matter was only a sale. He bought the jewels and you trusted him. He is no more a law-breaker than you are. He is only a sharper dealer."
"But, sir," cried the angry Van Broom, spreading the false letter out on the table, "that is forged, every word of it. I will send this fellow to the penitentiary for forgery. I will spend a thousand dollars to catch him."
"If you should spend a thousand dollars to catch him," said the attorney, smiling, "you would never be able to send him to the penitentiary on that paper. It is not forgery."
"Not forgery!" shouted the jeweller, "not forgery, man! The rascal wrote every word of that letter. He signed the name of Bartholdi & Banks at the bottom of it. Every word of that paper is false. The company never heard of it. Here is their telegram."
"Mr. Van Broom," said the public prosecutor, "listen to me, sir. All that you say is perhaps true. Camden Gerard doubtless wrote the entire paper and signed the name of Bartholdi & Banks, and presented it to you for a definite purpose. To such an act men commonly apply the term forgery, and in the common acceptation of the word it is forgery and a reprehensible wrong; but legally, the false making of such a paper as this is not forgery and is no crime. In order to constitute the crime of forgery, the instrument falsely made must be apparently capable of effecting a fraud, of being used to the prejudice of another's right. It must be such as might be of legal efficacy, or might be the foundation of some legal liability.
"This paper in question, although falsely made, has none of the vital elements of forgery under the law. If genuine, it would have no legal validity, as it affects no legal rights. It would merely be an attempt to receive courtesies on a promise, of no legal obligation, to reciprocate them; and courtesies have never been held to be the subject of legal fraud. This is a mere letter of introduction, which, by no possibility, could subject the supposed writer to any pecuniary loss or legal liability. It is not a subject of forgery, and its false making is no crime.
"Men commonly believe that all writings falsely made or falsely altered are forgeries. There was never a greater error. Forgery may be committed only of those instruments in writing which, if genuine, would, or might appear as the foundation of another man's liability, or the evidence of his right. All wrongful and injurious acts are not punished by the law. Wrongs to become crimes must measure up to certain definite and technical standards. These standards are laid down rigidly by the law and cannot be contracted or expanded. They are fixed and immutable. The act done must fit closely into the prescribed measure, else it is no crime. If it falls short, never so little, in any one vital element, the law must, and will, disregard it as criminal, no matter how injurious, or wrongful, or unjust it may be. The law is a rigid and exact science."
Mr. William Van Broom dropped his hands to his sides and gazed at the lawyer in wonder.
"These facts," continued the attorney, in his clear, passionless voice, "are matters of amazement to the common people when brought to their attention. They fail to see the wise but technical distinctions. They are willing to trust to what they are pleased to call common-sense, and, falling into traps laid by the cunning villain, denounce the law for impotency."
"Well," said the jeweller, as he arose and put on his overcoat, "what is the good of the law anyhow?"
The prosecuting attorney smiled wearily. To him the wisdom of the law was clear, beautiful, and superlatively just. To the muddy-headed tradesman it was as color to the blind.