Augustus stood silent. After a time he roused himself and glanced about. His eyes fell on Mr. Sugden and a pathetic look came into them.

“Say,” (his voice trembling) “you look like a decent sport—that might help a feller out.”

“What the hell do ye want? Ain’t I get’n’ ye by the cops?”

“Yes—yes—but I——You see, it’s this way. I’m feeling pretty sick—an’ if you could manage to get me a drink somewheres——”

“Listen here, Topsy!” Sugden spoke unfeelingly. “You’re going to Canada—didn’t you know that? Canada, you fish bait, where you can swim in it!”

Shortly after this the detective left, reappearing again about nine o’clock with a few things that Findlay had left at the Charles Street jail, and in addition a heavy winter overcoat which he made the frightened wretch put on. Somewhere about a quarter to eleven o’clock they cautiously left the house, got into a taxi that was waiting, and were driven to the Trinity Place Station of the Boston and Albany. Sugden took Augustus down to the platform for the west-bound trains, and arriving there, shoved him to one side where they were in the shadow.

“Listen here,” he growled in a low voice with warning in it. “You’re goin’ to take the night train for St. Louis, due here in about one minute. But ye don’t stay on that train—get me? There’ll be a bull waitin’ fur ye at the Union Station out there if ye do. You’re goin’ to side-step at Albany—see? It’ll be five in the morning. Keep to the shadows an’ slouch on to the Montreal train at seven. Ye change at Rouses Point, an’ that helps throw ’em off. When ye hit Montreal, lay low! Get a bunk at some joint. Monkey with that mug o’ yours. Raise a crop o’ hay on it; an’ whatever ye do, don’t be seen with a paper from the States in yer han’s or they’ll cop you. After about two weeks climb on a steamer for England. You’ll find a fake passport in with the railroad ticket in that pocket” (touching Findlay’s overcoat on the right breast). “There’s another name on it. You ain’t Findlay any more. There’s a wad o’ money sewed in the linin’. Lose yerself over there. An’ if yer life is worth anything to ye don’t cross back to this side again. There’ll be a big reward out for ye an’ there’s sharp guys here that makes a hell of a livin’ keepin’ tabs on boobs like you. I’m one of ’em. An’ if ever ye do take a fancy to come back I hope I’ll be the guy that puts the nippers on ye. There’s yer train!” (With an ugly jerk of his head toward it). “Now on with ye, an’ I’ll keep back any cops that’s followin’.”

Augustus hurried into the coach, and Sugden stood close to the steps until the train moved on—which was in a few seconds, as the stop at Trinity Place is brief in the extreme.

Of course you’ll realize that all this elaborate framing was for the purpose of getting Findlay permanently out of the Western Hemisphere. After the nolle prosse there was nothing in the world they could hold him for. Who it was that had got Mr. Forbes and Mr. Sugden to carry out this scheme did not at the time, appear.

Following at once on the collapse of the case against Augustus and his discharge from custody, came the arrest of James Dreek, the butler, and the holding of him for the murder.

In his avid eagerness for every detail that can be found (or manufactured) in murder cases, the newspaper addict skips with perfect ease from one suspect to another, often seemingly glad of the change. In this instance, however, the very unusual interest had been aroused, not so much by the hunt for the person or persons guilty of the crime (though that feature was rapidly becoming absorbing) as by the extraordinary manner in which the evidence in the case was being brought to light. Everybody knew of that celebrated detective in Chicago not long deceased, and his brief and characteristic comments on the Haworth case through the mediumistic services of Mr. Harcourt Sidney, and his calling attention to the shattered window blind and the bullet in the tree, made not only a sensation, but a strange and alluring one.

From the first intimation that somebody was framing Augustus Findlay—which flashed upon them when Mr. Rathbun told of the fight for the revolver under his window in Collamore Street—the detectives had fastened their eyes on Dreek. There were already a few things that didn’t look well for the young butler. They’d found a loaded revolver under a lot of soiled linen on the floor of a cupboard in the butler’s pantry. One or two letters they got out of his trunk had an ugly look. Worst of all was the finding of his footprints on each side of the front windows of the room on the left, these imprints overlapping those of Augustus Findlay—thus showing that he’d been there after Findlay had run away. These Dreek footprints had not meant so much before, as Findlay was known to have been at the window when the shots were fired, and therefore Dreek arrived afterward. But now that it was proved that the firing was from within the house, it involved Dreek in several ways, two of them being serious. Not only was he the only one in the house with Haworth, according to all the evidence (excepting his own), and therefore apparently the only one who could have fired from the inside, but the footmarks showed unmistakably that he was the one who went round after the murder and opened the shutters back against the wall, replacing the vines over them in such a way that they would give the appearance of not having been disturbed at all. He was now, on account of this, definitely in the position of trying to throw the guilt on an innocent man. This was corroborated by a number of small items—the marks of a house stepladder outside under each shutter, the finding of a house stepladder in the back entry which fitted into these marks, and the fingerprint people reporting that Dreek had been the last one who had handled it. He had insisted most emphatically in his earlier testimony that he had gone out of the rear door several minutes before the shooting and wasn’t in the house when it occurred. But there was nothing to show that this was the case. On the contrary there was every reason to suppose that he had not left the house with the stepladder until after the shots were fired.

Of course he was in for a fearful ordeal. I’m not going to describe it to you, but only give you my word that they third-degreed Jamie Dreek good and plenty.

Precisely in the midst of these painful proceedings the Associated Press again took a hand in the game—or to put it more accurately, played a hand that had been dealt to it.

It was the day following the second night of Dreek’s torment. The police had kept him awake for twenty-nine hours with their shouted questions and punching-up process and rough handling. The job was nearly done. He was “ripe” (put that in quotes) to sign anything or confess anything. And then came the noon editions with big front page headlines on top of A. P. dispatches from San Francisco.

It seems a well-known medium out there by the name of Waverley Bentick was doing his turn—or whatever’s the right name for it—at one of the specially high-class Spiritistic assemblies, held in a large hall commonly alluded to as their “church,” and situated some considerable way out Golden Gate Avenue. Mr. Bentick was passing out messages to people in the auditorium, when, as he was in the midst of a communication for a woman sitting in the second row, he suddenly stopped and called out, “Wait a moment, please, and let this lady finish!—Just a moment, I say!—You mustn’t break in like that!”

There was a pause. Then the medium resumed in an altered tone, speaking to the assemblage: “I’m sorry, but a man has pushed in, in spite of everything my control can do!—Tall—heavily built—grizzled gray hair—pointed beard—looks as if he might be a doctor.... No—says he isn’t one. Only keep us a moment—been trying to get through in Boston—too many in the way. It’s about some murder case over there—the Howard case, is that it?... No—that isn’t it! He doesn’t speak very distinctly.... What?... All right, go on.... H-a-w-o-r-t-h. Oh, the Haworth case! Yes, we’ve heard of that! I should think so!”

Instantly there was intense interest shown—people craning forward to listen, and calls of, “Go on—go on!” For the extraordinary developments in the case had by this time made it known everywhere,—especially among those of the Spirit Sect—if that is a proper way to refer to them.

“He says he wants to speak of something now—while they’re third-degreeing a man—as it may apply to him. Something about money—yes—some money—large amount—paid to victim a few hours before he was shot. Thirty-five thousand dollars.... Is that right?... Yes—thirty-five thousand. Police haven’t been able to trace it.... If they want thirty-four thousand five hundred of it—old barn—old barn.... Yes, we understand—old barn. What about it?... He says follow butler’s footprints.... northwest corner in foundation wall under sill timber.... Take out loose stone.... That’s all.... Good-by.”

In this case the Boston police got a rush wire from San Francisco that gave them nearly a forty-five minutes’ start. Inside of twenty after it came in, a Department automobile was speeding through Centre Street, Jamaica Plain, and four minutes later was turning in at the old Cripps gate from Torrington Road.

Perhaps you’ll have noticed that the attitude of the authorities toward messages from the other world had undergone something of a change. Even if the Inspector and others still entertained the notion that these communications were founded on trickery of some kind, they were obliged to admit that it was trickery with a hell of a kick to it, and that made all the difference in the world.

It wasn’t exactly child’s play—nor even adult’s recreation—to trace out James Dreek’s footmarks between the flag paving at the rear of the house and the old barn farther back. But the old weed-grown drive up which he’d gone was fairly soft, and they finally succeeded, arriving at the northwest corner of the barn and finding the loose stone in the foundation wall just under the sill timber. The thirty-four thousand five hundred was in the cavity behind it.

This happened in the small hours. Close to four o’clock in the morning it was—on account of the three-hour difference in time. The papers got it for their afternoon editions. But the police treated it as an old story. “Oh yes, we got the money some time ago!” “Yes, pretty good guess from San Francisco, but a bit late!” “Of course it’s a bad thing for Dreek!” That was about the gist of answers to the frantic inquiries from the reporters at headquarters.

That same morning about eleven o’clock James Dreek was nearing the point of breakdown that the police were working him for. The gang that took him on at noon (they worked in shifts) had it in for him. Even then the pitiable wretch was trying to answer as best he could, but he found it difficult to remember anything at all or even to understand what his persecutors were talking about. Furthermore, his voice was nearly gone, and his tongue so swollen and dry that he couldn’t speak with any sort of distinctness.

“Ye say ye ran out o’ the house before the murder was committed—that’s what ye say, is it? Answer! What’s the matter with ye! Answer the question! Answer the question!”

Dreek tried to say “Yes,” but could hardly more than move his lips. It must have been the eight hundred and sixty-eighth time they’d asked him that.

“Now go on an’ tell us why ye run out? Why? Why? What was it started ye out? Was ye sick? Whad did ye run out for?... Punch ’im up Lucas!... Whad did ye run out for? Whad did ye run out for?”

“I—I thought——” His dry mouth and swollen tongue made it almost impossible to form words.

“Go on—go on—go on! Whad did ye think?”

“Something terrible—going—happen!”

“Goin’ to happen! How in hell’s name could you know something was goin’ to happen unless you was goin’ to MAKE it happen! It did happen, by God, an’ it was you made it happen—an’ then ye ran out o’ the house so’s you could FRAME SOMEBODY ELSE FOR IT!”

“No! No!” (With much difficulty and shaking his head.)

“What was it, then? What was it? What made ye run out?”

“Nos—noises!” His tongue seemed to get in his way.

“What kind o’ noises?... Punch ’im up Lucas!... What noises?”

“Noises—cellar—lights out—scared—ran for police.”

“Oh—police! Ye ran fur the police!”

Dreek nodded, and his bloodshot eyes rolled heavily from one to another of his burly questioners.

“Did ye have to take a ladder with ye to find ’em?”

“Laddle—laddle—ladder?”

“Don’t try any funny business with us—we know what ye did! Now what about that ladder, eh? WHAT ABOUT IT?”

“Oh—ladder—yes! Misser Ha’orth ass me open blin’s—front winnow. So I—I—I was——” He broke off as his head fell forward in sleep.

“Punch him up Lucas! Keep ’im on the job, can’t ye!... Listen here, Dreek—that ladder was to open the blinds, ye say. Now what did ye want ’em open for—tell me that! TELL ME THAT!”

“Yes——” (with a great effort to keep awake). “Always Misser Ha’orth like blin’s open—always!”

“Then what the hell was they SHUT for? What was they SHUT for?... Punch ’im up Lucas—put a dig in ’im!... Now answer the question! WHAT WAS THEY SHUT FOR?”

Dreek struggled to remember, but finally shook his head.

“Now I will ask ye something. What about that money? Ye wouldn’t answer lass night, but now we got it on ye! You saw that money! What?”

“I—I——”

“You saw it, I say! You saw that big pile o’ bills they had out on the table? Why don’t ye answer? I’ll tell you why—YE’RE AFRAID TO TELL!”

“No” (shaking his head) “not afraid! I saw—yes.”

“What was ye do’n’ sneakin’ round spyin’ on ’em like that when they had money in sight? Why didn’t ye stay in the kitchen where ye belong?”

“I—I don’ know——Oh—now—yes! They rang—they ass me—sign paper—witness!”

“A fine witness you was, all right, all right!”

Every detective in the room roared with laughter. The man who’d been questioning turned suddenly on Dreek. “When did ye crib that money?” he demanded.

“When did I——”

“You got it! Don’t ye s’pose we know you got it? Now when? When? D’ye hear? WHEN DID YE CRIB THAT MONEY?”

The muscles of Dreek’s throat went through the spasmodic motions of swallowing.

“I—promised not to——”

“Not to what? Whad did ye promise—eh?”

“Not to—say—anything——”

“Who did ye promise that to?”

“Miss’r Ha’orth.”

“How did that happen?”

“He handed—money—me.”

“Oh, handed it to ye, did he? Made a little present o’ thirty-five thousand to ye, I s’pose!”

Dreek tried to speak but couldn’t manage it.

“Whad did ye do with it?”

Again Dreek couldn’t get the words out—it would take so many to explain it.

“I’ll tell ye what ye did with it—ye put it in the barn behind a loose stone! D’ye deny that?”

“No.”

“Oh, ye don’t deny it! Ye did it! Ye stole that money from Charles Haworth an’ then, by God! ye hid it in the wall o’ that barn! D’ye confess you hid it there?”

“He ass me pu’ there—safe place!”

“So! Now ye got it out! Now, by God, we got yer story an’ a pretty one it is! What ye’ve told us is jus’ the same as a confession ye shot the man yerself! Yes, by God! ye jus’ as good as said it! Now, the way it stan’s, yer one chance is to spit out the truth in plain words! The truth is ye shot Haworth yerself—ye hid the money yerself—an’ ye went out an’ opened the shutters yerself so people ’u’d think a man outside done the shootin’! Put that in plain words an’ sign it an’ ye got some chance! Ye got a chance o’ mercy from the court if ye confess ye did that! W’at about it—eh?”

The “No” Dreek tried to say couldn’t be forced through his parched mouth, so he shook his head.

“The story ye’ve told’ll put ye in the chair—give ye the grand burn—see?—shock the guts out o’ ye! YE HEAR w’at I say?”

Dreek made no attempt to answer.

“They’ll find ye guilty in ten minutes! That story ye told is the end o’ ye! THAT’S YOUR FINISH, BY GOD!”

Another persecutor started in on him—an enormous man with a rumbling, bellowing voice: “Didn’t you open those shutters, Dreek? Didn’t you open ’em back against the wall and put the vines over ’em? Didn’t you take that ladder out there and do that thing? Aren’t you the one who did it? Answer that! AREN’T YOU THE ONE?”

“Yes——” Dreek got out in a whisper and nodded his head a little.

“That convicts you! That convicts you!”

“You’re fur the chair!” another detective joined in. “You’re fur the chair! You’re done fur now, by God!”

“That’s the end o’ you!” “You’re in for the dead house!”

They’d all come up with a rush and were standing close about him. Painfully he turned his eyes from one to another as they spoke, all joining in with violent exclamations as to his finish.

“There’s only one thing that’ll save you now!” roared the man with the bellowing voice. “Only one thing to do now if you want mercy: sign a confession an’ they’re bound to treat you fair! YOUR ONLY CHANCE ON EARTH!” He snapped his fingers and a stenographer (plain-clothes man) entered from the inner office and handed him a typewritten sheet. “Here it is,” he went on. “He’s written it out—just what you told us—just what you told us.”

“Wha—wha—what I——” (A weak whisper.)

“Just that. For Christ’s sake can’t you see we’re trying to get you off the death sentence? It may be prison, but what’s that? A few years an’ then some damn Governor that wants women’s votes pardons you out! Here it is—put your name there. See that line?”

Dreek was holding a pen clutched awkwardly in his hand, having no idea where it came from. He managed to shake his head a little.

“Not—not if it says I killed—— ... no—no ... not that—not——”

“Here Lucas——” And all the detectives in the room turned as if to leave. “Put the next watch on him. One more night of it’ll change his mind!”

“No!—Oh no!” Dreek made hoarse and breathless noises, “O my God!—not another—not another! O my God!”

The big detective swung round to him suddenly.

“Sign here—right under here—see?” pushing the paper under his eyes, while another man seized the pen and dipped it in nearby ink. “Sign here—on that line! IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT’LL SAVE YOU!”

Other detectives gathered close round, shouting to him to go on and sign, and yelling threats in his ears of what would happen if he didn’t.

James Dreek, gasping and mumbling incoherently and with shaking hand, made marks with the pen which were as near his written name as he could manage.

The late editions that afternoon had a wealth of display headlines (the Department had seen to it that the Associated Press got the news at the earliest possible moment) which ran—in slightly varying forms to—this effect:

FULL CONFESSION IN THE HAWORTH CASE

JAMES DREEK THE ASSASSIN

THEFT THE MOTIVE

STOLEN MONEY RECOVERED BY POLICE

BRILLIANT WORK OF DETECTIVES

At last the Department had things coming its way—for which reason much relief was felt.

As James Dreek had made a confession and signed it, the tide of public interest and curiosity began to ebb. There was no longer a mystery. The young butler had done the deed. Robbery was the motive. He had got hold of that thirty-five thousand dollars and hidden it. Some spirit in California had told the police where to look for it. This in itself was of course an odd occurrence, but the riddle of guessing who the guilty man was and why he did the appalling deed no longer existed. This being so, the bulk of the inhabitants of Boston and its environs began looking eagerly in their daily papers for the next killing. As to the sensation-guzzlers in other cities, they no longer had their attention diverted from their enthralling local atrocities. The amazing behavior of the spirits remained as something to be spoken of when the subject of ghosts and haunted houses came up.

As the date set for the Dreek trial approached, it appeared to those who kept in touch with spiritistic affairs, that extreme restlessness regarding the Haworth case was prevalent in higher spheres—if what came through via various mediums could be taken as a truthful indication.

A wire from Providence, Rhode Island, stated that a private séance in that town had been considerably upset by the insistent demands of a disembodied soul claiming to be that of the father of young Dreek, that something be done—and done damned quick—to rescue his son, who was absolutely innocent, from the clutches of the blackguards and bullies who posed in Boston as police, but who were simply low-lived thugs and dirty bums. The press dispatch giving an account of the affair went on to say that the language proceeding from his apparition had grown so violent that two elderly ladies felt obliged to quit the room where the séance was being held, although it must be conceded that they were later seen to be listening just outside the door. It was really quite thrilling while it lasted, this flow of expert profanity, and a few knowing ones were aware that this spirit used expressions and dialect prevalent among a certain class of crooks practising in what is known as “The Gay Nineties.”

The Press paid little attention to the Providence message and the police none whatever, owing to the fact that nothing was included in it which substantiated its claims that Dreek was innocent. This communication, though, was followed by a disembodied statement—if I may put it that way—which reached the earth via a New Orleans trance medium, to the effect that the fools in Boston had third-degreed an innocent man to his death, adding that no surprise could be felt by those who remembered how the police had recently treated the entire populace of that unfortunate town.

Dubuque, Iowa, sent in something of the same kind, and others began to crop up from places quite remote. All of which went far toward creating the impression that the next world was considerably dissatisfied with the proceedings of this one in the matter of the murder on Torrington Road, and that the inhabitants thereof were not averse to letting their feelings relating thereto become generally known.

The members of the private circle in Chicago (recently alluded to, and since then greatly increased in numbers) wished beyond anything else that Mr. P., the famous detective not long deceased, would return and let them have his views upon matters as they now stood in the Roxbury case. But it was their third meeting after the one at which he had advised the examination of the window shutters and the extraction of bullets from trees, before he dropped in again; and when he did come he gave the impression of trying his utmost to avoid the subject. Finally, upon being asked point-blank if he wouldn’t please let them know just his personal opinion as to the guilt or innocence of James Dreek, the reply came back through the trumpet that he thought it would be just as well to go easy on that young man. Those were his final words. When another question was put to him it was found that he had quietly slipped away; not even those very near heard the trumpet fall when he released it.

In Boston there was displayed rather more of this spirit restlessness than elsewhere, for a considerable number of mediums about the city and its suburbs were getting communications from their controls protesting Dreek’s innocence and begging that something be done about it.

More than any of the others were Mrs. Belden’s sittings (she was giving “private circles” now with great success) pervaded by this sort of thing, and it was the spirit of the hysterical Cynthia which created most of the disturbance. She took possession of the medium at every opportunity and was more often than not incoherent from excitement—or whatever it may be that appears so often to afflict the souls of people who have successfully emancipated themselves from the thralldom of their bodies.

At several of Mrs. Belden’s séances (which were always held in private houses), Cynthia had occupied much of the time and without result—although owing to the great interest in the spiritistic features of this case, none of the persons present made objections to the delay. On the contrary, they all waited with eager interest, hoping that this spirit, which was the one through whom the revelation as to Mr. Rathbun and the fight for the revolver had come, would eventually disclose something else of equally startling importance.

At these appearances of Cynthia—or more correctly at these times when she got the floor, as you might say—she occupied much of the time in mourning over the plight of poor Dreek and begging people to help in his rescue. Then, toward the end, the sitters could make out that she was desperately anxious to see somebody—a woman, it appeared, but so far she’d been unable to get the name across. “Bring her here! Oh, bring her! She’s the only one—the only one who knows! The only one! The only one!” And so on.

On that, some one would ask the spirit for the name of the person she wanted so much, and always the answer came back from Cynthia: “Oh, I don’t know it! Not now—not now! It’s gone! I knew it before, but they’ve taken it away from me! Don’t you know who I mean? Oh, you must know! Can’t somebody tell?” And that sort of thing, trailing off into moans and inarticulate sounds of pity. And soon after that she would vacate the medium.

Dreek’s trial had been going on four days before Cynthia’s spirit was able to overcome whatever influence was holding her back—much as it had been on a former occasion—and then the whole thing poured out on them like a flood released.

Mrs. Amelia Temple was the woman she wanted. Mrs. Temple could save him. Couldn’t they bring her at once? Oh, quickly! She wanted to talk to her! When reminded by one of the circle that the old woman had, from the beginning, refused to say anything, she said: “No matter—bring her—bring her—bring her! Don’t waste time!” And went on that way till she came near to hysterical shrieks. But even while she was carrying on like that people had gone out to try and find the old woman.

It was late in the evening—something after eleven—when Mrs. Temple was brought to the house. There had been no difficulty in persuading her to come. It appeared that she had once had an experience. Quite far back in her life she had lost her mother, the only one dear to her at that time, and her loneliness and yearning had drawn her to spiritist gatherings where, she had heard, departed ones are able to come back and speak to those they have left behind. To her unspeakable joy she found that this was so, and became, forthwith, an intense devotee. But after about two ecstatically happy months of it her faith was rudely shaken, for, at a séance where materializations were being accomplished, she suddenly saw something that looked to her like evidence of fraud. At the next of these séances she became satisfied that there was fraud. It was a cruel blow to her. Many times she wished she hadn’t found out. From that time she never attended another séance or spiritist meeting of any kind.

That was long ago. And now, after reading the newspaper accounts of the developments in the tragic affair which so deeply concerned her (she read everything about it that she could find), the extraordinary spirit communications that had been received in connection with it, all but convinced her that, if there had been fraud in that long ago experience of hers, it must have been only because of an untrustworthy medium and did not in any way affect the system or belief itself. One had only to see what marvels it was responsible for in this case, to be made certain that the spirits of the dead are here with us and doing what they can for our welfare.

And so, upon being told that the spirit of Cynthia Cripps Findlay (she very well knew who was meant by that) was begging, through the mediumship of Mrs. Henrietta Belden, that she come and let her speak to her, she dressed immediately—for she’d gone to bed—and went with the two women who’d come from the séance to fetch her.

The spirit of Cynthia began to talk the moment Mrs. Temple entered the dimly lighted room, and continued while she was being silently conducted to a chair near the medium.

“Oh, you’re here! Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Temple! Oh, I do thank you! And you will help us—you will! You couldn’t refuse—you’re so tender-hearted to anyone in distress! And some one is in distress! Oh, some one is—terribly! It’s the poor Dreek boy, the butler who was with Mr. Haworth, and he’s being tried for murder at this very moment—and perfectly innocent as you know—as you know so well, Mrs. Temple. Why, the poor fellow never raised a finger to hurt anyone or steal anything—but there’s no way to save him unless you will tell them what you saw—just what you saw—that’s all we ask! It’s for his mother, his poor old mother, ill in New York! And, oh, listen to me—your mother is here—she’s here with me because she wants so much to help us, but she can’t speak to you herself—she’s one of those who can’t get through. She tried it long ago, as you may remember. So she asks me to tell you that she’s sure you’ll help us save this innocent boy—for her sake if nothing else. And oh, will you please wait a moment, Mrs. Temple?”

A short pause. Perfect stillness in the room. Then the spirit of Cynthia spoke again.

“Your mother—I was speaking to her—oh, you can’t have any conception of how dear she is—she’s just waiting till you come—and she wants me to say that she loves you as always—it will never change—it couldn’t change—oh, it couldn’t Mrs. Temple! And she’s been with you almost all the time—just staying near—that’s all she could do. And she’s so happy that you’re still keeping the old bonnet she used to wear—she sees it there in your trunk whenever she’s with you in the room—and she knows you’ll think of this poor young man’s mother the same as she does, and what a terrible thing it would be for her if her son—who never did it—was found guilty of such a fearful, awful crime. It isn’t death (as you call it) that matters, but such a death! Oh, Mrs. Temple, think what it would mean to his poor mother, and for her sake and for your own mother’s sake, tell them what you saw—just tell them—oh—tell them!—Oh!...” The voice of Cynthia, uttered through the expert mediumship of Mrs. Belden, trailed rapidly away to nothing and the spirit was gone.

Mr. Forbes (for the defense) was unable to bring in Mrs. Temple’s testimony as a surprise. Though the séance was a strictly private one and held in a private residence and with no reporters admitted, the Inspector had insisted on having a representative at any “spirit circle” in which Mrs. Belden officiated; and although the representative in this case—a plain-clothes man—had seen to it that there were no listeners behind doors or otherwise concealed, and had afterward instructed the medium and all those present not to give away anything that had been said or done, and furthermore had had every one of them shadowed by detectives both in the house and after they left it, the papers next morning had full accounts of the appeal of the disembodied spirit of Cynthia to the still-embodied spirit of Mrs. Temple, and the court room was packed with an eager multitude, rabidly craving excitement.

When her name was called, the crowd, as one person, held its breath, and strained its eyes to see and its ears to hear.

The old woman was given a chair in the witness box, and the usual form of preliminary questioning gone through. After that, she was led by Mr. Forbes to describe how she’d been at one of the side windows of the room where the murder was done, a short time before it took place, and was trying to see in, but owing to its being pitch-dark inside, she was unable to make out anything, though she heard strange and alarming noises; how she then hurried to the rear of the house and tried to get in there, but every door—even the basement—was locked, and she had to give it up; and how, more alarmed than ever about Mr. Haworth, she then started, as fast as she was able to go, toward the front of the house again.

“When you were hastening in this way toward the front, Mrs. Temple, did you pass near the window where you’d been trying to look in?”

“Yes sir; the path warn’t more’n a few yards from the side winders, but it was mos’ly growed up with bushes an’ things in between.”

“Could a person among the bushes at one of the windows, see anyone passing along that path?”

“Ef there was any light, they could.”

“What was your object in hurrying toward the front of the house again?”

“I wanted to git down to the road.”

“What did you intend to do there?”

“I was goin’ to find some one to help me—ef I could.”

“You mean the police?”

“Mercy no! They ain’t no earthly use!”

“I object!” shouted the District Attorney, springing to his feet.

“Just answer the question, madam.” (From the Court.)

“And I ask Your Honor that the remark of the witness be stricken from the record.”

This request was granted, and Mr. Forbes went on.

“Where did you expect to find help, Mrs. Temple?”

“If I didn’t find nobody in the road, I was goin’ to try the house on the fur side a ways up. There was some men there.” She put a very slight accent on the word “men.”

“And did you go down to the road?”

“No sir. I was stopped sudden-like by a bright light flashin’ up inside the room as I was goin’ by. It was so bright it lit up the chinks o’ the winders, an’ thinkin’ I could see then if anyone was there an’ what they was doin’, I pushed through the bushes an’ went up clost to one of ’em.”

“Which one did you go to?”

“Why, the first one I come to I seen the roller shade was pulled down, so I went on to the next.”

“That would be the one nearest the front of the house?”

“Yes sir, that was the one.”

“And did you find that you could see anything inside?”

“I found the shade was down there, too, but it warn’t pulled quite to the bottom so’s it left a narrer crack.”

“And could you see into the room through this narrow aperture below the curtain?”

“Not at first I couldn’t—the light dazzled me some—but in a minute I got used to it an’ then I could.”

“Tell the Court what you saw, Mrs. Temple.”

“Mr. Haworth—it was him I seen first. He was settin’ by the table, readin’ a book. After a minute or two he felt in his pocket an’ got his pipe out an’ filled it an’ was huntin’ around fur a match.”

“Was there anyone else in the room?”

“Not as I could see from the winder I was at. But just as he was lookin’ fur the match I commenced to think mebbe there might be somebody behind him in the back part o’ the room, so I hurried through the bushes to the other winder—the one further back. I knew the shade was down, but I thought mebbe there was a crack at the bottom same as the other, an’ I found there was—on’y not so much, but by twistin’ around I could get a look through to the back part o’ the room, an’ there was a man standin’ there, back against the door o’ the butler’s pantry, an’ he had a black thing in his hand that he was pointin’ at Mr. Haworth from behind.”

A moment of tense stillness followed on this, as Mrs. Temple stopped speaking. I don’t suppose there was one person among the spectators in that packed court room who hadn’t stopped breathing.

After letting the pause have its full effect, Mr. Forbes spoke with all the solemnity he could command.

“Mrs. Temple,” he said, “was the man you saw standing behind Mr. Haworth and aiming a black object at him, the accused you now see on trial in this court—James Dreek?”

The old woman shook her head. “No sir, it warn’t him,” she said.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes sir.”

“What makes you certain that it was not the accused?”

“For one thing, he warn’t built no ways like him—he was heavy-set an’ solid. This man” (pointing at Dreek) “ain’t that way.”

“You say his different size and build, for one thing. Was there something else that made you still more positive that this was not the man?”

“Yes sir.”

“Kindly describe it.”

“I was just turnin’ away from the winder to get to the other one an’ warn Mr. Haworth, when I seen this man you’re tryin’——”

“James Dreek?” interjected Mr. Forbes, to prevent any mistake as to the person she meant.

“Yes sir, James Dreek—I seen him come hurryin’ along the walk carryin’ a ladder.”

“Which way was he going?”

“Toward the front o’ the house.”

“What did you do then?”

“I kep’ on as fast as I could to the other winder—the one near where Mr. Haworth was—so’s I could call out an’ warn him. As soon as I got there I begun screamin’ out his name an’ beatin’ on the winder glass, but I hadn’t no more’n started doin’ that when there was a terrible loud crash of a gun goin’ off, an’ right after it another, an’ Mr. Haworth turnin’ round an’ tryin’ to ketch a holt o’ the table; but he couldn’t do it, an’ there he was sinkin’ down on the floor—sinkin’ down there right before my eyes!”

It was some time before the old woman could go on, but the Court waited. Finally Mr. Forbes, seeing that she was getting control of herself, went on with the examination.

“Tell us what you did then, Mrs. Temple.”

“I—I kinder sunk down there under the winder—as if all my stren’th was took away. But in a minute I was able to git up again, an’ the first thing I see was this Dreek man on the path there where I’d seen ’im afore.”

“What was he doing?”

“He’d stopped where he was an’ let the ladder fall on the ground. But just as I looked at him he picked it up again an’ set off runnin’.”

“In which direction did he run?”

“The same as ’e was goin’ afore—toward the front o’ the house.”

“And what did you then do, Mrs. Temple?”

“I run as fast as I could toward the back—the kitchen.”

“What was your idea in going there again?”

“Why I—I wanted to get to ’im as quick as I could.”

“To Mr. Haworth?”

The old woman nodded, unable, for a moment, to speak.

“What made you think you could get in? You’d tried it a few moments before, hadn’t you?”

“Yes sir, but this Dreek man had come out sense then, an’ I didn’t think he was liable to ’uv locked the door, carryin’ the ladder like he was.”

“Had he locked the door?”

“No sir, he hadn’t.”

“Which door was it?”

“The basement.”

“So you got in?”

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Forbes indicated that he was through with the witness, and the district attorney took her, his manner conveying the impression that he considered her testimony as almost too flimsy to waste time over. He soon learned, however, that it wasn’t such an easy matter to punch holes in it. As a sample, without going into it as a whole:—

“I believe you made the statement, Mrs. Temple, as other witnesses have done, that the night when all this occurred was a dark one. Did you so testify?”

“Yes sir.”

“Was there a moon?”

“I didn’t see none.”

“But you admit the night was unusually dark?”

“It was dark—I ain’t got no idea how unusual it was.”

“Very well—that’s all I want to know—it was dark. Now Mrs. Temple, on this very dark night—the blackness being almost impenetrable, as has been shown by the testimony of others, although you yourself, for some reason, don’t seem inclined to admit it—in this dense and inky blackness you claim to have recognized the accused going by on a path at some distance from you. How do you explain that?”

“I s’pose you warn’t int’rested when I was speakin’ about them roller shades to the two side winders not reachin’ down to the bottom so’st it left a crack where the light could git through.”

“You mean to say enough light could pass through a little slit like that to enable you to recognize a person on a pitch-dark night twenty feet away?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“No sir.”

“Oh! You don’t expect me to believe it!”

“I ain’t botherin’ one way or the other about what you believe. I’ve got enough to think of besides that!”

“Well then, let’s get a little light on what you believe, Mrs. Temple! We have information that you attended a séance last night, a private séance given by a medium named Henrietta E. Belden, and that you are here giving evidence in this court because disembodied spirits—in other words people who have passed away—requested you to do so. Do you deny that this is the fact?”

“No sir, I don’t deny it.”

“Then am I to understand that you are a believer in the supernatural—that spirits are about us, speaking to us through mediums, and that these dead people can be relied on to give assistance and advice in a case like this? Do you believe that, madam?”

“Well I ain’t certain sure of it, but I’m tendin’ that way, seein’ how much more the dead ones seem to know about this case than you folks that’s still walkin’ around.”

A roar of laughter swept over the crowded room, broken by the court crier’s loud rapping for silence. It might have been observed that the Court itself bowed its head over as if making notes, so that its face was hidden for a moment.

And so it went on, every effort to undermine Mrs. Temple’s credibility as a witness serving the more firmly to establish it. She could not be confused nor rushed nor intimidated, though all three of these methods were attempted. Over and above this it was very soon discovered that she had no idea of going further with her testimony than giving what related to the innocence of James Dreek. As to that, however, her evidence was clear, straightforward, and unshakable.

The confession signed by Dreek when he was out of his mind from the torture of sleeplessness and constant bullying had been riddled by the Defense, and cut no figure at all, so that when the case went to the Jury a verdict of “Not guilty” was returned within fifteen minutes and Jamie Dreek caught the next train home to his old mother, whose devastating anxiety about him had brought her to within a stone’s throw of the grave.

You mustn’t get the idea that the Dreek trial came to an end in the brief time my way of telling about it would seem to indicate. I said just now, that when the case went to the Jury there was a verdict in fifteen minutes; but that when took quite some days. In fact there was a most peculiar delay directly following Mrs. Temple’s testimony.

You’d naturally think that when the entire bottom had dropped out of the thing they’d have got the Jury out on it as quick as they could. But they didn’t, for the State was holding it up in every possible way—recalling witnesses without reason—wrangling over this and that, and playing for time whenever a chance came up. The Defense was brief enough, and the Judge occupied only a few minutes in charging, but the prosecution managed to string it along for four days, and of course the wise ones began to make remarks about the District Attorney having something up his sleeve. The singular part of it is that for once “the wise ones” were right.

On the fifth morning following Mrs. Temple’s appearance on the witness stand, the not guilty verdict was brought in, and that same afternoon Hugo Pentecost was arrested for the murder.

It came to pass at headquarters. Pentecost had been sent for by Chief Inspector McCurran to give further information, and had been answering such questions as he could—which is to say, as he could with safety. There were others in the room—a couple of detectives (plain-clothes men), two or three policemen in uniform, and a stenographer (plain-clothes).

“By the way,” the Inspector asked, carelessly, after a number of commonplace questions had been answered, “did you ever happen to wear a pair of boots that were very much too large for you?”

“Why yes,” (after just enough surprise to go with so odd a question); “I suppose I have—at one time or another.”

“Ah—you have!... But your recollection doesn’t extend, I presume, to your having worn such boots recently?”

“Pardon me,” Pentecost returned, “but is this flattering curiosity as to my wearing apparel merely personal, or are you still seeking information in the case of Haworth?”

The Inspector’s eyes glittered into Pentecost’s for a second or two. When he spoke it was pointedly and with deliberation. “I’m still seeking information in the case of Haworth.”

“That being so,” Pentecost responded in a soft, pleasant voice, “you’ll excuse me for going no further in the direction indicated.”

The Inspector drew his mouth into a mechanical grin.

“I’m inclined to think, Pentecost, that you’ll find yourself going some distance further in that direction.”

“It’s inspiring to meet a real optimist, Mr. McCurran—there are so few.”

“Where were you between ten and eleven on the night Charles Haworth was shot to death?”

Mr. Pentecost appeared to be quite unaware that a question had been asked.

“We’ve got to hold you Pentecost.” The Inspector made a slight motion, and one of the patrolmen stepped forward and stood at Pentecost’s side.

“Want anything from the hotel—toilet articles—clothing—that sort of thing?”

“Many thanks—they’re outside in a grip.”

“Ah!” the Inspector said, after an instant’s pause of surprise. “You looked for it, did you?”

“Great God!—what would I look for with a couple of your teasers running circles around me since the day I first came in here!”

“Noticed it, did you?”

The Inspector pulled his lips back into what you might take for a grin. “But don’t go trying to pass that across,” he added, “as the reason you brought your grip. There’s a better one than that.”

“Sure there is,” said Pentecost.

“You know damned well the game’s up and we’ve got it on you.”

“I know damned well you think you have.”

“Ah! And would you care to tell the reason I think so?”

“Why certainly ... Pittsburgh.”

There was what you might call an instantaneous pause. The mention of the name of the smoke-draped city apparently struck fire somewhere inside of Mr. McCurran.

“What do you know about Pittsburgh?” he demanded in a lowered voice with anger not entirely excluded from it.

“Sorry to upset you,” murmured Pentecost.

“What do you know about Pittsburgh?” the Inspector repeated.

“Much the same as you,” answered Pentecost.

“Where were you between ten and eleven on the night that Charles Michael Haworth was shot?”

There was no answer, and almost at once the Inspector went on, his voice more menacing: “If you’re not the guilty man, tell me your reason for trying to put over that fake alibi on us—yes, an’ a damned foolish fake at that, when we had you cold in Roxbury the same night?... So? Nothing to say about that, eh?”

There was a moment of silence, during which the Inspector managed to subdue any evidences of the fury which the name of the western Pennsylvania city had aroused. Soon he resumed in a voice cold and hard: “We find it to be a rule that a man who is unjustly charged with crime is more than anxious to answer questions and explain his true position. I observe that you have no such desire.”

“Accept my congratulations, Inspector, on having at last discovered the missing exception to your rule.”

“Then you have no explanation to make of that manufactured alibi?”

“None—until the necessity arises.”

“Am I to understand that it hasn’t yet arisen?”

“Such an understanding would be according to fact.”

“In that case we may be able to assist it to do so.” And the Inspector rose and walked away to another part of the room, motioning, as he did so, to have Pentecost taken away.

The patrolman got the usual safety grip on Pentecost’s twisted coat sleeves near the wrists, and took him out at a side door, one of the plain-clothes men slipping out after him, and shortly thereafter he was safely within the portals of the Charles Street jail.

Inspector McCurran stood at a window revolving a few things in his mind—and their revolution failed to please him. This was not from any doubt of their case against Pentecost, for anyone could see they had the murder buckled to him in every conceivable way—including one that hadn’t been put down by the Inspector as conceivable up to this time. But back of the whole thing was some cursed mystery—every now and then they turned up evidence of it. Could there be, after all, anything in the spirit business? Seemed absurd, but, by God! they had some pretty good names to it!—Not in this country—but look at those big ducks in England who were pushing the game!

And there was the man himself—Pentecost—something about him that made one feel a shiver of apprehension. You’d put him down as slippery in some peculiar, slimy sort of way, that would make any grip you could get on him not worth a tinker’s dam.

The Inspector’s mind came round to Pentecost’s careless reference to the city of Pittsburgh. It had nearly lost him his self-control—an unusual happening with Matt McCurran. For this simple geographical allusion meant that the knowledge of certain spiritistic phenomena which had occurred in that town a few nights before, and which the authorities supposed to be successfully suppressed, was now—or soon would be—public property. If this man Pentecost had knowledge of these occurrences, others had as well, and without doubt the papers would get hold of it and there’d be the very devil to pay.

And you may as well know at once that the papers of the following day did get hold of it, and there was the devil to pay—and he was paid, too! Throughout the length, breadth, and thickness of the country, and including as well our friend and near relation across the St. Lawrence, the press dispatches did the Boston Police Department proud in one place, and then, without knowing it, jabbed a knife through it in another.

In every paper the first thing striking the reader’s eye was a sensational write-up of the arrest of Hugo Pentecost as the murderer, in the strange and mysterious Haworth case, and the astonishing detective work accomplished by the Police Department in tracing the (alleged) guilty man by a pair of old boots left in a cabin of a Metropolitan Line steamer, and in puncturing one of the most ingenious fake alibis on record. The dispatches went on to say that Mr. Henry Harker and his son Alfred, of the firm of Harker & Pentecost, had both waived extradition and were on their way to Boston with detectives, and upon arrival would be held as accomplices. The stenographer of the firm, Miss Dugas, who was wanted as a witness, and who might also be implicated in the crime, was voluntarily accompanying the Harkers.

The foregoing, written up fully and triumphantly, was agreeable reading for those connected with the Department; but in the same editions, and nearly always in an adjoining column, was an A. P. dispatch from Pittsburgh which simply tore the insides out of the first one.

It was headed, in every case, with these disastrous lines—or something similar—and in type that came out and smashed a reader right between the eyes:—

SPIRITS SPEAK AGAIN IN HAWORTH CASE

ADVISE MICROSCOPE IN PENTECOST ALIBI

ASTOUNDING CLUES GIVEN

OPERATOR’S LICENSE 2026

BOOTS LEFT ON “NORTH LAND”

Then it got down to plain reading matter, and described a message that had come through at a séance held in Allegheny—now a section of Pittsburgh and popularly referred to as the North Side—five days before, and instantly telephoned to the Boston chief of police, but which, for reasons stated below, had only now been given to the press. The spirit who got “control” of the medium conducting this séance declined to give his name—in fact allowed that he had too many, his life while on earth having been not precisely what it should have been. He merely saw a chance to get even with a cocky screw who’d once—before he (the spirit speaking) had crossed to the higher realms—put the low-down play on him good and plenty; and the only thing he asked was that some one present at the sitting would send word to the Boston police to go after a big pair of boots that was left in a cabin of the steamer North Land on arrival in New York the next morning after the murder; also he’d suggest that they put a microscope on a few other little items of that beautiful alibi. For instance, it wouldn’t do a damn bit of harm to dig up Operator’s License 2026. “Tell the bulls,” he gave out in conclusion, “to take it from me they’ll pull something out of the fire if they go after it!” And with that he was gone.

The A. P. dispatch on this Pittsburgh occurrence closed with a paragraph in brackets explaining the five days’ delay in getting the news. It stated that the spirit message had been telephoned to the Boston police even while the séance was still in progress with the medium under other controls. The Boston Department, for diplomatic reasons, had withheld the news of this message from the Pemberton Street reporters and had also asked the Pittsburgh police to hush the matter up until the clues (if there was anything to it) could be worked out and a clean-up of the guilty parties made before they got warning. Pittsburgh headquarters found that only eleven persons had been present at the séance, and got them all, together with the medium and her assistant or director, before they left the place. These people, appreciating the importance of keeping it quiet in order to bring the criminals to justice, agreed to say nothing of the affair, and for five days no leakage occurred. Then from somewhere (it could not be traced to any of those concerned in the séance) a full account of the whole proceeding had suddenly reached the Associated Press, and of course could no longer be withheld from the public.

“The account of this amazing occurrence in Pittsburgh,” as one of the Boston papers put it in a bracketed “Ed.” note following the A. P. dispatch, “which is quite in keeping with former developments in the Haworth case, can now be published without disturbing the activities of the police, the ‘clean-up’ referred to having been successfully accomplished, as may be noted elsewhere in this issue.”

This Allegheny episode might not have been so bad served up by itself, but coming immediately under or on parallels with the triumphant write-up of the Department’s detective work, showed that the whole thing was done on a tip from the spirit world. You mustn’t understand me as saying—or even intimating—that there wasn’t any good work done by the police detectives. The trouble was that when they got anywhere they were stood on their heads and everything they’d worked up dumped into the discard by one of those ghostly manifestations or whatever they might be.

Anyway, it isn’t an account of marvelous detective work I’m trying to give you, but something which, as I look at it, is vastly more unusual. The papers will give you stuff about “sleuths”—as they call ’em—every day in the week, including Sundays; and if you want to go into the field of fiction you’ll find there’s one born there every minute. But so far as my experience goes, this was the first time people in the next world ever took a hand in the game.

The public interest in the Pentecost trial came near to being the record for this class of diversion. You’d have thought the feeling against him would have been so bitter that they’d have had to fight off the lynchers. But it’s just as well to go easy on predicting how the public is going to behave. Something about the man—it wasn’t beauty or youth or romance—more like hypnotism, perhaps—in conjunction with his ingenious methods of work so far as they had been made known, and also his silence under fire (My God! how the public adores a man who keeps his mouth shut!) got the people with him, notwithstanding the brutal murder that they could now so plainly see was his doing. Much of the sympathy may have resulted from the hopelessness of his case, for they certainly had it all over him. He hadn’t said a word since his arrest, excepting to state mildly—and even then, only when he was asked about it—that he wasn’t guilty. And he sat in the cage quiet and unassuming, never once dropping to the “cheerful act” nor the “bravado act” nor any act whatever, but only sitting there quietly and hearing witness after witness testify to things that were like so many nails in his coffin.

He saw his marvelously laid-out defensive system crumble and melt away before his eyes; his carefully constructed alibi split into a thousand pieces.

They had the chauffeur (Operator’s License 2026) who took him—dripping with water—at about nine o’clock on the night of the murder, from a place near the Soldier’s Monument just north of the Bourne Highway Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal, and who left him, shortly before half-past ten, at the corner of Centre and Greenough Streets, Jamaica Plain. Even the fact of his having walked in a direction away from Torrington Road when he left the car told against him. Of course he did—that’s precisely what a man with criminal intent would do.

The Captain, Purser, and other officers of the North Land were called and testified against him—at least negatively—although they had, up to this time, been the most important bulwarks of the alibi;—Captain Snow now recalling the fact that he hadn’t seen the face of the man on the forward deck whom he took to be Mr. Pentecost, after his ship passed out of the canal, but only his back; and the other officers realizing, when they came to think of it, that they hadn’t seen him on board after the steamer emerged into Buzzards Bay—that is, until he was disembarking at New York the following morning.

The conductor of the midnight express to New York, and the head end trainman who’d had such difficulty in arousing him from apparent sleep in the morning and getting him off at the Grand Central, were put on the stand and told of his being on their train the night of the murder; men from the New York Central’s railroad pier next south of the North Land’s berth, testified to having seen the rowboat come up under the steamer’s stern as she docked in New York the morning after the shooting, and put a man aboard her by a rope ladder; a man and his wife from Buzzards Bay village, who’d been waiting on the highway bridge over the canal for the “draw” to close at the time the North Land passed through, on the night of the crime, testified to seeing a man in the semidarkness come up from the low flats at the west of the bridge approach, and climb into a car near the Soldier’s Monument, though they couldn’t swear, owing to the darkness, to its being the accused; these things, and scores of others not less important, put Pentecost in the position of having faked an alibi by boarding the steamer in Boston, going overboard from her during her passage through the canal, returning thence to Roxbury by hired automobile, proceeding to the rear of the Cripps mansion a few minutes before the shots were fired, and within half an hour after the murder, staggering, disguised as a drunken laborer, into the North Station, and there taking the 11:50 express for New York, finally getting aboard the steamer again from a rowboat the moment she tied up to her dock.

Although no witness to his actually entering the house or to his being in it at the time the deed was done, could be found, there was surely sufficient evidence to convict him without it. At the same time the District Attorney would have given a great deal to be able to cover those points.

Pentecost’s senior counsel, Harvey Brookfield, had little to offer in rebuttal, but he was a crack shot when the witnesses were turned over to him, and many of them were raked raw by the cross fire. His request that the head end trainman explain his remembering, for such a long time, what kind of boots a stranger on his train had worn, brought the reply: “Because every time I went through the car I had to shove ’em off the seat in front of him—they was muddy an’ I didn’t want him fouling up the seat.”

“Very thoughtful of you, too! But you testified a few minutes ago, that this man whose boots you noticed, was seated at the extreme forward end of the car. Didn’t you say that?”

“Why, I said—I—I——”

“Certainly you did! I can have the stenographer read it to you if you’ve forgotten.—Now I ask you to explain to the Court and the Jury how this man—if he was, as you stated that he was, sitting at the extreme forward end of the car, could put his feet on the seat in front of him? How could there be a seat in front of him if he was in the very first seat? Now just tell us that—in your own language.”

“Well, he—he was up there at that end—it might ’a’ been one seat more or less from the end—I didn’t notice. He was——”

“Ah—you didn’t notice!” broke in Brookfield, springing on him like a cat. “That explains it! You didn’t notice! You told us that he was at the extreme end, but you didn’t notice. Now you tell us about his boots—perhaps you didn’t notice in that case, either! A man’s life may depend on it—but you didn’t notice! You’ve rendered your testimony before this court ridiculous by making a man put his feet on a seat that wasn’t there!” And so on. But while this sort of thing might tear a witness to pieces, it couldn’t, to any extent, weaken the prosecution’s case.

In discussing the situation with Mr. Pentecost at the Charles Street jail after one of the worst days in court, Mr. Brookfield declared that there was nothing for it but to fall back on insanity as a plea. But Pentecost wouldn’t hear of it.

“What’s the idea, then? I don’t need to tell you they’re piling it up on us pretty thick.”

“They haven’t got me in the house yet. Keep jabbing on that till you draw blood.”

“It won’t acquit you!”