So McCausland was right, after all. The oaf had just been captured by the local police of Woodlawn, and inquiry had vindicated the inspector's surmise.
Far back in our story there was mention of a half-witted brother of the Lacy girls, who jumped from the Harmon building and were killed. Nature had made one of her capriciously unequal divisions of talent in this family, gifting the daughters with all graces and allurements of character, but misshaping their elder brother, Peter, both in body and mind. And Fate, instead of rectifying the hard allotment by the merciful removal of the oaf, had deprived the household instead of its fairer inmates, leaving the monster to flourish on, sleeping, breathing, performing all animal functions healthily, but reflecting only sorrow into the heart of the mother who bore him.
The death of his sisters had converted this harmless driveller into a maniac, nursing one deadly thought. At the Lacy common table the case of Robert Floyd was, of course, followed with keen interest, especially since the shyster, Slack, had persuaded certain advisory relatives, and through them the mother, that some compensation in money for the loss of her girls might result from an appeal to the courts. Shagarach's name, as the defender, the possible savior of Floyd, this wrecker of their household peace, had impressed itself on the addled intelligence of the oaf, and being sufficiently taught to read and endowed with the cunning of his sort, he had begun with the incoherent letters to the lawyer, and ended with three assaults which had so nearly cost him his life. Floyd, behind the prison bars, was beyond his reach; but if the criminal records of the time had included any attempt to force a way into a jail cell it is probable that the maniac would have essayed an imitation of this. For, as McCausland had keenly noted, each of his attacks had been made under suggestion from the daily chronicles.
Since the fire he had wandered away from home—though previously a devoted house-haunter—probably making the rude hut in the forest his abode and indulging his mania amid that forest solitude in long fits of brooding. Just why he chose this habitation the mother could not say, unless it was to be near his sister's grave. From time to time he had returned, always to beg a little money or some articles of necessity, and when questioned on his doings he had manifested a temper which he was rarely known to exhibit before.
The mystery of his identity with the peddler was explained by Mrs. Lacy when Shagarach asked her the whereabouts of her son during June. It seems there was a street vender named Hotaling, who added to his revenue in summer time by hiring young men to exploit the outlying suburbs with spring produce. Strictly speaking, a license would be required, even though their sales were made beyond the city limits. But Hotaling dispensed with this formality, and the teamsters he employed were unsteady fellows, of the least savory appearance, whom he rewarded with a commission, keeping their accounts correct by the terror by which he personally inspired them. Among Hotaling's possessions was a green cart, and the driver selected to occupy its seat had been Peter Lacy, who had wit enough to harness a horse and make change (indeed, he was very shrewd at a bargain), and who accepted a pittance as recompense. The simpleton's district had been Woodlawn. But his road from the city market took him close to Cazenove street.
When, the next morning, the district attorney announced that Harry Arnold and Bertha would testify, closing the case for the prosecution, Shagarach knew that his time was at hand.
"Mr. Hodgkins has attested the existence of a will and the accused himself at the preliminary hearing admitted knowing that he was virtually disinherited. We have, however, thought it well to strengthen this vital point by calling a witness who will testify to the same admission made upon another occasion. Mr. Harry Arnold."
"You are a nephew of the late Prof. Arnold?"
"Yes, sir; his brother's son," answered Harry. He was just the least bit nervous, his glances wandering from Shagarach's face to his mother's and then resting with a brighter expression on that of Rosalie March, who had come into the court-room to-day for the first time. The wild rose in her cheeks was blooming warmly through the gossamer she wore to hide them and her blue eyes were lifted trustfully to her lover's. Once they caught Emily's and she bowed with a smile. Emily returned the bow, but her heart was too full for smiling. She was sorry Rosalie had come that morning, for Shagarach's manner told her that he was condensing his thoughts in the resolve to wring the truth from Harry.
"And a cousin of the accused?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your relations have always been pleasant, I presume?"
"We have never had any permanent falling-out."
"And are so still?"
"Yes, sir, on my part. I hope with all my heart the jury will find him innocent," answered Harry, with every appearance of candor.
"Have you ever had any conversation with him on the subject of your uncle's will?"
"Only once."
"When was that?"
"Within a week after the fire."
"And where?"
"At the county jail."
"It was while the accused was in custody of the sheriff, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you happen to visit the accused at that time?"
"I was his only living kinsman. My visit was one of sympathy."
"And what statement did the accused make regarding his knowledge of the will?"
"Why, I believe he owned incidentally that he was disinherited, but everybody knew it then. It was all over the town. So was I, it seems, for that matter," added Harry.
"Everybody's knowledge is nobody's knowledge. We cannot take things for granted because rumor has spread them broadcast. We want your specific testimony that the accused acknowledged having learned from his uncle that he was to receive only an insignificant fraction of the fortune which all his life he had been expecting."
"That is my recollection of it."
"Was there any further conversation on the subject?"
"No, sir; it came up incidentally."
Shagarach paused a moment before beginning the cross-examination. Harry eyed him and during every second of the pause the witness' color mounted. Something in the lawyer's appearance still confused him. "This was a visit of sympathy?" asked Shagarach.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you have seen the accused frequently since his imprisonment, I presume?"
"Well, no, I have not."
"When did you see him last previous to yesterday?"
"Well, not since the first week."
"Not since this visit of sympathy, do you mean?"
"That was the last time."
"Then all your sympathy expended itself in that single visit?"
"No, not exactly."
"Why didn't you renew it?"
"Rob and I didn't part good friends."
"Indeed? And what was the cause of your disagreement?"
"Some thoughtless words of mine."
"Then you were at fault?"
"Wholly. I have been sorry since."
"But you have kept your repentance to yourself until now, have you not?"
"Well——"
"And volunteered to testify against your cousin?"
"No, sir; I was subpoenaed."
"From what quarter do you suppose these rumors of Floyd's disinheritance arose?"
"I don't know."
"Consider that answer carefully."
"I have done so. I don't know. I read it in the papers."
"You knew Floyd was disinherited before your visit to his cell?"
"No, sir."
"You knew you yourself were disinherited before the fire?"
"No, sir."
"You knew a will had been made?"
"Yes, sir."
"From whom?"
"From my mother."
"Your mother and yourself share most items of family interest between you?"
"Naturally we do. We have no secrets from each other."
"Wasn't it your mother who first informed Mr. McCausland that Robert had been disinherited?"
"I don't know."
"Yet you read the papers, you said."
"I must have skipped that item."
"How did Mrs. Arnold know this fact?"
"I don't know."
"You are very rich, Mr. Arnold?"
"Yes, we are considered wealthy."
"So rich that I presume you were indifferent whether Prof. Arnold added to your fortunes or not by a bequest of his property?"
"He may have thought we didn't need anything more."
"How large a stud of horses do you keep?"
"In all? Only six."
"How many servants?"
"Six."
"For a family of two?"
"My mother and myself. But then, we entertain a good deal."
"You have a summer residence at Hillsborough?"
"Yes, sir."
"And a house at Woodlawn?"
"Yes, sir."
"The supplies for your table are not generally purchased from a common street vender, I presume?"
"I don't know. I don't attend to the commissariat."
"Shouldn't you suppose they would come from market?"
"Game and such things, yes."
"And greens?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"When did you first hear of the burning of Prof. Arnold's house?"
"That's hard to say at this distance of time."
"I wish you would try to recollect."
"Why, I think the morning afterward—Sunday morning. Yes, it was in the Sunday papers. I remember now."
"You remember distinctly?"
"Yes, sir."
"What paper?"
"The Beacon. We take no other."
The Beacon was the paper upon which Robert was employed, thus forming a curious bond of communication between the two Arnold households.
"You were not in town, then, that afternoon?"
"No, sir."
"Positive of that?"
"Why, yes; I was ill—or, rather, just convalescing from a fever. Dr. Whipple called, I believe, to see me that very Saturday."
"In the forenoon or afternoon?"
"Afternoon."
"About what hour?"
"About 3:45."
"And this fire started at 3:30?"
"I heard a witness say so in the testimony yesterday."
"Of your own knowledge you couldn't say when it started?"
"No, sir."
Harry was red as fire during all these rapid questions, some apparently aimless, some sharply pointed.
"A man could not start that fire in Cazenove street at 3:30 and reach your house in Woodlawn at 3:45, could he?"
"Not very well."
"He might, however, start the fire at 3:28 and reach your house at 3:48?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "Twenty minutes isn't long."
"Isn't there a train which leaves the Southern depot at 3:29?"
"I never use the Southern depot."
"Never?"
"Well, not enough to know the trains."
"I have not said that you did, Mr. Arnold. It happens, however, that there was a train—an express train—which left the Southern depot at 3:29 on June 28, arriving in Woodlawn at 3:45. A person starting from Prof. Arnold's house at 3:28 could have caught that train, could he not?"
"In one minute? Yes, by hurrying."
"And, leaving the train at Woodlawn at 3:45, he could have arrived in your house at 3:48, could he not?"
"Yes, sir, by walking briskly."
"Across the fields?"
"Across the fields."
"Wasn't it 3:48 when Dr. Whipple visited you on that Saturday of the fire?"
"Why, of course I could not swear within a minute or two."
"But a minute or two is momentous at times—when a train is to be taken, for example."
"Oh, yes."
"What were you doing all Saturday afternoon before the doctor arrived?"
"Why"—Harry hesitated—"I was ill in my chamber."
"Reading?"
"Perhaps. Killing time lazily."
"You have frequently to do that, I presume?"
"Sir?"
"You have no orderly programme arranged for every day?"
"Well, it varies."
"But never includes any useful occupation, I believe?"
"Well, I can afford to enjoy life."
"You are rich, you said. How fortunate to be rich! The great problem of life then is solved for you by the drawing of a quarterly check?"
"Well, not exactly."
"If you require money, however, you simply ask for it and it comes forth like the genii of the lamp?"
"I can usually meet what expenses I incur."
"Do you remember a man named Reddy?"
"Reddy?" repeated Harry, coloring a shade more and glancing over at Rosalie.
"Reddy," repeated Shagarach, insistently.
"What is his business?"
"He is dead," said the lawyer, and the witness knew that evasion was futile.
"Oh, yes, I knew that Reddy—slightly."
"Do you remember forfeiting several thousand dollars to him one evening in a certain room?"
"Yes."
Harry was driven to the wall. He set his teeth, and now, finally at bay, his spirit seemed to return.
"Where did that money come from?"
"From my mother."
"And from whom did she get it?"
Harry hesitated.
"From one Simon Rabofsky, a money-lender, was it not?"
"Yes."
"She had sold her family jewels, had she not?"
"Yes."
"She kept you in funds?"
"Yes, but she knew nothing of my habits."
"Then you lied to her to obtain money?"
"Yes."
"And you lied to the court awhile ago when you said that you were rich?"
"No, sir; it was only a temporary embarrassment."
"Have the jewels been redeemed?"
"I believe not."
"Do rich people generally pawn their family heirlooms and permit them to be sold?"
"Well, no."
"Then you were so circumstanced that your disinheritance under your uncle's will might seriously incommode you?"
"Well, his money might afford us relief."
"Do you know Ellen Greeley?"
"I did know her slightly."
"Never corresponded with her?"
"Oh, no."
"You have a key to your own house, I suppose?"
"Certainly."
"And can slip out and in unobserved?"
"If I choose to."
"Which door do you generally use going into your uncle's house?"
"The front door always."
"And in coming out?"
"The same."
"You knew, however, that there was a side door opening into the passageway?"
"Yes."
"How long are you back from Lenox?"
"Two weeks."
"Do you remember an evening entertainment there at Mr. March's?"
"The purple tea? Yes, sir."
"Do you remember falling into a species of trance on that occasion?"
"Perfectly."
"Do you remember what was on your right hand when you awoke?"
The witness drew a deep breath before he answered. He no longer had the heart to look toward Rosalie, though her eyes were turned with stony fixity upon his face and she had even lifted her veil.
Shagarach's manner was now as imperious, as fierce, as on that memorable evening.
"Yes," answered Harry; "it was a lemon-colored glove."
"Whose glove?"
"Mine."
"A lost glove?"
"Yes."
"A right-hand glove?"
"Yes."
"Where had you lost it?"
Harry hesitated.
"Will you look about the room and tell me if you see any person besides your mother whom you saw on that Saturday afternoon of the fire?"
Walter Riley had recovered by this time from Kennedy's caning and occupied a front seat among the spectators. But it was Rosalie's eye that Harry met—met and hastily avoided. Had she seen him after all that afternoon when he crossed Bond street from the burning house? Would this remorseless inquisitor contradict his denial with the affirmation of the woman he loved?
"Wasn't it you instead of Floyd who paid a cash fare to Conductor Checkerberry on the 3:29 train and whose voice he recognized here yesterday?"
"Yes," said Harry, "it was."
"Then you had heard of the fire before Sunday morning?"
"I had."
"And you lied again when you testified to the contrary?"
"I am sick of lying. Let me tell you the truth."
"It is the truth I am searching for."
"You have tripped and tangled me," said Harry, speaking slowly, "so that my actions when I make a clean breast of them may look worse than they were. I wish I had told you the truth from the beginning. I was a fool to hide it at all.
"I did leave Woodlawn that Saturday for my uncle's house on the 3 o'clock train and returned on the 3:29 from the city. I had been wrought up by Mr. Hodgkins' visit of the night before. He was going to open the safe at 2:30 the next day and the will would be read at last. If I were disinherited I should be absolutely penniless, dependent on my mother, and her property, I knew, was encumbered."
"Your mother, then, was your father's sole heir?" asked the district attorney.
"Yes, sir."
"Encumbered largely through your extravagance?" added Shagarach.
"Through my extravagance. I was on pins and needles, too nervous to sleep, to eat—the servants can corroborate that—until this should be settled; too nervous even to await my mother's return."
"She had driven in to meet Mr. Hodgkins?"
"She had. It must have been nearly 3:25 when I arrived and the appointment of Hodgkins was at 2:30."
"You took the Southern line?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I heard the train coming. I acted on the impulse, flung out of the house and headed it off."
"Go on."
"I walked toward my uncle's up Broad street, entered the passageway, mounted the steps and found the side door open."
"Open?"
"I mean unlocked, not ajar. There was no one stirring in the lower floor. I wondered whether Hodgkins had come and the safe was opened. Then I went upstairs to the study."
"Your glove in your left hand?"
"As I remember it, yes. I forgot to mention the barking of the dog upstairs. When I got to the study door the barking was louder and the dog seemed to be pawing at the door inside. Smoke was streaming out through the keyhole and I could hear a loud crackling inside. I looked at my watch"—here Harry's delivery grew broken and he stuttered over the words—"I looked at my watch and saw that I had time to catch the 3:29. So I ran out the way I had come, slammed the door, knocked over some boys that were blocking up the alleyway, crossed Broad street and dove into the little passage called Marketman's row, which opens at the other end opposite the door of the depot.
"The 3:29 train was just steaming out when I caught the last car. At Woodlawn I jumped off on the unused side of the station and crossed the meadows to my house. Dr. Whipple had just come and had been directed to my room. I doubt if even the servants knew of my departure and arrival."
There was a pause when Harry finished. He looked straight at Shagarach, flush-cheeked and ashamed, but with all the Arnold boldness.
"You have left out the vital part of your story," said the lawyer, when it appeared that the witness had nothing more to add. "Why did you fly from a stream of smoke issuing through a keyhole?"
"There were two reasons, shameful both of them, but I ask you to remember that I had recently risen from a fever and that I was greatly excited at the time. In the first place, the image of the safe in that study had haunted me for days."
"Although you have testified that you did not know you were disinherited. Is that another lie?"
"No, sir; it is the truth. I had absolutely no knowledge of the terms of my uncle's will."
"Then why were you apprehensive? Why did the image of the safe in which it was guarded haunt you?"
"Because—because I feared what actually did happen. I feared that he had bequeathed my share of his property elsewhere."
"Go on."
"I knew that the destruction of the safe would set me back to my position as heir, would assure me $5,000,000. It could do me no harm. That idea flashed through me as I stood on the landing, with my hand on the knob. And then my own position! I might be accused of setting the fire for that very purpose. This was the thought that led me to flee. I remember looking at my watch, as I said. The 3:29 train would place me in safety almost before the fire was under way."
"And as a matter of fact, you were back in Woodlawn almost before the first stream of water was played upon the burning building?"
"I reached there at 3:45."
"You didn't stop to liberate the dog?"
"No, sir."
"You didn't think it your duty to save property and life by checking the flames or at least giving the alarm?"
"No, sir."
"You simply wanted your uncle's money."
"I wanted my uncle's money."
The gathering indignation of the audience expressed itself at this avowal by a sharp, spontaneous hiss. But the prisoner only bit his lips. The officers rapped for order and Chief Justice Playfair arose.
"I cannot find it in my heart to rebuke this manifestation, unseemly though it be in a temple of justice. For I knew Benjamin Arnold for many years. His cheek at the age of nearly fourscore had the rosy flush of a boy's and his unimpaired vigor was a living attestation of the pure youth and honorable manhood through which he had passed. He deserved a better return from his brother's son than the avaricious greed for his riches which the witness has confessed."
"Your honor," said Harry, "I have not made myself understood. It is not for me to parry your honor's rebuke. I have richly deserved it. I have been selfish and a seeker of my own pleasure. But it would be unjust to my better self, which is now struggling to the surface, if I did not disown the entertainment of such feelings now. I am on the stand under oath and I told you the simple truth about my motives at that critical moment."
"I find it hard," replied the chief justice, "to understand such a frame of mind. If you were present and consented to the fire, as you admit, by failing to check the flames or give the alarm, then it appears to me that you are morally if not legally a self-confessed accessory after the fact."
"The explanation can only deepen my blame, your honor. I itched for money at that time. Yet all that I received flowed from me faster than it came. I had exhausted my mother's income, trenched upon her credit, borrowed of my friends, and still I craved more. I was a victim of the passion for games of chance."
"Then you were capable of the gravest crimes," said Chief Justice Playfair.
"The fact that the witness took the 3 o'clock train when the will was supposed to have been read at 2:30," said the district attorney, "seems to me evidence that he had not contemplated a crime in coming."
"I do not charge that he contemplated a crime when he started from the house," answered Shagarach, promptly, "but I do charge that, finding an opportunity to hand, Harry Arnold, who by his own confession was present at the door of his uncle's study at the time this fire started, yielded to an evil impulse, ignited the loose papers lying about and fled."
"Harry Arnold has, indeed, been traced to the study door," retorted the district attorney, "but Robert Floyd was inside the room."
"Then we must bring Harry Arnold across the threshold," said Shagarach, resuming the cross-examination.
"Did you not know when you entered the house that the safe was unopened, owing to Hodgkins' detention?"
"No, sir; I knew nothing about that. When I went I expected to meet Hodgkins there."
"Then what good would it do you to see your uncle's study burned if it contained only an empty safe?"
"I didn't know whether the will was in the safe or not."
"And you didn't know whether the will disinherited you or not?"
"No, sir."
"But, acting on the possibility that there might be a will there, which might disinherit you, you ran away and left the house to burn?"
"It was contemptible, I admit."
"Hadn't you met your mother that afternoon?"
"Not after she left Woodlawn."
"What time was that?"
"Before 2 o'clock."
"She left in a carriage?"
"Yes, sir; one of the family carriages."
"And arrived at your uncle's toward three?"
"She has told me so."
"Leaving there a little after three?"
"Yes, sir."
"She might have driven around, then, for fifteen minutes and returned by the Southern depot just in time to meet you?"
"She might have done so."
"And inform you of Hodgkins' detention?"
"She might have done so, but whether you believe me or not, I never saw my mother until she came home that evening."
"Or any messenger from her?"
"Or any messenger."
"Did you set the fire?"
"No, sir."
"Did Floyd set it?"
"I refuse to believe that he did."
"Then who did? It must have been one or the other of you two."
"Or both of them," whispered Inspector McCausland to John Davidson, but the marshal shook his head.
"It is a mystery I cannot solve," said Harry Arnold.
"Let us help you, then. You testified before that you never corresponded with Ellen Greeley?"
"Why should I correspond with the girl?"
"In order that she might sell you what information she could overhear about your uncle's will."
Shagarach brought his face closer to Harry's and his eyes seemed to blaze like searchlights, illuminating the depths of the young man's soul.
"Will you kindly read that aloud?" The lawyer handed his witness a letter. Harry glanced it over curiously, then read:
"'The peddler has not come for two days, so I send you this by a trustworthy messenger. As I wrote you in my last, the professor said in the study: "Harry gets his deserts." That was all I could hear. Only he and Mr. Robert talked for a long time afterward. The will is in the safe in the study. If I hear anything more I will let you know, and please send me the money you promised me soon.'"
"Whose handwriting is that?" asked Shagarach.
"I never saw it before."
"It is unsigned, unaddressed and undated, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Presumably, then, a letter in which both sender and receiver desired to conceal their names?"
"Perhaps so. I cannot offer an opinion as to that."
"Don't you know that letter was written by Ellen Greeley to you?"
"No, sir; I never received such a letter."
"I am aware that you never received it. But you received the previous letters referred to in this case, did you not? You received the letter stating that 'Harry gets his deserts,' meaning obviously that he gets nothing, did you not?"
"No, sir; I have never received a shred of communication from Ellen Greeley."
"Do you know the peddler referred to in this letter?"
"No, sir."
At this point Mrs. Arnold, who had sat through each of the three previous days' sessions, arose hurriedly and passed out. Shagarach just caught a glimpse of a lady's back departing, but the vacant seat told its story. He paused in his examination of Harry. It was Mrs. Arnold who had put McCausland on Floyd's track, Mrs. Arnold who had stolen Harry's photographs from Jacob, Mrs. Arnold who had driven up to the house in a carriage, Mrs. Arnold who would naturally deal, through her servants, with a street vender calling at the house.
"A subpoena blank!" he cried suddenly to Aronson. His pen flew over the paper, filling in names and other details.
"Serve that at any cost," he said to his assistant, and Aronson smooched the ink, so eager was he to obey.
"You do not know the peddler?" said Shagarach, taking up the cross-examination.
"No, sir."
"You never saw a peddler in a green cart that used to call at your house in Woodlawn during the month of June?"
"Not to my knowledge. Of course, there are peddlers everywhere and some of them have green carts."
"Wouldn't you regard it as a peculiar circumstance if a particular peddler began calling at your house and your uncle's house about the time your uncle made his will and stopped his visits after the fire?"
"I don't know that I should attach importance to that circumstance. It might be accidental."
"But he might also be a go-between."
"Between whom?"
"Between you and Ellen Greeley."
"I never conducted any intrigue of any kind with Ellen Greeley."
"Did you know the man who was captured here yesterday?"
"No, sir."
"Wasn't he the peddler referred to in Ellen Greeley's letter?"
"The letter you handed me? I do not know."
"Is this one of your lies or the truth?"
"This is the truth."
"How are we to distinguish between your lying and truth-telling?"
Harry was silent.
"The only means of distinction thus far has been our own superior proof of the facts."
"I can only give you my word. If you choose to doubt it I am helpless."
"Will you please explain how your mother, who has left the court-room, I perceive, was able to inform Mr. McCausland that Robert Floyd was disinherited by his uncle and thus guide the finger of suspicion toward an innocent man from you, the incendiary?"
"I had no hand or finger in setting that fire. Circumstances tell against me. I have debased my own word, ruined my credibility, by a series of perjuries, all flowing from one initial folly. I can now understand my cousin's position—the shame of being misunderstood, unjustly suspected, though I am not fortified, as I feel that he is, by a consciousness of stainless honor throughout the affair. If he is guilty, then I am, and I ask—or, rather, I insist—that you shall place me under the same restriction of liberty as my cousin. Let me sleep under the same roof, endure the same privations, until he is acquitted and set free. For if to have had wrongdoing, ever so remotely, in one's heart is guilt, then I am the guiltier of us two."
"The sheriff, I think, will provide you a lodging," said Shagarach, coolly, and after a conference between the chief justice, the district attorney and the lawyer it was announced that a warrant for Harry Arnold's arrest would be granted and that he would spend the night in a cell.
"There are still several points against the prisoner not met," said the district attorney, when Shagarach moved for Robert's discharge.
"It is a new doctrine that a man should be held because there is reasonable doubt of his innocence," said the lawyer. But the district attorney was rigid and the chief justice thought it best, since there was only one more witness for the prosecution, to let the jury decide upon the facts, which were properly their province.
"Forgive me, Rosalie," said Harry, humbly, as he passed her, going out, and her eyes, though they were full of mortification, disillusion, rebuke, told that she forgave him because she loved him.
"Arnold or Floyd?" was the alternative on the lips of the multitude surging homeward after that dramatic day, and Robert for the first time was actually cheered when he left the courthouse.
"Looks as though we might have two hangings instead of one," remarked Inspector McCausland to a reporter.
"Did you notice the expression on that woman who went out?" said Ecks to Wye.
"No."
"Guilt," said Ecks, shuffling his notes into his pocket. Then Emily saw Rosalie March's beautiful face soiled with tears and hastened down to comfort her.
"I am sorry," she said. "Don't fear for Harry. Nobody in the world set that fire. It just caught——"
But why importune readers with Emily's theory, when they have doubtless already guessed it in detail?
Now that Robert's acquittal was almost assured, Emily's pity began to overflow toward Harry Arnold and Rosalie, whose position was exactly her own of the day before. For the vox populi had generally determined on Harry's guilt, though there were not wanting some who, like the father in the parable, were disposed to welcome the brilliant prodigal with lavish entertainment, freely extending the forgiveness he implored, while slighting the steadfastly loyal son who had never wandered from the path of virtue. This was poor recompense to Robert for his summer-long immurement, but he was put together of a substance impervious to the acid actions of criticism or neglect—the oaken fiber of the English Arnolds.
In all quarters curiosity was active about the defense. It was said by some that the prosecution had broken down, or might break down at any minute, and even if the last reluctant victim were haled up by Bigelow to the shambles, where Shagarach stood, ax in hand, awaiting her, that it would be hammering on a driven nail to put on the long array of witnesses who had been summoned in behalf of the accused. Nevertheless the newspapers were at pains to worm out the names of these witnesses and to diet the public with prophetic outlines of their testimony.
The gist of it all was that Shagarach meant to clinch his client's defense by building up a case against Harry.
Of course Emily found it hard to communicate her own confidence to Rosalie March, although Bertha was to take the stand the following morning and her theory would then (as she believed) receive a triumphant demonstration. What made Harry's face fall more bitter was that the date of his espousal to the beautiful actress had just been given to the world. From Rosalie's hard glance at Shagarach, Emily knew there was as much blame in her heart for the lawyer as for her lover. And Rosalie was not the only girl who would have ransomed Harry Arnold, perjurer, self-seeker, gambler, as he owned himself to have been, with her life, if such a price should be asked.
"Are they sisters?" asked the thoughtless, misled by their golden hair, when the two beautiful girls went out together, leaving Mme. Violet behind. But a student of faces would never have fallen into such an error. One placid and aloof, even toward the audiences whose favor she courted, the other impulsive and approachable, throwing out tentacles of sympathy toward every human being with whom she came in contact, they supplemented rather than reflected each other; otherwise they would hardly have been drawn together so strongly, and made such a concord of friendliness.
Several surprises awaited Emily when she reached home. The first and pleasantest was an envelope, surcharged in the upper left-hand corner with the name of a certain magazine. This she opened with trembling fingers, for it was not quite three weeks since she mailed to the editor, unsigned, Robert's article on, "Proposals for a Consumers' Trust," that fruit of his prison reflections which Dr. Silsby had found so unpalatable. When an oblong slip of paper, perforated at the margin, slipped out, she knew it was a check; and the editor's letter was very urgent that "so striking a contribution should not be given to the world without its author's signature." Here was the beginning of a career for her sweetheart. She looked forward to the time when his qualities and talents should be recognized, and she herself perhaps be pointed out as the wife of Floyd, the famous writer, or thinker, or worker, or whatsoever other name they chose to give to the best, the truest and the most abused of men. The check, too, was of comforting value, and, since she was a shrewd little housekeeper withal, this discovery did not abate one particle of Emily's joy.
And yet, so little was she a lover of lucre for its own sake, the very first item on which her eye lighted in the evening paper, though it meant a money loss which the whole cash box of the Forum, converted into checks, could not make good, evoked almost a scream of delight from Emily and sent her flying into the kitchen where her mother was steeping the tea. The good lady wiped her honest hands on her apron and with a "Do tell!" fingered the Evening Beacon, which to-day is skimmed and tomorrow cast into the oven, as respectfully as if it had been a fancy valentine; then read, with Jennie, a slip of 14, on tiptoe leaning over her shoulder, that Judge Dunder had finally decided to uphold the late Prof. Arnold's will. Even Shagarach had hardly expected this decision. For Judge Dunder was a confirmed devotee of legal technique and it had been supposed that nothing less than a verbatim copy of a destroyed will would be sustained by him.
But the main clauses of the will had certainly been reproduced, with an abundance of circumstantial detail. The only hiatus was a remote possibility. There may have been some smaller bequests that could not be traced. Apparently Judge Dunder had in this case resolved to wink a little at chicane and decide for justice in the broader sense.
"Harry Arnold may have to do something to justify his existence now," said Mrs. Barlow after supper to Emily. She had a prejudice against wild young men.
"Oh, Rosalie has enough for two," answered Emily, who was standing before the mirror putting her hat on for a visit to Walter Riley.
The first sight that met her eye when she reached the sidewalk was a squad of salvation army soldiers, with Serena Lamb at their head, parading through the street, chanting their invitation to sinners. Serena held her tambourine high in air and her shrill voice dominated the chorus like that of a precentor in the kirk. But the exercise seemed to lack its usual spirit this evening. Was it because nobody took any particular notice of the group? Curiosity about them was wearying itself threadbare, and even the toddling urchins no longer gathered at the drumbeat as they used to. Emily had often admired the devotion of these sisters, but, looking at this unnoticed and discouraged band, she wondered if the antagonism of the multitude were not in truth the very sustenance of their zeal. Might not all their heroic energy exhaust itself, like the nerve of a boxer, compelled to waste his blows in the air, if the atmosphere of opposition should change to one of apathy?
"At any cost!" The last words of his master tingled in Saul Aronson's ears when he left the court-room with the summons in his hand. Ever since the disclosures of Serena Lamb he had been more than usually abashed in his demeanor. For in some measure he felt that it was he who had brought this threatened catastrophe upon their cause. Here was the opportunity to retrieve his misstep. He would prove his fidelity and serve the writ "at any cost."
Mrs. Arnold had secured a few minutes' start, but Aronson did not doubt his ability to overtake her. She would probably call a cab, since she was an all-day attendant at the sittings and it was unlikely her family carriage would be waiting for her. Impatiently he rang the elevator up, and then, deciding just as it arrived that it was quicker to walk down, balked the boy by tacking off toward the staircase and descending it two steps at a time. When he reached the exit, the square was deserted. But just around the corner, like the whisk of a vanishing tail, he caught a glimpse of a rapidly driven cab. After this he sped, down the crowded main thoroughfare, dodging the pedestrians as well as he could, with his eyes on the distant vehicle, and yawing wildly at last into the arms of a man who stood waiting on the curbstone.
"Where in the——" but the man was a herdic driver and his language may as well be left to the imagination. Aronson saw the badge on his hat; that was enough.
"Catch that carriage," he said, "and I'll give you $2."
"Jump in," cried the driver. The door was locked in a jiffy and presently they were bumping over the cobblestones.
"Stop there!" shouted the burly policeman who used to escort Emily so gallantly over the street crossing.
"It's a runaway!" cried the herdic driver, giving himself the lie by a savage snap of his whip. The officer was in no trim for a spurt, so he fell behind puffing. Still they bumped on, till Aronson's anxiety mastered him and he rapped at the window for attention. The driver stupidly reined up.
"Go on!" cried the passenger, and the whip-lash circled once more with a crack. They were out on the long bridge to Oxford now, and the fugitive could not be far ahead.
"Hello!" shouted the driver. The jehu in front turned his head.
"Haul up!" he hailed.
The driver in front obeyed and the two herdics were soon abreast, Aronson getting a dusty toss in his impatience to get out. As he picked himself up, a great fat man put his head out of the other herdic window and began to ask the cause of the detention.
"Is Mrs. Arnold in there?" inquired Aronson, putting his head into the herdic, just by the fat passenger's.
"Mrs. Arnold? What Mrs. Arnold? Take your head out, you impudent,—drive away, you——" cried the fat passenger, settling back on the cushions which he almost filled with the breadth of his back. Aronson was left standing alone on the road, puzzling his wits what to do.
"You lost the right carriage," he said.
"I followed the one you pointed out," answered the driver, surlily.
"Well, take me back."
"Where's my $2?" asked No. 99, and Aronson had to pay him this sum, as well as an advance fare for the ride back, before he would turn his horse's head. Going in town, the animal made up for time gained by a heartbreaking leisureliness of pace. No one could blame the poor hack horse. There had been some attempt to make him look respectable by docking his tail, but it was no more successful than a silk hat on a prize-fighter, designed to foster the same illusion.
It was just 5:40 when Aronson reached the Northern depot and the train for Hillsborough had left at 5:38. He had the misery of knowing that Mrs. Arnold was probably well on her way to her summer residence by this time, and that there was no train earlier than 7 o'clock. In the interim he bought a ticket, supped, reflected, counted his money and studied the subpoena.
A village bell was tolling 8 when Aronson stepped from the passenger car out on the platform of the Hillsborough station. They had left the sunset behind them in their eastward ride and the country village was dark.
"I want a carriage to Mrs. Arnold's house," he said to the station-master.
"Hacks are all in now," answered the official behind the grating, turning to his books. But he underrated the persistency of his customer.
"I'll give you $1.50 for a team," said Aronson. The suggestion worked magically and in less than an hour he was let down before the veranda of the Arnold mansion. A ruby porch-light flooded him with a kind of delighted confusion. How mild and solemn the country is at night! How suggestive of grassy comforts the humming of the crickets! All the shepherd that lay deep down in Aronson's nature, as in that of every one of us, even the plainest, had time to show itself in the interval between his ring and the servant's answer.
"Mrs. Arnold is in Woodlawn," answered the housemaid. "Can you leave your business?"
"No, I want to see her personally."
Woodlawn! She had escaped him then. The teamster was waiting and the servant diminishing the aperture of the door to a suspicious crack, while he collected his thoughts.
"How long has she been in Woodlawn?" he asked.
"She just moved in yesterday morning," replied the servant, closing the door with a slam.
"Take me back in time for the next train," said Aronson to the driver.
"Too late for the next train," came the drawling answer. "Next train is at 9:15 and it's most 9 now."
"When is the last train?" asked Aronson, figuring on a midnight visit to Woodlawn.
"That's the last train to-night."
Here was a wild-goose chase indeed, but Aronson had a keen suspicion that it was the goose who was the chaser.
"What is the first train in the morning?"
"At 6:15 a. m.," answered the rustic, who usually knows his local time-table better than his prayers.
"Can I lodge here for the night?"
"Dunno. Sam Cook might put you up. He used to keep an inn. Maybe he can find a spare bed for you under the roof somewheres."
"Drive me to Sam Cook's," said Aronson. All the nocturnal interest of the countryside had vanished from him now, and it was with no kindly feeling toward Hillsborough that he stretched his limbs in the old boniface's spare bed, laying the subpoena under his pillow and muttering a petition to Jehovah that he might not oversleep himself and lose the 6:15 a. m. But the real danger proved to be that he would get no sleep at all. For at midnight he was still tossing.
A cow-bell, furiously jingled, awoke him at sunrise, and he was in the city at 7:15, on schedule time.
"To Woodlawn," a sign on one of the tracks read. But the hands of the mock clock pointed to 7:45 and there was another half-hour of waiting. All the world was out of bed, for the steeple bell had just tolled 8 when he arrived in Woodlawn and inquired his way to the Arnolds'.
"Just moved back!" thought Aronson. "I should say so."
Mats were hanging out of windows, servants were mopping panes, a hostler was hosing a muddy carriage in the stable; everything showed that a general scrubbing process had begun. To his surprise and pleasure, he recognized the housemaid who answered his ring as Bertha Lund. She was dressed in her smartest pink, for this was the day of her testimony.
"I want to see Mrs. Arnold," said Aronson, blurting out his message like a schoolboy.
"Mrs. Arnold? Well, you've come too late," answered Bertha.
"Isn't she here?"
"Here! She's on her way to Europe by this time."
"To Europe!"
Saul Aronson's jaw dropped and the subpoena began to burn a hole in his pocket. Was this a subterfuge? He would be on the alert.
"When did she start?"
"Why, this morning. You must have passed her coming out."
Passed her coming out! It was like chasing his own shadow, this constant missing of the game he hunted.
"But wha—wha—what made her go to Europe?" stammered Aronson. He remembered hearing Shagarach say one day that flight was confession. Was Mrs. Arnold involved in her son's guilt? Then all the more reason for waylaying her before she gave them the slip.
"Can't a lady go abroad if she chooses? Mrs. Arnold goes abroad every summer."
"But Harry——"
"Yes, we're cleaning things up for Harry. They'll live here after they're married, you know, Harry and Miss March."
"But he was arrested!"
"Arrested!"
Bertha had left the court early on the previous day and did not read the papers.
"Didn't his mother know Harry was arrested?"
"Arrested! Harry? What for?"
"For setting his uncle's house on fire," answered Aronson, who as a loyal partisan was one shade more thorough in his conviction of Harry's guilt than Shagarach himself.
"Setting his uncle's house on fire! Nonsense!"
"What boat did she take?" asked Aronson, breaking in upon Bertha's astonishment with a gesture of impatience.