CHAPTER VITHE VERDICT
Sototally unexpected had been the dénouement that for a few seconds the spectators sat stunned; then pandemonium broke loose. It was only after the coroner threatened to clear the rooms that quiet was restored.
“Such violence is unnecessary,” said he, addressing Gordon.
“I—I—beg pardon,” the young officer spoke with an effort. “Your statement was so utterly unbelievable, so astounding that I forgot myself.”
“It is absolutely true, and can be proved by Doctor Davis and Detective Hardy, who was present when the doctor found the ring. Mrs. Trevor’s hand was so tightly clenched that he had to exert his strength to force it open. Can you explain its presence there?”
He gazed intently at Gordon, but the latter had his emotions under control, and his face was expressionless, as he answered with perfect composure:
“I cannot, sir.”
“Where were you on Wednesday night, last?”
“I dined at the Metropolitan Club with Lieutenant James Raymond. We went later to the Bachelors’ Cotillion.”
The coroner held a whispered conversation with his clerk, then turned to the witness.
“Will you kindly withdraw to the waiting room, Mr. Gordon; but don’t leave the house, as I wish to call you again to the stand.”
Gordon nodded silently to Dick Tillinghast and several other friends as he left the room.
The next witness was Lieutenant Raymond. His testimony was very brief. Yes, he and Lieutenant-Commander Gordon had dined together on Wednesday night. They had left the Club about half past nine as he, Raymond, was a member of the Committee and had to go early to the New Willard. No, Mr. Gordondid not accompany him to the hotel; but had left him at the corner of 17th and H Streets, saying he had to return to his rooms at the Benedict, but would go to the dance later on. Gordon did not enter the ballroom until just after supper, which was served at midnight.
“Are you positive of that?” asked the coroner.
“Absolutely positive, because I had to get a temporary partner for Miss Underhill, who was to have danced the cotillion with Mr. Gordon.”
“How long a time would it take for Mr. Gordon to go from 17th and H Streets to his apartment?”
“About five minutes.”
“And how long would it take him to get from his apartment at the Benedict to the New Willard?”
“Seven minutes if he went in the cars, and fifteen minutes if he walked.”
Lieutenant Raymond was then excused, and after his departure Detective Hardy was called to the witness chair. He gave a brief résuméof all that took place after the murder was discovered.
“Did you find any trace of the end of the weapon?” asked the coroner.
“No, sir. I turned the whole place inside out, but could find nothing. The only clue I had to go upon was the ring which we found in Mrs. Trevor’s hand. I saw at a glance that it was a naval class ring, so I at once went to the Navy Department. There I looked through the register of Annapolis graduates, and found that two men in that class had the two initials ‘D. G.’—Donald Gordon and Daniel Green. The latter is stationed at Mare Island, California. That eliminated him, so I went to Mr. Gordon’s quarters at the Benedict Apartment House.” He paused.
“Go on,” ordered the coroner. “Tell your story in your own way.”
The jury to a man were leaning across the table, regarding the detective with deep interest.
“The janitor there is a friend of mine, so he let me into Mr. Gordon’s apartment, whichis on the second floor, with his pass key. I searched his rooms thoroughly, but could find nothing. Then I went through his personal belongings. In the inner pocket of his overcoat, I found a few pieces of a torn note.
“It didn’t take me long to fit the words together. I then pasted them all on a sheet of note paper. Here, you can see for yourselves.”
He drew out his pocketbook as he spoke, and removed from it a sheet of paper on which were pasted scraps torn in different shapes, and handed it to the coroner. After one startled glance, the coroner read the contents aloud.
“Come—Wedn—half—elev—must—you—for—leav—New Yor—“Hélène de—T—”
“Come—Wedn—half—elev—must—you—for—leav—New Yor—
“Hélène de—T—”
Without a word of comment, the coroner handed the paper to the jurymen, who eagerly scanned it.
“Have you any further evidence to give to the jury?”
“No, sir.”
“That is all, then, Hardy. You are excused. Bayne,” to his clerk, “recall Mr. Gordon.”
Gordon was walking impatiently up and down the smaller room, eager to be gone, and he answered the summons with alacrity.
“Mr. Gordon, where were you between the hours of nine thirtyP.M.and midnight on Wednesday last?”
“I decline to state.”
“Tut! We know you called to see Mrs. Trevor at eleven thirty that night.”
“Indeed, and may I ask who your informant is?”
The coroner paid no attention to the interruption, but went steadily on with his examination.
“Did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”
Silence.
The coroner repeated his question.
Still no reply.
“Come, sir; you must answer. Yes, or no?”
Gordon stirred uneasily in his chair. “Iwas in my rooms at the Benedict until I left to go to the ball,” he said.
“Was anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone see you leave the Benedict?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Then he added quickly, “At least, there may have been some of the other tenants around, or perhaps the janitor; I never noticed in my hurry.”
“Mr. Gordon—” the coroner’s manner was abrupt and stern—“do you see these pieces?” He took up the sheet from the table. “They are apparently torn from a letter of Mrs. Trevor’s to you, making an appointment to see you here on Wednesday night at eleven thirty. These scraps were found in your overcoat pocket. Again I ask, did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”
Gordon glanced at the sheet and recognized the handwriting. His mouth closed in a hard line, and he grew perceptibly paler. He straightened his broad shoulders, and faced the jury squarely, saying:
“I refuse to incriminate myself.”
In the dead silence the scratching of the stenographer’s pen could be heard plainly.
“You may retire,” said the coroner.
With perfect self-possession, Gordon left the room.
The coroner’s summing up of the case was short and to the point. As soon as he finished, the jury left the room to deliberate.
The hands of the ormolu clock on the mantel had gone five times around its dial, but there was no thinning out of the crowd. The majority of the spectators had attended the inquest out of friendship for the Trevors, others had been brought there by morbid curiosity; but none had expected such an outcome to the investigation. Now, in silence and nervous apprehension they waited for the return of the jury. The tension was snapped by their reappearance. The coroner rose and addressed them.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
“The jury find,” answered the foreman, “that Mrs. Hélène de Beaupré Trevor came toher death on the night of Wednesday, February 3rd, 19—, in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, from a wound inflicted by Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon.”