TOM GRANGER had been in Eastcaster gaol about an hour, when Will Gaines came to see him.
Since the click of the lock that shut him in his cell as a murderer had sounded in his ears, a calmness and a peace almost akin to happiness had fallen upon his spirit. This may sound strange, but there are periods, in times of trouble and grief, when the soul is relaxed from its tension of pain, and quietude comes for the time being. Tom’s brain was as clear as crystal, and he reviewed his position with a keenness that surprised himself He saw that the evidence was strong against him—damningly strong. As he walked up and down his cell, thinking over all that the witnesses had said—and he seemed to remember every word—he felt as though he were shut in by a wall of evidence that he could never hope to break through. But, though realizing all this, he had none of that anxiety regarding it, that it would have seemed natural for him to feel; it was almost as though these things concerned another person.
So he walked up and down his cell, going overall that had passed in the squire’s office. Of a sudden, a flaw in a certain part of the evidence struck him; it was but a small thing, but it was sufficient to arouse a new thought within him. Then he stood quite still in the middle of the cell, looking down upon the floor, and sunk in meditation, for his mind was busy in following up point after point of this thought, as a hound follows up the scent of game that it has freshly started.
How long he stood there I do not know, but he was aroused at last by the opening of the door of his cell, and Will Gaines came in to him. Will did not say a word; neither did he look at Tom, but he flung his hat and cloak despondingly upon the table.
“Sit down, Will,” said Tom, “take that chair; I’ll sit here on the edge of the cot.”
“Thank’ee,” said Will, “I will sit down, if you don’t mind. I’m kind of tired and fagged out.”
“How did you leave mother and Susan?” said Tom, after a moment or two of silence had passed.
“Oh, pretty well. Of course, your mother is very troubled at what has occurred, but, on the whole, she bears it better than I could have hoped for. She believes that you’re innocent.”
“She’s right.”
Will heaved a sigh. “I hope she is,” said he.
“Thank’ee,” said Tom, a little grimly, and then the talk lapsed between them again.
“Tom,” said Will, breaking the silence, “your father has engaged me to act as your attorney inthis matter. The Lord knows, I wish I had more experience. I haven’t always worked as hard as I might have done, and now, when it has fallen to my lot to have to defend the brother of the girl that I hope to marry from a charge of murder, it seems likely that I’ll have to pay a bitter price for all the time that I have wasted. However, I’ll go to Philadelphia to-morrow and see Mr. Fargio, and get him to take up your case. I’ve come to talk over the matter with you, Tom.”
“Wait a minute, Will. I have a question to ask you, first. Do you believe me guilty?”
Will Gaines looked fixedly out of the window of the cell, but he did not answer. Tom smiled a little sadly.
“I think I know how you feel about it, without the asking, Will,” said he. “Now, do you think that I’d have a man defend me who didn’t believe that I was innocent?”
“Of course; you’d have to have some one to defend you.”
“I don’t see that. If I really was guilty of this thing, it seems to me that I ought to be punished as the law calls for. However, that is neither here nor there, for I hope to make you believe in my innocence before you quit this cell.”
“I wish to Heaven you could,” said Will, but his tone was rather gloomy than hopeful.
“Well, I’ll have a try at it. In the first place, I’ll have to ask you whether you think that I’m the kind of man that would murder another in cold blood?”
“Of course I don’t believe that,” said Will.
“You don’t think that I’m capable of lying in wait for Isaac Naylor, and deliberately killing him—not in heat of passion, but with a cool hand?”
“Certainly not. You don’t think that I’d believe such a thing of you as that, do you?”
“Then, if I had killed him, I would have been in a rage, and hardly conscious of what I was doing?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I think that I can easily convince you that I didn’t do it at all.”
“I wish you could,” said Will, again.
“Do you believe what I told you up home, about meeting Isaac Naylor, and fighting with him?”
Will nodded his head.
“If I’d killed him at all, I would have killed him then, and in that struggle, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Now, Dr. Winterapple affirmed before the magistrate that only one blow had been given, and that that blow was immediately behind and under the right ear.”
Will was looking very earnestly at Tom. “I heard his evidence before the coroner’s jury,” said he.
“Well, I’m right, ain’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Where are your wits, man? How could I strike him in the back part of the head, and under the right ear, if I struck him while he was fighting me off, as he must have been doing under thecircumstances? Look here; suppose you and I are facing one another, so—I have a club in my hand to strike you with; I couldn’t possibly reach you to strike you where Isaac received the blow that finished him. If I were to strike you a blow in a moment of fury, it would be on the top or on the left side of the head. It would be impossible to strike you on the right side, without I were left handed.”
“Tom,” said Will, “I hadn’t thought of that—what a fool I have been.”
“Well, I suppose you didn’t think of it,” said Tom, “but I don’t see that that makes a fool of you.”
“You’ve made a great point,” said Will; “I see now; of course you couldn’t.”
“Wait a bit,” said Tom, “you’re going too fast, now. Any one, except a friend, who wanted to believe in my innocence, would say that Isaac might have broken away from me, and have run. If I’d struck him while he was running away, I’d have given him just such a blow as killed him.”
“That’s true.”
“But, if he’d tried to run away from me, he’d have run in the beaten track, and not in the grass and briars along the roadside. Now, he was found lying in the grass just as he had fallen, and surely, it isn’t likely that if I had struck him down in the middle of the road, I would afterward have dragged him into the grass. My first instinct, after I had done the deed, would be to run away, and leavehim lying where he was. He was sitting on the ‘big stone’ when he was struck, and he fell forward just where Ephraim Whiteley found him.”
So Tom ended and stood looking at Will. Will said nothing at first, but at last he spoke.
“Tom,” said he, drawing a deep breath, “I am more thankful to you than I can tell; you have lifted a great load off my mind. I don’t think that I ever fully believed that you were guilty of this thing, but, I was afraid—I was afraid. The evidence was strong against you—you did meet Isaac Naylor, according to your own confession, and you kept that meeting secret from every one. You had just seen Patty, and had heard all, and I know that you must have been half crazy with it. I believe in your innocence now, but the circumstances were very strong against you.”
“Yes; they were, Will,” said Tom; “you had good reason to suspect me; nevertheless, I own freely, I felt kind of cut up when I saw what you thought. Even this that I’ve just said to you, wouldn’t go for much, only that you are ready and anxious to believe me. It wouldn’t weigh a moment with a jury.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
Tom made no answer to this last speech; he took a turn or two up and down his cell, and then stopped suddenly in front of the other.
“You believe I’m innocent now, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Firmly?”
“Firmly.”
“And you won’t think that anything further that I may say to you’ll be for the purpose of throwing the blame off my own shoulders and upon those of another man?”
“No.”
“Then I believe I know who it was that did kill Isaac Naylor.”
“Who?” said Will, almost breathlessly.
Tom looked him in the eyes for a moment or two before he spoke.
“Edmund Moor,” said he, quietly.
For a time Will glared at him with wide-opened eyes and mouth. “Tom,” said he, at last, in a low voice, “what makes you say such a thing as that? What leads you to make so horrible an accusation against such a man as Mr. Moor?”
“That horrible accusation was made against me.”
“But the circumstances were strong against you.”
“I think the circumstances are strong against him.”
“I don’t see it.”
Tom sat down on the edge of the table facing the other. “Look here, Will;” said he, “suppose that a man bearing testimony against another accused of murder should give evidence that was faulty in nearly every point; wouldn’t your first thought be that he knew more of the real story than he was inclined to tell, and that he was willing to let the accused suffer for it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what Mr. Moor did; you didn’t hear his evidence before the magistrate, but I did, and what’s more, I remember every word of it. This is what he said: That he was riding out the turnpike for pleasure, and that he saw Isaac Naylor turn into Penrose’s road; that he stopped his horse to water it at the shallow beside the bridge; that he saw me run out of the mill road and up the turnpike, and that he did not know who I was; that he heard no sound of any kind to make him suspect that something was going wrong; that he thought nothing more about Isaac Naylor, but went along the turnpike without looking up the road where Isaac had gone. Now, Will, is there nothing that strikes you as strange in all that?”
“Well, no; I can’t see anything strange in it. It sounds straightforward enough to me.”
“It sounds straightforward enough, Will, but it won’t bear looking into. When a man invents a story, it may seem to be reasonable enough, but, you may depend upon it, it’s not sound in all it’s parts, and must give way somewheres. The first thing that struck me as strange in this was a small matter enough, but it set me to thinking. Mr. Moor’s horse was standing in the shallow beside the bridge when I ran out into the turnpike. Now, in thinking the matter over, it occurred to me that, if I was out riding for pleasure, and my horse was fresh from the stable, I wouldn’t stop within three quarters of a mile from home to water it; would you?”
Will was gazing fixedly into Tom’s eyes; he made no answer to the question, but he shook his head.
“That, as I say, was the first thing that struck me; it was a little thing, but it set me athinking, and I began to wonder why Mr. Moor should have stopped his horse. The day wasn’t warm enough to make it any pleasure to drive through a shallow; one wouldn’t think of doing such a thing on a cool autumn day. So I began turning things over and over in my mind and, after a while, the whole story went to pieces, like a card house when you take away one of the cards. Now, I think I can prove to you from Mr. Moor’s own evidence before the magistrate, that he was within three hundred yards of Isaac Naylor and me during the whole time that we were together, and that he saw all that passed between us. Mr. Moor said that he saw Isaac Naylor turn into the mill road. To do that, he must have been pretty well down the hill or he couldn’t have seen him for the trees; he couldn’t have been over five hundred yards away from him, could he?”
Will shook his head.
“Now, Isaac Naylor walked about two or three hundred yards down the mill road before he met me, and there’s where he was found the next morning—killed. While he walked that three hundred yards, Mr. Moor, on horseback, could easily have covered the five hundred yards between the spot from where he saw him to the place where the mill road opens into the turnpike, so that hecould have come up to the opening of the road just about the time that Isaac Naylor met me. Now,” said Tom, patting the edge of the table upon which he was sitting to give force to that which he was saying, “is it reasonable that I could have talked to Isaac Naylor, have fought with him and have killed him, and then have run the three hundred yards to the turnpike while Mr. Moor sat on his horse watering it at the shallow? Is it reasonable, say?”
“No,” said Will, “it’s not.” He seemed half dazed with that which Tom was telling him, but Tom saw that he was following him, and that was all that he wanted.
“Now, here’s another point. According to this, he was within three hundred yards of the scene of the murder at the very time that the murder was being done, and yet, by his evidence, he didn’t hear a single sound. Now, Isaac Naylor called for help while I was fighting with him—and called twice, and yet Mr. Moor, though it is clear that he was so near to us, heard nothing of it.”
Will rose from his chair and began walking excitedly up and down the room. Tom watched him for a while in silence. “Have I made my meaning clear to you?” said he, at last.
“Clear? Yes—yes; of course you’ve made it clear.”
“I’ve more to say yet,” said Tom, “and when you’ll sit down and listen coolly, I’ll go on.”
Then Will sat down in his chair again without a word.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr. Moor said that when he had done watering his horse, he rode on up the turnpike. The horse wasn’t drinking when I saw it. I ran on up the road, but I stopped before I got to the crest of the hill, for my breath gave out. I walked the rest of the way, which was about half a mile, to the homestead. Now, I take it, a man on horseback could have passed me, even if I’d run all the way. But Mr. Moor didn’t pass me, and there was no sign of him when I turned into the lane; so he did not ride on up the pike as he said he did. Neither did he turn back home, for no man would turn back from a pleasure ride after he had gone only three quarters of a mile. Will, how many roads are there between Stonybrook bridge and father’s house?”
“Only one.”
“And that is—”
“Penrose’s road.”
“Will,” said Tom, leaning forward, looking into the other’s eyes and speaking very slowly, “when I left Edmund Moor he rode up Penrose’s road.”
“Tom! Tom!” cried Will Gaines, springing to his feet, “this is incredible!”
“Incredible! Doesn’t it sound reasonable?”
“Yes, yes; only too reasonable!” Then he began walking up and down. Suddenly he stopped in front of Tom. “Who would have thought,” said he, “that such a quiet, dull-seeming fellow as you,Tom Granger, would have thought out all this for yourself!”
“I don’t see anything wonderful in my thinking the matter out, considering that my own life and the happiness of all belonging to me are concerned in my thinking. But, I haven’t done yet. According to my certain knowledge, Mr. Moor did not ride up the turnpike; therefore he must have turned up Penrose’s road, for there was no other. Now, if I’d killed Isaac Naylor, he’d found him lying there, even if he’d heard no sound to make him suspect anything. If he’d found Isaac Naylor alive and left him alive, one word from him would have been enough to have cleared me. He said no word, therefore he wished the blame to rest upon me; he wished the blame to rest upon me, therefore he had something that he wished to hide. Without he was concerned in the affair he would want to hide nothing. If hewasconcerned in it, he was concerned in it alone, for there was no one but him near enough to hear Isaac call for help; if there had been they would have come. Yesterday afternoon, when I came to Eastcaster in the stage, I saw Mr. Moor and Isaac Naylor looking out of Moor’s office window; if nothing had happened since, I don’t know that I would have thought anything of it, but, in looking back now, I tell you that there was something wrong between them; there was a look about them—the way in which they were standing, the expression of their faces, that makes me feel that I am right in what I say. When I ranout into the road after leaving Isaac Naylor, Mr. Moor’s face was as white as wax, now—” here Tom paused abruptly and began walking restlessly up and down the cell. After a while he stopped and stood in the middle of the room. He looked out of the window and not at Will when he spoke again.
“Will,” said he, solemnly, “I don’t know what has come over me; I don’t know whether it’s the state of mind that I’m in or not, but I can see the way that Isaac Naylor was killed—at least, I think I can—as clearly as though I had second sight. God forgive me if I’m wrong, but this is how I see it in my mind’s eye. I don’t know why Mr. Moor was riding along the turnpike just at that time, but I believe that it was to see and speak to Isaac Naylor again. However that may be, hewasriding along the pike, and came to the end of the mill road where it opens upon the highway. There he saw Isaac talking to me and he stopped, either because what he wanted to say to Isaac was to be said in private, or because he knew me and wanted to see what would come of our talk. He saw me attack Isaac and heard him call for help, but he didn’t come to him because he’d hoped I’d kill him. That was why he was so white when I saw him a minute or two later. When he saw me leave Isaac Naylor and run up the road, he backed his horse into the water so as to make it seem as though he was just giving it a drink. I don’t believe that he would have any settled plan for doing this; it would be his instinctto do it. When he saw that Isaac was about to escape after all, he rode up to where he was sitting on the rock. Maybe they exchanged a few words; maybe he just picked up the stake and struck him where he sat, half dazed. I guess his mind must have been all in a toss and ferment at what he had seen me about to do, and the thought flashed through him, why shouldn’t he finish what he had seen me begin? I would be the one suspected, for all the circumstances would point to me, and I had come within a hair’s breadth of doing the deed myself. After he had struck Isaac and saw him lying in the grass, he realized what he had done, then he turned and mounted his horse and rode away. I think that this is so, because there was only one blow given, and Dr. Winterapple said in his evidence that he didn’t believe that it killed him right away; if Moor had coolly intended to kill Isaac, he would have made sure of it. This is my notion of what happened; of course, I may be mistaken in it.”
Tom turned as he ended, and looked at Will; the other was gazing intently at him.
At last Will spoke: “I—I follow your thoughts, Tom. It all sounds reasonable enough, but I must have time to think it over. I—I can’t believe it, somehow.”
“I don’t wonder at that,” said Tom, “beside, it’s only my own notion of it. Some one did kill Isaac Naylor, and it is clear that he was killed soon after I left him, for he never got to Elihu Penrose’shouse, and he was found dead just where I left him. It only remains now to find out who it was. In my opinion, the most likely one to have done it was Mr. Moor. We must set about finding out several things, and that I depend on your doing.”
“I’ll do all that I can,” said Will.
“Very well, then; we’ll throw aside all that I’ve said, as to my notion of how it was done, and set to work, with the point given that Mr. Moor might have been the one that did the murder. The first thing to find out, is whether he had cause for the act. If there was no cause, of course, everything falls to the ground. Who is Isaac Naylor’s lawyer?”
“White & Tenny, I think.”
“Then the first thing to find, is whether Mr. Moor was tangled in some business trouble with Isaac; can you do that?”
“I don’t know; I’ll try.”
“The next thing to find out, is whether Mr. Moor really was sick yesterday morning. If he was not sick, he didn’t take a ride for his health, and must have taken it on business. If he had any business, it concerned Isaac Naylor, for he followed Isaac, and went no where else, according to my notion. The third thing to do, is to find what time he got back home yesterday afternoon, and what he did after he came home. Each one of these things hangs on the other.”
Will sat in silence for a long time. At last he stood up. “Tom,” said he, and his tones were serious, almost solemn, “as I said before, all this isreasonable, and is wonderfully thought out I won’t say off-hand that I think Mr. Moor did kill Isaac Naylor, but I’ll say this,—I think hemighthave done it. I’ll see what I can find out from White & Tenny—that I can manage myself. As to Mr. Moor’s private movements, we’ll have to put some one on the track of them that’s used to hunting up evidence. When I was studying law with Mr. Fargio, in Philadelphia, he had a fellow named Daly, whom he employed in the case of Smithersvs.Black. He’s a clever hand at ferreting out this kind of evidence, and I’ll get him to run down here and see what he can make out of this. The only trouble with him, is that he drinks, but I guess I can contrive to keep him sober till we’ve found out all we want to know. And now I’ll have to leave you, Tom, for I must set about my part of the business. Though it’s hard for me to believe that Mr. Moor was concerned in this—I’ll say this, Idon’tbelieve that you did it; you’ve convinced me that far. I’ll say, too, that your reasoning against Moor is very strong.”
“If you’ll wait a minute, Will, I’ll drop a line to Patty, and get you to take it to her,” said Tom. “Of course, you’ll keep secret all that’s been said between us. You may tell the home folks, but don’t let it go any further.”
“Of course, I won’t.”
Then, while Will walked up and down the floor of the cell, Tom sat down and wrote his letter to Patty. He represented his case very much as hehad done to Will Gaines, and spoke cheerfully and hopefully of his position.
He did not tell her anything about Mr. Moor; he felt that it would be better not to do so, for her father might chance to see the letter, and it behooved them to keep the matter as quiet as possible.
Then he folded the letter and gave it to Will, who left the cell without a word, but with a firm grip of the hand at parting.
IT was not until the next day at noon that Will Gaines came to see Tom again; in the meantime, Tom’s father and his brother John had visited him. They had a long talk together, and, when they left, they seemed hopeful, and even cheerful. Will Gaines had told them of the suspicion that Tom held against Mr. Moor. Tom repeated to them what he had said the day before, and it seemed to them to be almost unanswerable.
When Will came in about noon, Tom saw, at once, that he was very much excited. He flung himself down in the chair, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“What’s the matter, Will?” said he, after waiting for a while, and seeing that there was no immediate prospect of his friend breaking the silence.
“Tom,” burst out Will, “if everything that you’ve thought out in this case is as true as that which I have just heard, I’ll acknowledge that you are a most wonderful reasoner.”
“What have you learned?”
“I’ve just seen Sheriff Mathers.”
“Well?”
“Well, to begin at the beginning, I went down to White & Tenny’s office yesterday, but didn’t find either of them in. Their clerk was there, and said that they wouldn’t be back till some time to-day. I was just going down to their office a little while ago, when I met Sheriff Mathers in front of theCrown and Angel. He stopped me and began asking me about your case; or rather about Isaac Naylor’s death. I was just on the point of leaving him, when he dropped out that it was a lucky thing for some one in this town, that Isaac died when he did. You may guess how this caught my ear, for there was a deal of meaning in the sheriff’s tone. I began inquiring about the matter, but he didn’t give me very much satisfaction; he said that this concerned another party entirely, and hadn’t anything to do with the murder.
“‘Oh! it’s about Edmund Moor, is it?’ said I, as easily as I could speak.
“‘How did you know that?’ said he; ‘What do you know about the business?’
“Well, to make a long story short, after talking to him a good while, I found that Isaac Naylor had held a judgment against Moor (for how much I don’t know), and was about to put the sheriff on him. The judgment was to be lodged in the sheriff’s hands the very day that Isaac was killed. What do you think of that, Tom?”
There was silence for some time; Tom’s heart was thumping against his ribs so that he could hardly breathe. However, he spoke as quietly ashe could. “I fancied that there must be something of the kind,” said he.
Will eyed him for a moment or two, “You seem to take it monstrously cool,” said he, at last.
Tom made no answer to this speech; after a while he asked Will when he was going to send for the man Daly, of whom he had spoken the day before.
“I have sent for him,” said Will. “I wrote a note to Mr. Fargio yesterday, and urged haste in it. I shouldn’t be surprised if Daly would be here in to-morrow’s stage.”
Daly did come in the stage the next afternoon. It was about five o’clock when the turnkey brought a man to Tom’s cell whom he had never seen before. “Mr. Gaines told me to bring you this letter,” said the man, handing Tom a note as he spoke; then Tom knew that it was Daly.
“Can’t you leave us a little while?” said Tom to the turnkey.
Will’s note ran thus:
“Dear Tom:“This is Daly of whom I spoke to you the other day. I thought better to introduce you to him thus than to come with him myself. You had better tell him everything concerning the case, just as you told me. I think you may trust him.“W. W. Gaines.”
“This is Daly of whom I spoke to you the other day. I thought better to introduce you to him thus than to come with him myself. You had better tell him everything concerning the case, just as you told me. I think you may trust him.
“W. W. Gaines.”
Tom looked at Daly as he folded Will’s note. I cannot say that he took very much fancy to the man. He was short, rather fat and bow-legged. He had a large, heavy face, with a bluish growth of beard about the lips and chin and cheeks. Hishead sat close upon his shoulders, and was covered with a mat of close-cropped hair. He had a sly hang-dog look, and anything but a pleasant expression. So Tom, sitting on the edge of the table where he had been reading Will’s note, looked at Daly, and Daly stood returning the look out of the corners of his eyes.
“So you’re John Daly, are you?” said Tom, at last.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Gaines says, in this note, that I may tell you everything.”
“Well, I think you’d better.”
“Sit down.”
“Thank’ee; got a spitpatoon here?”
“There’s one.”
After using the spittoon, the fellow pushed it over beside the chair with his foot. Then he sat down comfortably. “Fire away,” said he.
“In the first place,” said Tom, “I’ll show you, as I did Mr. Gaines, why, in my opinion, I couldn’t have killed this man.” Then he ran over the evidence just as I have already done, showing, by the position of the blow, that he could not have given it. Daly listened in silence, every now and then nodding his head; but he did not speak a word until Tom had ended. Then he looked up.
“Very true—very true, indeed,” said he. “It satisfies me an’ your other friends; but it won’t go down with a jury, just now. Reckon you ha’n’t seen the papers lately?”
“No.”
Daly nodded his head; “I guess your folks ha’ kept ’em from you,” he said; “there’s nasty tales going about in ’em just now—tales about you an’ your mate deserting a ship, an’ leaving the captain and the crew to drown in her.”
“But,” said Tom, “I didn’t leave the ship with my own free will—I was taken off by force.”
“That may all be very true; I don’t question your word at all—only this is the report of the committee who examined you an’ your friend. You ought to ha’ told ’em how you were taken off; you had the chance.”
“But I wasn’t going to tell ugly things against my mate, when he wouldn’t tell of them himself.”
“That’s all very fine, but he ha’n’t in prison for murder.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with the matter, anyhow.”
“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. When your case is before the jury, the prosecuting attorney’ll tell ’em that any man who’ld run away from his captain and his shipmates, and leave ’em to drown, wouldn’t hesitate to strike a man from behind. Of course, it isn’t so, but the jury’ll believe it all the same.”
Tom was silent; he saw the weight of what the man said, and his heart sank within him. Daly sat, meditatively, chewing his tobacco. At last, after expectorating copiously, he broke the silence.
“Never mind, sir,” said he; “I don’t believe that you killed that feller; your argument’s good enough for me. I know too much about this kind o’ thingto believe that you’re the sort of man to strike another from behind. Mr. Gaines tells me that you’re on the track of the man who did do it—let’s have your idee.”
Then Tom told of all the circumstances that led him to suspect Mr. Moor, and once more Daly listened to him without a word. He sat with his elbows on his knees; he had taken a dirty handkerchief out of his hat, and was alternately crushing it together and unfolding it in his hands. When Tom had ended, he looked up at him from under his brows.
“You’ve thought all that out in a mighty derned clever style,” said he. “It’s all as true as gospil. I believe you’re right, and that this man Moor did kill the other feller.”
“I couldn’t make Mr. Gaines believe it as you do,” said Tom.
“Of course, you couldn’t. Mr. Gaines knows this Moor, and always has known him. It’s hard to believe that a man that you’ve seen under your eye every day would do a thing like this. I don’t know anything about him, and I can look at it reasonable like. I believe he did do it. The next thing is to ketch him, and that ain’t goin’ to be so easy, neither, for, without I’m much mistook, he’s as sharp as a steel trap. Never mind, he’ll have to get up early in the morning if he’s going to get ahead of ‘Fatty’ Daly, I can tell you.”
After this he took up his hat and quitted the gaol, and Tom was left alone again.
Two or three days passed before there were anymore developments. Will kept Tom well posted as to the agent’s movements, but nothing of any note happened.
The first thing that Daly did was to become acquainted with Mr. Moor’s help, who, being rather old and not over-handsome, was glad for any young man to come courting her—even such an one as Daly. However, the agent was cautious, and nothing was found out for two or three days.
On the morning of the third day after Daly had come to Eastcaster, Will came into Tom’s cell in a great state of hurry and excitement. Daly had found something that he thought was of great moment.
“I want you to tell me your idea of the matter before I give you Daly’s,” said he. “The fellow seems to have a great notion of your ability and told me to find what your opinion was and see whether his agreed with it.” Then he handed Tom a sheet or two of paper, covered with a crooked, blotted scrawl. It was Daly’s report; it ran thus:
“Last evening went to Mr. Moor’s house to see his servant girl Susan. Up to that time had not said anything about murder, but then began to talk about it. Began by asking how Mr. Moor was, and said that I was sorry to hear he was sick. Girl said that he had not been well for three or four days. She said that he was very sick the morning that he was at squire’s office, and that he came home and laid down on the sofa that morning and laid there almost all day. Asked her if he had been sick the day before, and she said not until evening whenhe came home sick from a ride that he took. Began questioning her about this andgot all from her without her suspecting anything, I think. Said that he came home after dark and went straight to his room. Heard him walking up and down for some time. Supper was ready before he came in. He came in at half-past six, for she looked at clock when she heard him open front door. Came down stairs in a half an hour, and she went out to tell him that supper was ready. He spoke sharply to her, and said that he did not want any supper. He turned at the door and spoke more quietly. Said, on second thoughts, that she might save supper for him. He had a carpet-bag in his hand and a hat on at the time. He said that there were papers in the carpet-bag, and that he was going to see a Mr. Henry Sharpley on business. He came back in half an hour, with mud on his shoes, which left tracks in the entry. He went out just about seven o’clock, and came back at half-past seven. Questioned servant girl closely as dared as to time. Said that she noticed time, because she was keeping supper waiting for Mr. Moor. When he came in, drank two cups of coffee, but did not touch any supper.”
“Last evening went to Mr. Moor’s house to see his servant girl Susan. Up to that time had not said anything about murder, but then began to talk about it. Began by asking how Mr. Moor was, and said that I was sorry to hear he was sick. Girl said that he had not been well for three or four days. She said that he was very sick the morning that he was at squire’s office, and that he came home and laid down on the sofa that morning and laid there almost all day. Asked her if he had been sick the day before, and she said not until evening whenhe came home sick from a ride that he took. Began questioning her about this andgot all from her without her suspecting anything, I think. Said that he came home after dark and went straight to his room. Heard him walking up and down for some time. Supper was ready before he came in. He came in at half-past six, for she looked at clock when she heard him open front door. Came down stairs in a half an hour, and she went out to tell him that supper was ready. He spoke sharply to her, and said that he did not want any supper. He turned at the door and spoke more quietly. Said, on second thoughts, that she might save supper for him. He had a carpet-bag in his hand and a hat on at the time. He said that there were papers in the carpet-bag, and that he was going to see a Mr. Henry Sharpley on business. He came back in half an hour, with mud on his shoes, which left tracks in the entry. He went out just about seven o’clock, and came back at half-past seven. Questioned servant girl closely as dared as to time. Said that she noticed time, because she was keeping supper waiting for Mr. Moor. When he came in, drank two cups of coffee, but did not touch any supper.”
Such was Daly’s report. After Tom had read it, he folded it up, and sat for a while thinking deeply. Presently he looked at Will. “Will,” said he, “I believe I know what Daly thinks.”
“What?”
“That Mr. Moor had blood on his clothes, and went out to hide them.”
“That’s just what he does think, Tom.”
“And I believe that he’s right; Mr. Moor certainly had something to hide, and it could have been nothing, without it was evidence. All that Daly gathered from the servant girl goes to show that there was something of the kind. I believe that Mr. Moor would have gone straight home afterhe had done the deed, if he had dared to do so, and he would have dared, without he had some signs of what he had done upon him. What signs of the deed could he have had about him, if it was not blood spattered on his clothes? Now, if we can find that he has hidden any of his clothes in some out-of-the-way place, we’ll have a great point gained, won’t we?”
“We will, indeed.”
“Has Daly any notion of where they were hidden?”
“No.”
“Have you?”
“Not I.”
“What’s Daly going to do about it?”
“His idea is to hunt in all the likely places near at hand on the chance of finding them. He says that they can’t be far away, because Mr. Moor was such a short time gone; only half an hour.”
“That’s very true, but, without he has something to guide him in his search, it’ll be like hunting for a needle in a hay-stack.”
“Have you any notion about it, Tom?”
“Not yet,” said Tom; “let me think.” He buried his face in his hands, and sat for a long time without moving. At last, he opened the note that Daly had sent him, and looked at it again. Presently he spoke:
“Now, Will, let’s start from the time that he was supposed to have struck the blow, and let’s trace him as well as we can. After he had struck Isaacdown, and saw that he had killed him, and also saw that there were signs upon him what might point to his having done the deed, he wouldn’t go out either into the turnpike or the mill road, for he would be afraid of some one meeting him. He would go into the woods, and would hide there until dark. He must have suffered horribly in the woods at night, with the thought of what he had done fresh upon his heart—of course, it would unfit him for any cool and collected thinking, and therefore we have an advantage over him. At last he comes home. Try to put yourself in his place, and conceive of the terrible state of mind that he must have been in at the time. There would be blood upon his clothes, and his first thought would be to get rid of them as soon as possible. If he had been cool, he would have waited until the next day, but he did not think of any such thing at the time. ‘Where shall I hide them?’ he would say to himself; ‘not at home, not about the house, for who knows how soon they may be found?’ Then he would go over a number of places in his mind. He would not be collected enough to think of some out-of-the-way spot; he would think of some place that he had seen before, and that would be remarkable enough for him to remember it, even at such a moment. Now, let’s see what he did, according to that which the servant girl told Daly. He doesn’t see the servant girl when he first comes into the house, but, after he had stuffed his clothes into a carpet-bag, and had come down stairs again,he meets her face to face, and shows very plainly how much the sight of her has disturbed him. He tells her sharply enough for her to remember that he don’t want any supper. The next minute the thought comes to him that she’ll think his actions very strange, so he turns around and gives her an explanation of his movements, such as he would never think of doing in an ordinary case. He tells her that he is going toHenry Sharpley’s, on business. Without I’m mistaken, he made a blunder there that will give help to us. So far we can follow him tolerably well. Now, we have a gape of half an hour, and that gape we’ve got to fill up.”
“That’s just it,” said Will.
“We’ll leave that now, and see what he did after he came home. The girl was a very careful housekeeper, for she noticed that he had mud on his shoes, and that he left tracks in the house. She wouldn’t have noticed that without she had an eye to keeping things clean. He told her to save supper for him, and yet he ate nothing. That, I think, is all that we really know.”
“That’s all.”
“And now, to fill up the gape of half an hour—Have you had any rain lately?”
“Well—let me see. No; there’s been none for over a week.”
“Well, that’s a great point gained, for the roads must be very dusty.”
“They are.”
“Then, how could Mr. Moor have mud on hisshoes in going to Henry Sharpley’s house and back again? His shoes might have been dusty, but they couldn’t have been muddy. He must have been in some wet or marshy place to get mud on him.”
“That’s so.”
“Well, that’s one point gained. Now, let’s see how much the servant girl can be relied upon as to the length of time that he was gone. She said that he left at seven o’clock and came back at half-past seven. The time was impressed upon her mind because she was keeping supper waiting for him. She was a careful housekeeper, as we’ve seen, so, no doubt, she kept a watch on the clock while she was keeping the victuals and dishes warm. I think we may take it for granted that she was pretty nearly right as regards the time. He was gone half an hour, therefore he was not more than a quarter of an hour’s walk from home—a mile, let’s say. I think we may say that he went straight to the place where he hid his clothes, and that he came straight home again after he had hidden them; it would be the natural thing for him to do. So we may feel tolerably sure that he didn’t go more, and not much less, than a mile from home.”
Here Tom stopped, and sat for a long time buried in thought. Will did not say anything, but waited for him to begin again. At last Tom broke the silence.
“Now,” said he, “it would be a hard thing for us to follow Moor with only the mud on his shoes as a clue to guide us, but to my thinking he himselfgave us a better hint than this, by one word too much that he spoke. He told the help girl that he was going to see Henry Sharpley, and this he told her on the spur of the moment, with hardly a second thought. It isn’t likely that he would have mentioned Henry Sharpley’s name without Henry was in his mind at the time. If this wasn’t so, why should he mention that special name? Now, he was either going to see Henry, as he said, or he was going in the direction where he knew Henry was to be found.
“He did not go to see Henry, because it would have taken more than half an hour to talk over business concerning a whole carpet-bag full of papers, so I think we may take it for granted that he went in the direction of Henry Sharpley’s house. Now, if we can find that his actions fit perfectly with this idea, we can feel pretty certain that we are right. Let’s try to think how we would do if we were in Mr. Moor’s place. Let’s say that I’m going to hide these clothes. I have thought of a place not very far distant. That place is out of town, but not far. I quit the town just beyond Henry Sharpley’s house. I say to myself, if I can slip out quietly and hide these things, I’ll be back in a little while, and I’ll just mention that I went out on a little matter of business. I go down stairs with this on my mind, and come suddenly face to face with the help. She catches me in the act of going out of the house with the carpet-bag in my hand. What will she think of it? She says somethingabout supper—a little thing to speak of in my present state of mind. Without thinking, I speak sharply to her. The next minute it strikes me that her suspicions will be increased by the strangeness of my speech and actions. I am anxious to set myself right with her, and, not knowing of anything better to say at the moment, I tell her what I had already planned to do—that I was going out on business. In the flurry of the moment I say one word too much. I am going in the direction of Henry Sharpley’s house; my mind is full of where I am going; so, without a second thought, I tell her that I am going to seeHenry Sharpleyon business. Then it flashes across me that the girl will wonder what I am doing with my carpet-bag at that time of the night. I can think of no other explanation to give than that it is full of papers. Does all that sound reasonable?”
Will drew a deep breath. “Reasonable?” said he; “of course it sounds reasonable.”
“Of course, I may be all at sea in what I fancy. At the same Imaybe right, and it’s worth having a try for. Now, we’ll take for granted that Mr. Moor did go down Beaver street toward Sharpley’s house. Of course, he wouldn’t go out aimlessly into the night; he had some place already fixed in his mind where to hide his clothes, and he went straight to that place with as few steps aside as possible. Now, it would seem at first as though he had thought of some place to hide his clothes near Sharpley’s house or the blacksmith shop opposite; but tworeasons stand in the way of this. In the first place, his mind would be in too much confusion to think deliberately of any cunning plan. If he had waited until the next day, it might have been different. I think he had a place fixed in his mind when he came home; he certainly doesn’t seem to have spent much time in laying plans. In the second place, he was gone half an hour. It wouldn’t have taken him five minutes to walk to Sharpley’s and back, and I don’t believe he would tarry anywhere in the dark after he had hidden his clothes. Beside all this, he told the servant girl that he wouldbe back inside of an hour. He told her this at the moment of meeting her, and it isn’t likely that he would have said it if he hadn’t a longish distance in his mind at the time. He would have to walk along the street while he was in town, for he wouldn’t go cutting across people’s gardens and climbing fences. So he wouldn’t leave the sidewalk till he had come to Sharpley’s house or the blacksmith shop, which are the last houses before you come to open lots. As soon as he was out of town, he would strike a straight line for the place that he had in his mind—and now, let’s see how far he went.
“We’ll say it took him three minutes to walk to Sharpley’s house; that leaves twelve minutes of the quarter of an hour. Say it took him four minutes to hide his clothes when he had come to the spot that he had in his mind. The half of four is two; that leaves ten minutes for him towalk after he had left the town. If he’d kept to the road he might have walked three quarters of a mile in that time; but he didn’t do that, for he got his shoes muddy somewhere. Beside, it isn’t likely that he would walk along the highroad at night with a carpet bag in his hand. It’ld look mighty strange to any one who’d meet him. If he had to walk across lots and climb fences, he couldn’t have covered over half a mile in ten minutes; nor is it likely he would walk less than a quarter of a mile. Now, imagine a pair of big compasses. Open them till they measure a half a mile from point to point; put one point of them on the road between the blacksmith shop and Sharpley’s house and draw a circle. Now draw another circle of a quarter of a mile from point to point. You now have a belt a quarter of a mile wide running in a circle a quarter of a mile distant from the blacksmith shop. If I’ve argued the matter right, you’ll find his clothes hidden somewhere in that belt.”
Will heaved a deep sigh. “Tom,” said he, “you ought to be the lawyer, and I the accused. You’d make a better fist out of my case than I’ll ever be able to do out of yours. I’ll put Daly on the track right away, and see what he makes of it.”
“Hold hard, Will,” said Tom; “as we’ve gone this far, we might as well see whether we can’t go a little farther. Let’s see in what kind of a place Mr. Moor would be likely to hide those clothes. He’d think of only very simple plans in his state of mind, I take it. He might bury them, or burn them, orsink them in the water somewhere. He didn’t bury them, for he took no tools with him, and he couldn’t very well have done it without. Woolen clothes, such as a man wears at this time of the year, don’t burn very easily, and he’d have to go a long distance before he dared build a fire, and, beside, he hadn’t time to do it in the half of an hour that he was gone. Of the three the most likely thing for him to do would be to throw his clothes in the water. Another point is that his shoes were muddy, and so he must have been where it was wet. We have seen that the place he hid his clothes was about a half a mile out of town, and that it was a place such as would occur to him at this time.” Tom stopped abruptly, and rose to his feet. “Will,” cried he, “can’t you guess where he sunk his clothes?”
“Tom—you—you mean the old quarry, don’t you?”
Tom nodded his head. Will sat looking at him for a time, without speaking.
“Will,” said Tom, presently, “that place was in my mind almost from the very first. I wasn’t arguing to find it, but to prove to myself that I was right. Now, the whole thing amounts to this—if we drag the quarry, and find the clothes there, I’ve made a good guess.”
“You have, indeed—a good enough guess to get your neck out of the halter. I’ll say nothing more; only this—I didn’t think that you had so much in you!”
AND now I find the story of Tom Granger’s adventures drawing rapidly to a close. I have sometimes wondered whether all happenings, such as are usually allotted to a man’s life, were not crowded into this one year and a half, for since that time it has been even and uneventful, excepting as to such small things as occur in our quiet Quaker neighborhood.
But, these adventures were not to close without one more thing happening that made a stir; not only in Eastcaster, but throughout the whole country. No doubt, if you were to pick up a newspaper of the fall and winter of that year, no matter where that paper was printed, you would see some mention made of all these things.
However, I have nothing to do with that; I have only to tell my own story, or the balance of it as quickly as possible, for it has grown to a huge length beneath my hands as I have worked upon it, so much, so that I fear few will have patience to read it through to the end.
I think that it was about noon of the next day that a note was brought to Tom. It was in Will’shandwriting, and was only of one line. This is what it said: