CHAPTER VIII.

INSPECTOR KEENE SEES DAYLIGHT AT LAST.

"And pray, may I ask who was left executor in this wonderful will, since that item seems to have been omitted from an otherwise well-concocted story?" said Mr. Walker, as soon as the housekeeper had been carried out of the room, and order restored.

"Mr. Atherton and myself were named executors."

"For which little business," he continued with unutterable irony, "you were doubtless to receive some small compensation?"

"You are mistaken," I replied quietly; "my name is not otherwise mentioned than as being appointed to act with Hugh Atherton. No legacy was left to me, and I did not even receive the usual fee for drawing up the will. I mention this to remove any false impression which my previous statement may have given."

"Most disinterested conduct on your part, I am sure, Mr. Kavanagh," was the reply in the same sarcastic tones. "It was, however, probably understood that the securing £10,000 a year to your friend would not pass unrewarded by him."

I was losing my temper under the man's repeated insults, and an angry reply had risen to my lips, when Wilmot interposed. He had entirely regained his usual self-possession, and more than his usual confidence. Evidently, he had resolved to change his tactics, and treat me civilly.

"We don't wish to dispute your word, Kavanagh, but you must own there is some excuse for our unbelief. Here are all three of us--Smith, Walker, and myself--ready to take oath that no other will save the document just read was or is to be found amongst my late uncle's papers; not so much as a hint of such a thing existing. And here are you, without a shadow of proof in your hand, stating that a will, posterior to this one lying here, was made by you on the evening previous to my uncle's death. The natural inference drawn is, that that will must now exist; we know it does not exist, or we must have found it, unless my uncle destroyed it immediately {745} after it was made, namely, before he went to bed this day week. Do I put the case clearly and fairly, gentlemen?" he continued, turning to the assembled company.

The same old gentleman who had spoken before now again advanced. "I have known Gilbert Thorneley," he said, "more than thirty years; but that he was ever married, or had a child living, is as great news to me as to any here present who had known him but as a recent acquaintance. Still, if what Mr. Kavanagh says be true--and no offence to him--that son of whom he speaks must be living now, and must be found. You, Mr. Wilmot, have asked, as proof of this strange statement being true, where is the will? I now ask likewise, as proof of its genuineness, where is the heir? Where is the son of my old friend? Where is Francis Gilbert Thorneley?"

I was fearfully staggered by the question. Never before had it occurred to me that there would be a difficulty in finding the poor idiot when the time came for him to enter upon his inheritance. No doubt, no passing misgiving, had crossed my mind but that, along with the will I had drawn up, papers would be left and found, giving all-sufficient information of his whereabouts. For the first time the thought flashed across me that perhaps, after all, I had not acted wisely in maintaining the silence which had been exacted from me by solemn promise. And that solemn promise! What had been old Thorneley's motive in exacting it? Why should he wish such inevitable risks to be run, as he, a shrewd man of the world, would know must be run, of that final will being suppressed by the parties interested in the other one lodged at his lawyers'? Of what, of whom, had he been afraid? Was the secret and mystery of the will in any way connected with the secret and mystery of the murder? As these questions crowded themselves upon me during the brief moment which succeeded the last speaker's queries, I looked round unconsciously on the eager, curious faces turned upon us, the actors in this scene; and suddenly my eye lighted upon a little man dressed in a dapper black suit, with a profusion of curly brown hair, and long beard, standing behind a group near the door. His eyes were fixed on mine--sharp, intelligent, piercing, black eyes--with an expression in them which plainly bespoke a desire of attracting my attention; eyes that were familiar to me, whilst the rest of the man's face and appearance was that of a stranger. Then one hand was lifted to his lips, and I saw him give a voracious bite at his nails. In a moment light broke upon darkness, and I knew him in spite of flowing wig and beard, in spite of funeral black and well-fitting clothes, to be Inspector Keene. I suppose he saw a gleam of intelligence pass over my countenance, for he began a series of evolutions on his closely-cropped fingers, and I, luckily, could spell the words: "Close this; see Merrivale." I seized the idea, and turning to Wilmot and his lawyers, I said, "This matter is too serious to be dealt with otherwise than in legal form and place. Mr. Merrivale or myself will communicate with Messrs. Smith and Walker. There is nothing further to be said at present;" and I left the room, exchanging another glance with the inspector, who I knew would quickly follow me.

Nor was I mistaken. I drove to Merrivale's, and whilst in full tide of relating what had transpired in Wimpole street, the little man arrived, still in mourning trim, but minus his wig and beard; and I am bound to confess that, despite the seriousness of the moment, I was almost overpowered by the ludicrous change which the doffing of those appendages had wrought in him--he looked so like a broom that had had its bristles cut short off.

"You are a clever fellow, Keene," said Merrivale; "how upon earth did you contrive to pass muster amongst those city swells?"

The inspector bowed to the compliment, but seemed no way abashed. "I showed the inside of your purse, Mr. Merrivale, There was no difficulty in sight of that. Please go on, Mr. Kavanagh, and I'll wait."

I concluded in as few words as possible, anxiously desiring to hear what Keene had to say; and immediately that I had finished, Merrivale turned toward him:

"What do you think of it all, in heaven's name?"

Mr. Inspector scraped his chin, and waited some moments before replying, his bright keen eyes glancing alternately from one to another of us. "If I were to tell you, sirs, all I think, you'd be tired of hearing me, for I've been thinking as hard as my brains could go for the last week past. If you'd have made a friend, Mr. Kavanagh, of Mr. Merrivale or your humble servant in the matter you just now revealed, it might have helped me not a trifle--not a trifle. However, I believe you did it for the best; and after all I think we'll be even with them yet. But it is as confoundedly black a business as it ever fell to my lot to deal with; and I've had businesses, gentlemen, as black as--well, as old Harry himself. You see there's three points to follow up; and if we can tackle one securely, why, I consider we shall tackle all, for I believe they hang together. First," checking it off on his thumb, "there's the murder; and the point there is to find who really bought that grain of strychnine which the chemist has booked. It rests between master and man to reveal; and I incline to the latter, and have my eye on him. Never tell me," said the detective, warming with his subject, "that neither of them don't know; I tell you one of them does know, and my name's not Keene if I don't have it out of them yet. That's one point, an't it, Mr. Merrivale?" Merrivale assented. "Then the second," checking number two off on his stumpy fore-finger, "includes four parties, and their connection with each other; the man De Vos or Sullivan, the man O'Brian, Mr. Lister Wilmot, and the housekeeper."

"The housekeeper, Mrs. Haag!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, sir; Mrs. Haag, if that's her name."

"You think it is not?"

"I know it isn't."

"You know it?"

"I do. When Jones showed me his notes, and repeated to me what you and he had heard in Blue-Anchor Lane last Thursday night, I smelt a rat, Mr. Kavanagh, and I followed my nose, sir. When I said I was on the scent, I meant it. From that hour I wrote down in my note-book, 'Mrs. Haag, alias Bradley--Bradley, alias O'Brian; her husband, escaped convict from New South Wales.' For Jones identified that man by a description in the hands of all of us in the force. To have taken him there and then would simply have been madness, and insured your both being murdered in that villainous hole. But to follow out the connection between the housekeeper and him, him and Sullivan, Sullivan and Mr. Wilmot, is another point, an't it, Mr. Merrivale?"

Again Merrivale assented, his usually impassible face now stirred with the deepest, most anxious interest.

"Is 'Sullivan' De Vos's right name?" he asked.

"I believe it is, sir. He's thoroughly Irish; but O'Brian isn't, though he's taken an Irish name. Sullivan's been known to the police also in his time, and I fancy there's a little matter in the wind which might introduce him again to us. They've both had their warning, though, from some quarter, and are in safe hiding somewhere or other as yet."

"Have you more to tell us about O'Brian?"

"Nothing more, sir, at present. There's some dark secret and mystery hanging over him--a terrible story, I am afraid; but I can't speak for certain just now.--Mr. Kavanagh," suddenly glancing up at me, "did you never see a likeness to any one in Mr. Wilmot?"

"No, not that I know of. We have often said he was like none of his relatives living, that was his uncle and cousin. Have you?"

"It's fancy, sir, no doubt. His mother died when he was very young, didn't she? and his father?"

"Mrs. Wilmot died soon after his birth. His father I never heard of. He was a mauvais sujet, I believe."

"Ah! The inspector drew a long breath and relapsed into one of his silent moods, during which the process of scraping and gnawing was resumed with avidity.

"And your third point?" said I, to arouse him.

"My third point, gentlemen," waking up lively, and dabbing at his middle finger, "which, considering Mr. Atherton's position at the present moment, seems to be the least important or pressing, is, nevertheless, the one I am for pursuing immediately,--to find this heir of whom mention has been made, Mr. Thorneley's idiot son."

"Surely there is no hurry about that!" we both exclaimed.

"It would appear not, gentlemen, perhaps to you, but there does to me. Supposing," said the detective, leaning forward, and speaking very much more earnestly than he had hitherto done--"supposing that the will you made, Mr. Kavanagh, was stolen, then secreted or destroyed on the night of Mr. Thorneley's death, that being what I might call the dead evidence of the truth of what you stated publicly to-day, and supposing the parties who suppressed that will knew of the whereabouts of the heir, they would, I conclude, be equally anxious to suppress the living evidence also--to get him out of the way. Do you follow me, gentlemen?"

"Yes, yes," we both exclaimed, for we felt he had a purpose in speaking; "you are right."

"Then, sirs, we must prosecute a search for this poor idiot fellow. I see my way at present very dimly and darkly; but something tells me that on our road to find Mr. Francis Gilbert Thorneley we shall find also other links in the broken chain we are trying to piece together."

"How do you propose setting to work, Keene?" asked Merrivale.

"Mr. Atherton, being situated as he is, cannot act; it is therefore for Mr. Kavanagh to take it upon himself, being named executor. I have ascertained that Mr. Thorneley never went near his place in Lincolnshire. Why? Because his son lived there. Do you follow me, Mr. Kavanagh?"

"I do. You think I must visit the Grange immediately?"

"Yes, sir."

Light then at last seemed to be gleaming on our darkness; not only a glimmer, but a full bright ray. There was consistency and connection in all that the inspector had put before us, though only as yet, to a great degree, in supposition. Merrivale, agreeing with me that he would send us on no wild-goose chase, it was settled I should go down by the five-o'clock express train.

In less than an hour I was standing at King's Cross Terminus, and five minutes past five I was whirling away from London at the rate of thirty miles an hour. At Peterborough we stopped for half-an-hour to change carriages, and I went into the waiting-room to get some refreshment. It was very full, for numbers of passengers were travelling by that train to be present at some local races, and for some minutes I could not approach the counter. At last I contrived to edge in next to a rather tall man, very much enveloped in wraps, wearing a travelling-cap and blue spectacles. I asked for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Every one knows the degree of heat to which railway coffee is brought; and waiting awhile for the sake of my throat before drinking it, I suddenly bethought myself of setting my watch by the clock in the room. I put up my glass to look for it; it {748} was at the opposite end, and I turned my back upon my tall neighbor whilst altering the watch. When I turned round he was gone. I finished my coffee and paid for it. Bah! how mawkish a taste it had left in my mouth; what stuff they sell in England for real Mocha! So I thought as I stepped out on the platform and walked up and down, awaiting the train and reading in a sort of dreamy, unconscious manner the advertisements and placards covering the walls. Taylor Brothers, Parkins and Gotto, Heal and Son, Mudie's Library, and all the rest, so well known Ha! what is this? "MURDER: £100 Reward," for information leading to the detection of the murderer of Mr. Gilbert Thorneley; and beneath, another, "Reward of £50 offered for the apprehension of Robert Bradley," alias O'Brian, escaped convict, with a full description of his personal appearance appended. "Inspector Keene's work," thought I to myself. One solitary female figure stood before me, reading the placard; a neat trim figure, clad in deep mourning garments, motionless, mute, and absorbed as it were in the interest of what she was perusing. What was it that made me start and shiver as my eye fell upon that statue-like form? what was it that, amidst an overpowering and unaccountable drowsiness creeping over me, seemed to sting me into life and vigilance? The answer was plain before me: staring at me with wildly-gleaming eyes, with a face startled out of its habitual calmness and self-possession, with fear and rage and a hundred passions at work in her countenance, was old Thorneley's housekeeper. "Mrs. Haag!" I exclaimed; and almost as I spoke, a change sudden and rapid as thought took place in her, and she regained the cold passionless expression I had noticed that same afternoon.

"The same, Mr. Kavanagh;" and, inclining her head, she was passing on.

"Stay!" I said, catching her by the arm. "What are you doing here? Where are you going?"

"By what right do you ask me, sir?" was the reply in very calm and perfectly respectful tones.

"By what right!" I cried with headlong impetuosity. "By the best right that any man could have--the right of asking, or saying, or doing anything that may help me to detect the guilty and clear the innocent. Woman, there is some deadly mystery hanging around yon, some guilty secret in which you have played your part, and which, by the heavens above us, I will unearth and bring to light! I will, I will!"

What was the matter with me? My brain was dizzy; the lights, the station, the faces around me, the woman I was addressing, seemed to be going round and round, and I became conscious that my speech was getting incoherent.

"You have been drinking, Mr. Kavanagh," I heard a hard voice saying to me, with a slight foreign accent. Then a bell rang, and I was hurried forward by the crowd who were flocking on the platform; hurried on toward a train that had come into the station whilst I had been engaged with the housekeeper. I remember entering a carriage and sinking down on a cushioned seat; then I lost all consciousness, until I heard a voice shouting in my ear, "Your ticket, sir, please."

I started up.

"Where am I?"

"Lincoln; ticket--quick, sir."

I handed out my ticket.

"This is for Stixwould, four stations back on the line. Two extra shillings to pay."

"Good heavens! I must have been asleep. How am I to get back?"

"Don't know, sir; no train tonight."

The money is paid, the door banged to, and we are shot into Lincoln station at nine o'clock. There was no help for it now but to make my way to the nearest hotel, and see what {749} means were to be had of returning to Stixwould--the nearest station to the Grange, and that was ten miles from it--or else pass the night here and take the earliest train in the morning. I bade a porter take my bag, and show me to some hotel; and I followed him, shivering in every limb, my head aching as I had never felt it ache before--sick, giddy, and scarcely able to draw one foot after another. Then I knew what had happened to me; it flashed across me all in a moment. That man, disguised and in spectacles, standing next to me at the refreshment-counter at Peterborough, was De Vos, and he had dragged my coffee. I felt not a doubt of it.

In ten minutes we stopped at the Queen's Hotel, and after engaging a room, I despatched a porter for the nearest doctor. To him I confided the object of my journey, what I believed had occurred to me, and the necessity there was for my taking such prompt remedies as should enable me to recover my full strength, energies, and wits for the morrow. Following his advice, after swallowing his medicine, I relinquished all notion of proceeding that night on my journey, and went to bed. The next morning I awoke quite fresh and well; but what precious hours had been lost! hours sufficient to ruin all hope of my journey bearing any fruits, of finding even a shadowy clue to the tangled web that seemed closing in around us. And Hugh Atherton lay in prison and Ada, my poor sorrowful darling, was breaking her heart beneath the load of misery which had come upon her. By eight o'clock I had started for Stixwould, and in half an hour alighted at that small station. I was the only passenger for that place, and I had to wait whilst the train moved off for the solitary porter to take my ticket. Just as the bell had rung, a man passed out from some door and went up to one of the carriages. "Could you oblige me with a fusee, sir?" I heard him say.

Some one leaned forward and handed out what was asked for; it was the tall man in spectacles who had stood next to me at Peterborough station. The train moved off just as I rushed forward, rushed almost into the arms of the other man who had asked for the fusee. Wonders would never cease! It was Inspector Keene.

"Thank God, it is you!"

"Yes, sir--myself. In a moment--I must telegraph up to town;" and he ran into the office.

"Now, sir," he said when he came out, "what has happened to bring you here this morning from Lincoln?"

I told him, and expressed my astonishment at seeing him.

"We heard last night that Mrs. Haag had left London and taken her ticket for this place. I took the night mail to look after the lady and warn you, sir. Now we had best post off directly for the Grange. I've already ordered a fly and a pair of horses. We'll bribe the man, and be there in something less than an hour and a half.

"That man you spoke to in the train was De Vos," I said when we had started.

"I know it, sir. He was sent to watch you, I suspect; and treat you to that little dose in your coffee."

"And the housekeeper?"

"Oh! she, I imagine, is safe ahead there at the Grange. At any rate, she has not returned up the line; every station has been watched, and they would have telegraphed to me."

O the dreariness of that drive! Rain poured down from the leaden, lowering sky and concentrated into a thick midst over the dismal wolds. Patter, patter, slush, slush, as we drove along the wet miry roads, the horses urged on to the utmost of their wretched, broken-down speed; and the damp chill air penetrating the old rotten vehicle and entering the very marrow of one's bones. So we arrived at last before a low stone lodge that guarded some ponderous iron gates. A gaunt ill-favored man came out at the sound of the wheels, and stared at us in no friendly manner.

"Whar are ye from?" ho called out.

"From Mr. Wilmot," answered the inspector.

"Dunna b'lieve ye. Orders is for ne'run to go up to the house."

Keene opened the door of the fly and sprang out.

"Look here, my man," he said, producing his staff; "I'm a police-officer from London, and I've come down here about the murder of your master. Open the gate in the name of the law!"

The man stared, pulled the keys out of his pocket, unlocked the gates and threw them open. The inspector jumped up beside the driver and bade him go on.

A short avenue, lined on either side with magnificent trees, brought us to the gate of extensive but ill-kept pleasure-grounds, and so to the stone portico of the Grange. A peal of the bell brought an old woman to the door, who peered out suspiciously, and demanded what we wanted.

"I am a detective-officer from London, and have a warrant for searching this house;" and Keene putting the old hag aside, we passed into the hall.

"Ye mun show me yer warrant or I'll have ye put out agin in double-quick time," she said, scowling at the inspector. For reply the staff of office was again out of his pocket in a twinkling, and flourished before her eyes.

"You take yourself off and show us over the house instantly, or it will be the worse for you."

The woman cowered, and muttering to herself, led the way across the spacious hall, and threw open a door on the left. The house apparently was a low rambling building of ancient date, with panelled walls and high casement-windows. We traversed several rooms, bare in furniture and that struck one with a sense of utter cheerlessness and want of comfort. This, then, was the desolate isolated house which Gilbert Thorneley had owned and yet shunned so carefully during life; this was the place where his idiot boy had probably dragged on the greater number of his miserable years. But I need not dwell upon our search through the house.

High and low Inspector Keene ranged; looking into cupboards and dark closets, sounding the panelled walls and poking at imaginary trapdoors. With the exception of the old crone, who accompanied us, and a great tabby cat lying before the kitchen-fire, no trace of living soul was visible.

"Where's young Mr. Thorneley?" said the inspector to her when our visitation was made.

"Never heard on him."

"Who lives here?"

"Only myself."

"Where's the lady who came here yesterday evening?"

A curious gleam shot from the old woman's eyes.

"Dunno; no lady here."

"I shall take you into custody, if you won't tell."

"Then you mun do it--I'se nothing to say."

Keene turned to me.

"Our visit has been useless, sir. I used the threat, but I can't take the woman on no charge; there is nothing left but to--"

Hark! what sound was that which rang out upon our ears, which made our hair stand on end, and our hearts stand still! Shriek upon shriek of the most horrible, wild, unearthly laughter pealing from somewhere overhead. The old woman made a dash forward to the staircase, and called some name that was drowned in the echoes of that terrible mirth. But in a second we had bounded past her and up the flight of stairs, and there, at the far end of the corridor, gesticulating and jabbering at us as we approached him with all the fearful, revolting madness of idiocy, was the man in whose features was stamped the perfect likeness of old Gilbert Thorneley.

CHAPTER IX.

THE TRIAL.

Inspector Keene's third point had been followed up and worked out: Francis Gilbert Thorneley, the lost heir was found; and the living evidence in favor of the will I had made was in our actual possession. That it should be so seemed a merciful interposition of Providence; for we had little doubt but that it had been intended I should, under the influence of the stupefying drug administered by Do Vos, be delayed on my journey, and so give time for him or the housekeeper, or both, to visit the Grange and effect whatever purpose they had in view. What had defeated them, or caused their failure, remained as yet a mystery. Equally mysterious was the way in which both the conspirators had managed to elude the vigilance of the police; and bitter seemed the Inspector's disappointment when, on arriving in London, he found no intelligence awaiting him of either man or woman. We brought up the poor idiot with us; and I took him to my own chambers, engaging a proper attendant to take charge of him, recommended by the physician whom I called in to examine him. He seemed to be perfectly harmless, and tractable as a child, but totally bereft of sense or reason, amusing himself with toys, picture-books, and other infantile diversions, by the hour. We tried to get some coherent account of himself from him, but to no purpose; he knew his name and the name of the old man and woman who had been his sole guardians and companions, apparently for years. But beyond that, no information could be elicited; and to all questions he would reply with some sort of childish babble or jabber. This was the heir to old Thorneley's immense wealth.

There now remained the two other points marked by the Inspector to follow up. Oh! how time was fast rushing on!--time that was so precious for life or death--and so little done as yet toward clearing away all that mountain of condemning evidence which would infallibly, in the eyes of any English jury, bring sentence of death upon the suspected murderer. The question forever rang in my ears, "Who bought that grain of strychnine on the 23d of October?" Upon the discovery and identification of that person both Merrivale and myself, as also the counsel whom he had engaged for the defence, felt everything would hang. But up to the present moment, except in our own minds, not the shadow of a clue could be found. The 16th November, the day appointed for the trial of Hugh Atherton, approached with terrible nearness; and our confidence in all but God's mercy and justice was ebbing fast away. After finding and bringing the lost heir to London, I wrote to Atherton by Merrivale, detailing all that old Thorneley had confided to me, the contents of the will, and my journey into Lincolnshire. I wrote, entreating him to see me; to let no cloud come between us, who had been such close friends from boyhood, at such a moment; to turn a deaf ear to all influence that might suggest that I was acting otherwise than I had always done toward him. I wrote all the bitter sorrow of my heart at having been forced involuntarily to give evidence that might be turned against him; all the self-reproach I felt for not having yielded to his wish of returning home with me that terrible evening.

He answered me in cold distant words, that under the circumstances it was best we should not meet; that Merrivale would act for him in all as he judged best; that he did not wish to be disturbed again before his trial. I showed the letter to Merrivale, and he told me he could not make it out, for that Hugh was quite unreserved with him on all points save this, and {752} to every suggestion he had made to him of seeing me, he had invariably given the same reply, and declined to enter upon the subject. Then I had recourse to Ada Leslie; but she only obtained the same result.

"I told him, guardian," she said, "how true you were to him, how earnest and indefatigable in doing all you could for him, how sure I was that you loved him better than any thing on earth. But all the answer I got was, 'No, Ada; not better than anything. Don't let us say anything more on the subject.' What can he mean? for I am sure he meant something particular."

Was it hard to look in her face, meet her clear trusting eyes, and answer back, "You were right, Ada; he is laboring under some delusion?" Were they false words I spoke, my own heart giving them the lie? Thank God, no. I was true to her, true to him.

The time between my journey into Lincolnshire and the day of the trial seems, on looking back, to be one dead blank, inasmuch as, do what we would, we were no nearer the solution of the mystery after those three weeks of research and watchfulness than we were on the morning succeeding the murder. There were the prolonged conferences of lawyers with counsel, of counsel with prisoner, of both with the detectives; and day by day I saw Merrivale's face growing more careworn, stern, and anxious; I saw both Inspector Keene's and Jones's baffled looks; and--worse, far worse than all--I saw Ada Leslie wasting away before me, withering beneath the blighting sorrow that had fallen upon her young life. Oh! the terrible anguish written upon that wan, worn face that would be lifted up to mine each time I saw her, the unspeakably painful eagerness of her tones as she would ask, "is there any news?" and the touching calmness of her despairing look succeeding the answer which blasted the hopes that kept cruelly rising in her breast only to be crushed!

So the morning of the 16th of November dawned upon us. For the defence Merrivale had engaged two of the most acute lawyers and most eloquent pleaders then practising at the English bar, Sergeant Donaldson and Mr. Forster, Q.C. They were both personal friends of Hugh Atherton, both equally convinced of his innocence. On the part of the Crown the Solicitor-General, Sergeant Butler, and a Mr. Frost were retained--all eminent men. The judges sitting were the Lord Chief-Justice and Baron Watson. Although we arrived very early, the Court was crowded to suffocation; and it was only by help of the police-officers and authorities that we could find entrance, although engaged in the principal case coming on. Special reporters of the press, for London and the country, were eagerly clamoring for seats in the reporters' bench; and even foreign journals had sent over their "own correspondents," such a general stir and sensation had the murder of Gilbert Thorneley made far and near.

Two or three trivial cases of embezzlement and stealing came first before the Common Sergeant, whilst preparations for the one great trial were made, the witnesses collected, and the counsel on either side holding their final conferences. At a quarter to eleven the Chief-Justice, followed by his brother judge, entered amidst profound silence and took his seat. They were both men who had grown old and gray in the administration of justice, who had for years sat in judgment upon the guilty and the not guilty--men whose ears were familiar with the details of almost every misery and crime known to human nature--men who had had their own griefs and trials; and on the venerable face of the superior judge many a deep furrow had been left to tell its tale, whether engraven by private sorrow, or sympathy for the mass of woe and suffering which passed so constantly before his eyes. I had the honor of being personally acquainted {753} with his lordship. How well I remembered an evening, not so long ago, spent at his house with Hugh Atherton; when he, that eminent judge, that distinguished lawyer, had come up to me and talked of Hugh, of his talents, his eloquence, his growing reputation! I remembered the sad, wistful expression of his eye as it dwelt upon my friend, and the tone of his voice, as he said with a deep sigh, "If my boy had lived, I could have wished him to have been such a one as he. " He remembered it also, if I might judge from the sorrowful gravity of his countenance. I was standing beside Merrivale beneath the prisoner's dock, facing the judge's chair; and in a few moments there was a rustle and stir throughout the court, and I saw the Chief-Justice pass his hand before his eyes for a brief second. Then was heard the loud harsh voice of the clerk of the court addressing some one before him:

"Philip Hugh Atherton, you stand there charged with the wilful murder of your uncle, Mr. Gilbert Thorneley. How say you, prisoner at the bar--are you guilty or not guilty?"

A voice, low, deep-toned, and thrilling in its distinctness, replied: "Not guilty, my lord; not guilty, so help me, O my God!" and turning round, once again my eyes met those of Hugh Atherton.

A great change had been wrought in him during the last three weeks, he had grown so thin and worn; and amongst the waving masses of his dark hair I could trace many and many a silver thread. Twenty years could not have aged him more than these twenty days passed in that felon's cell, beneath the imputation of that savage crime. Who could look at him and think him guilty; who could gaze upon his open, manly face, so noble in its expression of mingled firmness and gentleness, in its guileless innocence and conscious rectitude of purpose, and say, "That man has committed murder"? My heart went out to him, as I looked on his familiar face once more, with all the love and honor with which I had ever cherished his friendship.

A special jury were then sworn in. All passed unchallenged; and the Solicitor-General rose to open the case for the prosecution, and began by requesting that all the witnesses might be ordered to leave the court. It is needless to say that I had been subpoenaed by the crown to repeat the wretched evidence already given at the inquest; needless also to say that, not being personally present during the whole trial, I have drawn from the same sources as before for an account of it.

We had been given to understand that no other witnesses than those examined before the coroner would be called against the prisoner; why should they want more? They had enough evidence to bring down condemnation twice over. On the part of the defence I have before said up to that morning nothing fresh had been discovered that could in any way be used as a direct refutation of what had already been adduced, and would be brought forward again on this day.

After the examination of the medical men I was called into the witness-box, and examined by the Solicitor-General. To my former evidence I now added an account of what had passed between myself and the murdered man on the evening of the 23d, the contents of the will, my journey to the Grange, and the discovery of Thorneley's idiot son. I likewise gave an account of my visit with Jones to Blue-Anchor lane. I noticed that this was ill-received by the Crown counsel; but the judges overruled the Solicitor-General's attempt to squash my statements, and insisted upon my having a full hearing. At the end Sergeant Donaldson rose to cross-question me.

"Did Mr. Thorneley mention in whose favor his previous will had been made?"

"He did not. Simply that he intended the will drawn up then to cancel all others."

"Can you remember the words in which he alluded to his wife and son?"

"Perfectly; I wrote them in the memorandum addressed to Mr. Atherton, and which Mr. Merrivale has communicated to you."

The Chief-Justice: "Read the extract, brother Donaldson."

Sergeant Donaldson read as follows: "'Five-and-twenty years ago I married one much younger than myself, an orphan living with an aunt, her only relative, and who died shortly after our marriage. My ruling passion was speculation; and I married her, not for love, but for her fortune, which was large; I coveted it for the indulgence of my passion. She was not happy with me, and I took no pains to make her happier. Few knew of our marriage. I kept her at the Grange till she died. Only I and one other person were with her at her death. She gave birth to one child, a boy. Ho grew up an idiot, and I hated him. But I wish to make reparation to my dead wife in the person of her son--not out of love to her memory, but to defeat the plans of others, and in expiation of me wrong done to her. I have never loved any one in my life but my twin-sister, Hugh Atherton's mother: and him for her sake and his own.' And then, my lord, follow the instructions for the will given to Mr. Kavanagh." To the witness: "Did Mr. Thorneley give you any clue to the 'other person' who was with him at his wife's death?"

"None at all."

"When you met the prisoner in Vere street, did he say he was going to visit his uncle then?"

"No; on the contrary, he seemed anxious to come home with me. I should imagine it was an after-thought."

"Mr. Wilmot has stated that you volunteered to give evidence against the prisoner: is it so?"

"No; it is most false. I was surprised by detective Jones into an admission; and when I found that it would be used against Mr. Atherton, I did all in my power to get off attending the inquest."

Reëxamined by the Solicitor-General: "It was against your consent that the prisoner was engaged to your ward Miss Leslie, was it not?"

"Against my consent! Assuredly not. She bad my consent from the beginning."

"You may go, Mr. Kavanagh."

The witness who succeeded me was the housekeeper. It was observed that she did not maintain the same calmness as at the inquest; but her evidence was perfectly consistent, given perhaps with more eagerness, but differing and varying in no essential point from her previous depositions.

Questioned as to whether she had been aware of Mr. Thorneley's marriage, replied she had not, having always been in charge of his house in town, first in the city and afterward in Wimpole street. He had often been from home for many weeks together, but she never knew where he went.

Cross-examined.--Could swear she had poured no ale out in the tumbler before taking it into the study--Barker had been with her all the time--nor yet in the room.

Sergeant Donaldson: "Now, Mrs. Haag, attend to me. How long have you been a widow?"

"Fifteen years."

"What was your husband?"

"A commercial traveller. He was not successful, and I went into service soon after I married."

"Had you any children?"

"One son. He died."

"When?"

"Years ago."

"How many years ago?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Is Haag your married name?"

"Yes."

"Did you bear the name of Bradley?"

"I never bore such a name. I am a Belgian; so was my husband."

A paper was here passed in to Sergeant Donaldson, and handed by him to the judges.

The Chief-Justice: "This is a certificate of marriage celebrated at Plymouth between Maria Haag, spinster, and Robert Bradley, bachelor, dated June, 1829, and witnessed in proper legal form."

Witness: "I know nothing of it. My name is Haag by marriage. I am very faint; let me go away."

A chair and glass of water were brought to the witness. In a few moments she had recovered and the cross-examination was renewed.

"How came it that you were met in the middle of Vere street, when, by your own showing, you must then have turned out of the street before Mr. Kavanagh could have overtaken you?"

"Mr. Kavanagh did not meet me. I have so said before. I went straight home after passing him and Mr. Atherton at the chemist's shop. He is mistaken."

"What took you to Peterborough on the 30th of last month?"

"I went to visit a friend at Spalding."

"How was it, then, that you returned to London by the twelve o'clock train the following day--I mean arrived in London at that hour?"

Witness hesitated for some time, and at last looked up defiantly.

"What right have you to ask me such a question?"

Baron Watson: "You are bound to answer, Mrs. Haag."

Witness confusedly: "I did not find my friend at home."

Sergeant Donaldson: "Do you mean to say you took that journey with the chance of finding your friend away?"

"I did."

To the Chief-Justice: "My lord, I am informed by Inspector Keene, of the detective service, that Mrs. Haag never visited Spalding at all; that she took a ticket for Stixwould, at which station she got out, and from which station she returned the following day."

Baron Watson: "I don't see what you are trying to prove, brother Donaldson."

"I am trying to prove, my lord, that Mrs. Haag is not a witness upon whose veracity we can rely."

The Chief-Justice: "You must be well aware, Mrs. Haag, that the mystery of this second will, and discovery of your late master's son, bear direct influence upon the charge of which the prisoner is accused. I think it highly necessary that you should be able to give a clear account of that journey of yours on the 30th of last month. For your own sake, do you understand?"

Witness violently: "Of what do you suspect me? I have related the truth."

Sergeant Donaldson: "Excuse me, my lord, I shall call two witnesses presently who will throw some light upon this person's movements. I have no further questions to put to her now."

Barker the footman and the other servants were next examined, and deposed as before, with no additions nor variations.

Mr. Forster in cross-examination drew from the cook a yet more confident declaration that she had heard footsteps on the front-stairs leading from the third to the second floor on the night of the murder. Also that the housekeeper had "gone on awful at her for saying so; but she had stuck to her word and told Mrs. 'Aag as she wasn't a-going to be badgered nor bullied out of her convictions for any 'ousekeeper; and that afterwards Mrs. 'Aag had come to her quite soft and civil, your lordships, and said, 'Here's a suverin, cook, not to mention what you heerd; for if you says a word about them steps, why,' says she, 'you'll just go and put it into them lawyers' 'eads as some of us did it,' says she. But a oath's a oath, my lordships; and a being close and confined is what I could never abide or abear; and that's every bit the truth, and here's her suverin back again, which I never touched nor broke into."

Baron Watson: "On your oath, then, you declare you heard a footstep on the front-stairs during the night of the 23d but you don't know at what hour?"

"As certain sure, my lord, as that you are a sittin' on your cheer."

After eliciting a few more confirmatory details, the witness was dismissed and Mr. Wilmot called. Nothing further was got out of him than what he had stated before the coroner. Either he was most thoroughly on his guard, or he really was, as he professed to be, ignorant of his cousin Thorneley's existence up to the day of the funeral; ignorant of the contents of his uncle's will, until it was opened at Smith and Walker's; totally unacquainted with the man Sullivan or De Vos; innocent of having written the note seized upon the boy in Blue-Anchor Lane by detective Jones, all knowledge of or complicity with which he absolutely and solemnly denied.

Questioned as to his motive for saying that Miss Leslie had been refused the consent of her guardian, Mr. Kavanagh, to her marriage, replied he had been distinctly told so by Mrs. Leslie, who had mentioned also that Mr. Kavanagh was attached to Miss Leslie himself, and had tried to make her break off the engagement.

Inspector Jackson and Thomas Davis, the chemist, next gave evidence. The latter was cross-questioned by Sergeant Donaldson. Could not swear he did not leave the shop on the evening of the 23d between the time when he had sold the camphor and nine o'clock, his supper-hour; had tried hard to recollect since attending at the inquest, and had spoken to his wife and his assistant. The former thought he had; that she had heard him go into the back-parlor whilst she was down in the kitchen; the latter had said he had not left the shop until nine o'clock. Could swear he had sold no strychnine himself that day. The entry was, however, in his own handwriting. He had talked over the matter repeatedly with James Ball, his assistant, but had gathered no light on the subject. The latter had been in a very odd state of mind since then. The murder seemed to have taken great effect upon him. He had become very nervous, forgetful, and absent; and he (Davis) had been obliged to admonish him several times of late, that if he went on so badly he must seek another situation.

James Ball replaced his master in the witness-box. He looked very haggard and excited, and answered the questions put to him, in an incoherent, unsatisfactory manner, very different from his conduct at the inquest. Admonished by the Chief-justice that he was upon his oath and giving evidence in a matter of life and death, had cried out passionately that he wished he had been dead before that wretched evening.--Ordered to explain what he meant, became confused, and said he had felt ill ever since the inquest.

Cross-questioned by Mr. Forester: "Does your master keep an errand-boy?"

"Yes."

"Was he in the shop on the evening of the 23d?"

"I don't remember."

"Oh! you don't remember! Do you remember receiving a letter on the afternoon of the 24th containing a Bank-of-England £10 note?"

"I did not receive any letter."

"But you received what is called an 'enclosure' of a £10 note, did you not?"

No answer.

"Did you hear my question, sir? Did you or did you not receive it?--on your oath, remember!"

No answer.

The Chief-Justice: "You must answer that gentleman, James Ball."

Still no answer.

The Chief-Justice: "Once more I repeat my learned brother's question. Did you or did you not receive that £10 note on the 24th of October last? If you do not answer, I shall commit you for contempt of court."