"I will stand by you till we see the thing through," I said, "though I have to live in the Post Office a month."

Well, I wrote and mailed the decoy letter and Maitland explained the situation to the postal authorities, who furnished us a comfortable place inside and near the general delivery window. They promised to notify us when anyone called for our letter. Our vigil was not a very long one. On Thursday afternoon the postal clerk signalled to us that Carl Cazenove's mail had been asked for, and, while he was consuming as much time as possible in finding our letter, Maitland and I quietly stepped out into the corridor. The sight that met our gaze was one for which we had not been at all prepared. There at the window stood a beautiful young girl just on the verge of womanhood. Her frank blue eyes met mine with the utmost candour as I passed by her so that she should be between Maitland and me, and thus unable to elude us, whichever way she turned upon leaving the window. We had previously planned how we should shadow our quarry, one on each side of the street in order not to attract attention, but these tactics seemed to be entirely unnecessary, for the young lady did not have the slightest suspicion that anyone could be in the least interested in her movements. She walked leisurely along, stopping now occasionally to gaze at the shop windows and never once turning to look back. She did not even conceal the letter, but held it in her hand with her porte-monnaie, and I could see that the address was uppermost. A strange sensation came over me as I dogged her steps. I felt as an assassin must feel who tracks his victim into some lonely spot where he may dare to strike him. It was useless for me to tell myself that I was on the side of justice and engaged in an honourable errand. A single glance at the girl's delicate face, as frank and open as the morning light, brought the hot blush of shame to my cheek. In following her I dimly felt that, in some way, I was seeking to associate her with evil, which seemed little less than sacrilege. I could do nothing, however, but keep on, so I followed her through Devonshire Street, to New Washington and thence down Hanover Street almost to the ferry. Here she turned into an alleyway and, waiting for Maitland to come up, we both saw her enter a house at its farther end.

George glanced hastily up at the house and then said, as he seized me impatiently by the arm: "It's a tenement house; come on, the chase is not up yet; we, too, must go in!"

So in we went. The young lady had disappeared, but as we entered we heard a door close on the floor above, and felt sure we knew where she had gone. We mounted the stairs as noiselessly as possible and listened in the hall. We could distinguish a woman's voice and occasionally that of a man, but we could not hear what passed between them. On our right there was a door partly ajar. Maitland pushed it open, and looked in. The room was empty and unfurnished, with the exception of a dilapidated stove which stood against the partition separating this room from the one the young lady had entered. Maitland beckoned to me and I followed him into the room. There was a key on the inside of the door which he noiselessly turned in the lock. He then began to investigate the premises. Three other rooms communicated with the one of which we had taken possession, forming, evidently, a suite which had been let for housekeeping. Everything was in ill-repair, as is the case with most of the cheap tenements in this locality. The previous tenant had not thought it necessary to clean the apartments when quitting them,—for altruism does not flourish at the North End,—but had been content to leave all the dirt for the next occupant.

When we had finished reconnoitering we returned to the room we first entered, which apparently was the kitchen. We could still hear the voices, but not distinctly. "Do you stay here, Doc," whispered Maitland, "while I get into some old clothes and hunt up the landlord of this place. I'm going to rent these rooms long enough to acquaint myself with my neighbours on the other side of the wall. I'll be back soon. Don't let any man leave that room without your knowing where he goes." With this he left me and I soon found a way to busy myself in his absence. In the wall above the stove, where the pipe passed through the partition into our neighbour's apartment, there was a chink large enough to permit me, when mounted upon the stove, to overlook the greater part of the adjacent room. I availed myself of this privilege, though not without those same twinges of conscience which I had felt some minutes before when following the young lady. The apartment was poorly furnished, and yet, despite this scantiness of appointment, there was unmistakable evidence of refinement. Everything visible in the room was scrupulously neat and the few pictures that adorned the walls, while they were inexpensive half-tones, were yet reproductions of masterpieces. In the centre of the room stood a small, deal table, on the opposite side of which sat the man who had answered my letter.

At one end of the table, poised upon the back of a chair, sat a small Capucin monkey of the Weeper or Sai species. He watched the man with that sober, judicial air which is by no means confined exclusively to supreme benches. I, too, observed the man carefully. He was tall and spare. He must have measured nearly six feet in height and could not, I think, have weighed over one hundred and fifty pounds. His face was pinched and careworn, but this effect was more than redeemed by a pair of full, black eyes having a depth and penetration I have never seen equalled, albeit there was, ever and anon, a suggestion of wildness which somewhat marred their deep, contemplative beauty. The brows and the carriage of the head at once bespoke the scholar. While thus I watched him, the young girl came from a corner of the room I could not overlook and laid my letter before him. She stood behind his chair as he opened it, smoothing his hair caressingly and, every now and then, kissing him gently. He paused with the open letter before him, reached up both arms, drew her down to him, kissed her passionately, sighed, and picked up the letter again. I took pains that no act, word, or look should escape me. This show of affection surprised me, and I remember the thought flashed through my mind, "What inconsistent beings we all are! Here is a man apparently capable of a causeless and cold-blooded assassination of a harmless old man. You would say such a murderer must be hopelessly selfish and brutal, amenable to none of the better sentiments of mankind, and yet it needs but a casual glance to see how his whole life is bound up in the young girl before him."

While this was passing through my mind the man had glanced through my letter and thrown it upon the table with an exclamation of disgust. "Bah! he has had the effrontery," he said petulantly, "to send me what he calls a new mode of treatment and it is in every essential that of Broadbent, well known for more than a quarter of a century. New indeed! I shall never find a doctor who has any scientific acumen. I may as well abandon the search now. Mon Dieu! and they call medicine a science! Bah!" and with a frown he dropped his head despondently upon his hand. The young girl passed her hand gently, soothingly, over his forehead and did not speak for nearly a minute.

"You are not feeling well to-night, father," she said at length. "M. Godin has been here during my absence."

"M. Godin!" I exclaimed half aloud, catching at the stovepipe lest I should fall from the stove. "So our rival is hot upon the scent, —probably even ahead of us. How on earth—" But I did not finish the exclamation. My seizure of the pipe upon my side of the partition had produced an audible vibration of that portion extending over the heads of my neighbours. The young girl's quick ear had detected the sound and she had ceased speaking and fastened her eyes suspiciously upon the aperture through which I was gazing. It seemed to me as if she must see me, yet I dared not move. After a little she seemed reassured and continued: "I knew he had been here. You are always this way after his visits. Why, of late, does he always come when I am away?" The question seemed innocent enough, yet the man to whom it was addressed turned crimson and then as pale as ashes. When he spoke the effort his self-control cost him was terribly apparent.

"We have private business, dear," he said, "private business." He hesitated a moment and again his eyes wore the wild look I had first noticed. "I am selling him something," he continued, "very dear to me—as dear as my heart's blood, and I expect to get enough for it to guard you from want."

"And you, father?" the young girl questioned fervently. I thought I noticed a tremor run through his frame, as drawing her face down to his, he said, kissing her, "Me? Never mind me, Puss; this cancer here will take care of me."

She made no reply, but turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. As she did so she raised her face toward me. I have never been considered particularly sympathetic,—that is, no more than the average,—but there was something in the expression of her face that went to my heart like a knife. I felt as if I were about to sob with her. I do not know what it was that so aroused my sympathies. We are, I fancy, more apt to feel for those whose beauty is like to the ideals we have learned to love, than we are to be moved by the suffering of those whose looks repel us,—and this may have had something to do with my condition,—for the young girl was radiantly beautiful,—yet it could hardly have been the real cause of it.

So rapt was I in the sympathetic contemplation of her that I did not see Maitland's entrance or realise I was observed till he plucked me by the coat and motioned me to get down. I did so and he told me he had rented the rooms, and laid before me the plan he meant to pursue.

As soon as he had ceased speaking I said to him: "George, you are undoubtedly on the right track. The man in there is the one we are looking for, fast enough, but I am afraid we are a bit too late."

"Too late!" he exclaimed in a tone that I feared might be overheard. "What the mischief do you mean?"

"I mean," I replied, "that M. Godin is already upon the scene."

In the next ten seconds Maitland turned all colours and I edged nearer to him, expecting him to fall, but he did not.

"M. Godin!" he ejaculated at length. "How in the name of all the gods at once—Doc, he's all they claim for him, and as fascinating as he is clever;" at which last remark a heavy cloud passed over Maitland's face. "Come," he continued listlessly, "you may as well tell me all you know about it."

I then confided to him what I had heard and ended by asking him what he proposed to do.

"Do?" he replied. "There is but one thing I can do, which makes the choice decidedly easy," and he set his jaws together with a determined expression, the meaning of which I knew full well.

"I shall camp right here," he said, " till I learn all I wish to know of our neighbours yonder. I have already provided myself with instruments which will enable me to note every movement they make, indeed to photograph them, if necessary, and to hear and record every word they utter. You look surprised, but it is easily done. I will place my lenses there at the chink through which you were gazing and bring the image down into my camera obscura by a prism arranged for total internal reflection. As for the hearing, that is easier yet. I will carefully work away the plaster on this side to-night till I get through to the paper covering their wall. This I will leave intact to use as a diaphragm. I have then only to fasten my carbon to it, and, behold, we have a microphone or telephone—whichever you choose to call it. All I have to look out for is that I get it high enough to avoid the danger of the paper being accidentally broken from the other side, and that I work quietly while removing the plaster. I shall, of course, cover it with a bit of black felt to prevent our light from showing, and to deaden any sounds from this side. This will enable us to hear all that goes on in the other room, but this may not be enough. We may need a phonographic record of what transpires.

"The device whereby I secure this at such a distance is an invention of my own which, for patent reasons—I might almost say 'patent patent reasons'—I will ask you to kindly keep to yourself. To the diaphragm there I fasten this bit of burnished silver. Upon this I concentrate a pencil of light which, when reflected, acts photographically upon a sensitised moving tape in this little box, and perfectly registers the minutest movement of the receiving diaphragm. How I develop, etch, and reproduce this record, and transform it into a record of the ordinary type, you will see in due time—and will kindly keep secret for the present. You had better go now and send me the things on this list, as soon as possible," and he passed me a paper, continuing:

"We will not despair yet. Our clever rival may not be ready to prove his case so quickly as we. At all events, when he comes again I shall be in a condition to ascertain how far he has progressed. I have some things I must settle before I can ask for an arrest, and I am not at all sure that M. Godin is in any better condition in this regard than I am. By Jove! I'd give something to know how that wizard has gotten so far without so much as a single sign to indicate that he had even moved in the matter. I say, Doc, it beats me, blessed if it doesn't! Please say to Miss Darrow that I am at work upon a promising clue-promising for someone, anyway—and may not see her for some time yet."

I did as he requested, and, if I am any judge of feminine indications, my message did not yield Gwen unmixed pleasure; still, she said nothing to warrant such a supposition on my part. I visited Maitland every day to learn what he might wish me to bring him, and also to carry him his mail, for he had determined to remain constantly on the watch at his new quarters.

I have thus far, in the narration of these incidents been perfectly candid both as regards my friends and myself, and, therefore, that I may continue in like manner to the end, I shall suppress certain qualms which are urging me to silence, and confess myself guilty of some things of which you will, perhaps, think I may well be ashamed. Be that as it may, you shall have the whole truth, however it may affect your opinion of me. One reason why I went to Maitland's new quarters so often, and stayed there so long, was because I was always permitted to relieve him of his watch. With a telephone receiver strapped to my right ear, and my eyes fastened upon the screen of the camera obscura, I would sit by the hour prying into the affairs of the two people in the next room. I tried for a number of days to ease my conscience by telling myself that I was labouring in the cause of justice, and was not a common eavesdropper. This permitted me to retain a sort of quasi self-respect for a day or two till my honesty rallied itself, and forced me to realise and to admit that I was, to all intents and purposes, a common Paul Pry, performing a disreputable act for the gratification it gave me. I determined I would at least be honest with myself—and this was my verdict. You will, perhaps, fancy that when I arrived at this decision I at once mended my ways and resigned my seat of observation to Maitland's entirely professional care. This, doubtless, I should have done, if we fallible human beings governed our conduct by our knowledge of what is right and proper. Inasmuch, however, as desires and emotions are the determining factors of human conduct, I did nothing of the sort. I simply watched there day after day, with ever-increasing avidity, until at length I got to be impatient of the duties that took me away, and more than half inclined to neglect them.

I shall gain nothing by attempting to make you believe it was the man in the neighbouring room that interested me, so I shall not essay it. I confess, with a feeling of guilt because I am not more ashamed of it—that it was the young lady who attracted me. You will, I trust, assume I had enough interest in her father to palliate my conduct in a measure. Be generous in your judgment. How do you know you will not be in the same predicament? Think of it! A young woman beautiful beyond my feeble powers of description; her eyes of a heavenly blue; her luxuriant hair like a mass of spun gold; her complexion matched to the tint and transparency of the blush rose—and such a throat! From it came a voice as musical as the unguided waters when Winter rushes down the hills in search of Spring. Never you mind, that's the way I felt about it, and, if you had been in my place, you'd have been just as bad as I; come, now, you know you would. Suppose I was a bachelor, and almost old enough to be her father. Does that help matters any? Is the heart less hungry because it has been starved? Just look at your history. When nuns have relapsed from other-worldliness to this-worldliness how have they been? I'll tell you. They have been just a round baker's dozen times worse than they would have been if they had never undertaken to cheat Nature. Look at the thing fairly. I don't expect to dodge any blame that I deserve, yet I do want all the palliating circumstances duly noted. Many months have passed since then, and yet the thought of that sweet girl sends a thrill all over me. I wonder where she is now? I feel that we shall meet again some time, and perhaps you will see her yourself. If so, you will see that I couldn't be expected to withstand any such temptation.

On these visits Maitland and I talked but very little, and while I was spying nothing of interest occurred—i. e., nothing of interest to him—or, if it did, things of interest to me prevented my observing it. On several occasions he alluded vaguely to things he had learned which he said he should not divulge even to me until the proper time came.

Things went on in this way for about two weeks. I visited Maitland daily, and daily the little lady in the next room wove her spell around me. If, as I am inclined to believe, thinking a great deal of a person is much the same thing as thinking of a person a great deal, I must have adored her.

One night, about a fortnight after Maitland's change of abode, I found Alice in a terrible state of excitement upon my arrival home. She met me at the door, and said Gwen needed my attention at once. I did not stop to hear further particulars, but hastened to the sitting-room, where Gwen lay upon the lounge. She was in a stupor from which it seemed impossible to arouse her. In vain I tried to attract her attention. Her fixed, staring eyes looked through me as if I had been glass. I saw she had received a severe shock, and so, after giving her some medicine, I took Alice aside and asked her what had happened. She said that Gwen and she had been sitting sewing by the window all the afternoon, and talking about Maitland's recent discoveries. At about five o'clock the Evening Herald was brought in as usual. She, Alice, had picked it up to glance over the news, when, in the column headed "Latest," she had seen the heading: "The Darrow Mystery Solved!" This she had read aloud, without thinking of the shock the unexpected announcement might give Gwen, when the sudden pallor that had overspread the young woman's face had brought her to her senses, and she had paused. Her companion, however, had seized the paper when she had hesitated and, in a fever of excitement, had read in a half-audible voice:

John Darrow was murdered. —The assassin's inability to pay a gambling debt the motive for the crime. —Extraordinary work of a French detective!—The net—

But at this juncture the paper had dropped from Gwen's hands, and she had fallen upon the floor before Alice could reach her.



THE EPISODE OF THE TELLTALE THUMB

CHAPTER I

When Disaster is bigger than its victim its bolt o'erlaps the innocent.

It was some time after Gwen had fallen before Alice had succeeded in getting her upon the lounge, and then all her efforts to revive her had failed. She had remained in the same nerveless stupor as that in which I had found her. I asked Alice if she knew why this announcement had produced such an effect upon Gwen, and she returned my question with a look of amazement.

"Have you forgotten Gwen's promise to her father in this matter?" she replied. "Has she not already told you that she should keep that promise, whatever the sacrifice cost her? She is, therefore, entirely at the mercy of this M. Godin, and she is also obliged to advise him of this fact, if she would carry out her father's wishes. Is this nothing for a sensitive nature like hers? If she has any love for anyone else she must crush it out of her heart, for she is M. Godin's now. Surely, Ned, you are not so stupid as your question would indicate."

"We won't discuss that," I rejoined. "Let us go to Gwen and get her to bed."

This done, and the sufferer made easy for the night, I glanced at the article which had so upset her, and read its sensational "scare-head." In full it ran as follows:

THE DARROW MYSTERY SOLVED! JOHN DARROW WAS MURDERED!

The Assassin's Inability to Pay a Gambling Debt the Motive for the Crime.

EXTRAORDINARY WORK OF A FRENCH DETECTIVE!

The Net so Completely Woven About the Alleged Assassin That it is Thought He Will Confess.

The Arrest Entirely Due to the Unassisted Efforts of M. LOUIS GODIN!

I did not stop to read the article, but seized my hat and hastened at once to Maitland.

A copy of the Herald lay upon his table, advising me that he was already acquainted with the strange turn affairs had taken. He told me that he had heard the newsboys in the street calling out "The Darrow Mystery Solved!" and had at once rushed out and bought a paper.

I informed him of Gwen's condition and he wished to go to her at once, but I told him he must wait until the morrow, as she had already retired, and was, I had reason to hope, fast asleep. I reassured him with the information that a night's sleep and the medicine I had given her would probably put Gwen in full possession of her faculties. Having thus satisfied his fears, I thought it fitting he should satisfy mine. I asked him what had become of the young woman in the next room. He did not reply, but quietly led me into his camera obscura that I might see for myself. She was sitting at the table in the centre of the room, with her face buried in her hands. I watched her for a long time, and the only movement I could discern was that occasioned ever and anon by a convulsive catching of her breath. The pet monkey was nowhere to be seen.

"They took her father away early this morning," Maitland said, "and, after the first shock, she sank into this condition. She has not moved since. When I see the despair her father's arrest has occasioned I am almost tempted to rejoice that I had no hand in it, and yet—well, there's no great harm without some small good—no one will say now that John Darrow took his own life, eh? What do you think our friends, Osborne and Allen, will say now? They were so sure their theory was the only tenable one. Ah, well! we should ever hold ourselves in readiness for surprises."

"And for emergencies too," I continued; "and this strikes me as being very like one. That young woman needs attention, if I am any judge of appearances, and I'm going in there." "No use, Doc," Maitland replied, "the door is locked, and she either cannot or will not open it. I knocked there for an hour, hoping to be able to comfort her. It's no use for you to try, she won't open the door." "Won't, eh! then I'll go through it!" I exclaimed, in a tone that so amazed Maitland that he seized me by the shoulders and gazed fixedly into my face. "It's all right, George," I said, answering his look. "I'm going in there, and I'm not going to be at all delicate about my entrance either."

He looked at me a little doubtfully, but I could see that, on the whole, he was pleased with my decision. I went into the hall and knocked loudly on the door. There was no response. I kicked it till I must have been heard all over the house, but still there was no response. It was now clear I should not enter by invitation, so I went up four or five stairs of the flight opposite the door and from that position sprang against it. I am not, if you remember, a heavy man, but momentum is MV and I made up in the 'V' what I lacked in the 'M.' The door opened inwardly, and I tore it from its hinges and precipitated both myself and it into the centre of the apartment. As I look back upon this incident I regard it as the most precipitous thing I ever did in the way of a professional visit. If the young lady started at all, she did so before I had gathered myself together sufficiently to notice it. I spoke to her, but she gave no evidence of hearing me. I raised her head. Her eyes were wide open and stared full at me, yet in such a blank way that I knew she did not hear me. The contraction of the brows, the knotted appearance of the forehead, and the rigor of the face told me she was under an all-but-breaking tension. There were tear-stains from tears which long since had ceased to flow. The fire of fever had dried them up. I regarded her case as far more desperate than Gwen's and determined to lose no time in taking charge of it. It seemed to me so like sacrilege to touch her without an explanation that, though I knew she could not understand me, I said to her, as I took her in my arms. "You are ill, and I must take you away from here."

She was just blossoming into womanhood and her form had that exquisite roundness and grace which it is the particular function of fashion to annihilate. If I held her closely, I think all bachelors will agree that it was because this very roundness made her heavy; if I did not put her down immediately I reached Maitland's room, it is because, as a doctor of medicine, I have my own ideas as to how a couch should be fixed before a patient is laid upon it. Maitland may say what he pleases, but I know how important these things are in sickness, and you know, quick as he is in most things, George has moments when his head is so much in the clouds that he doesn't know what he is doing, and moves as if he were in a dream set to dirge music. He kept telling me to "put her on the couch! —put her on the couch!" To this day, he fondly believes that when I finally did release her, it was as the result of his advice, rather than because he had at last made a suitable bed for her.

I sent Maitland for some medicine, which I knew would relax the tension she was under and make it possible for her to sleep. When I had administered this, Maitland and I talked the matter over and we decided to take her at once to my house, where, with Gwen, she could share the watchful care of my sister Alice. This we did, though I was not without some misgivings as to Gwen's attitude in the matter when she should recover sufficiently to know of it. I expressed my doubts to Maitland and he replied: "Give yourself no uneasiness on that score; Miss Darrow is too womanly to visit the sins of a guilty father upon an unoffending daughter, and, besides, this man,—it seems that his real name is Latour, not Cazenove,— has a right to be judged innocent until his guilt is proved."

I found this to be sage counsel, for, when Gwen was able to understand what I had done, she exhibited no antipathy toward the new member of our household, but, on the contrary, became exceedingly interested in her. I was especially glad of this, not only on account of Miss Latour, the suspect's daughter, but also because the one thing Gwen needed above all others was something to challenge her interest. She had again relapsed into the old, state of passive endurance, wherein nothing seemed to reach her consciousness. Her actions appeared to flow more from her nerve-centres than from her mind. She moved like an automaton. There is scarcely any condition of which I am more fearful than this. The patient becomes wax in one's hands. She will do anything without a murmur, or as willingly refrain from anything. She simply is indifferent to life and all that therein is. Is it any wonder, then, that I rejoiced to see Gwen interest herself in poor Jeannette? It was a long time, however, before Jeannette repaid this interest with anything more than a dreamy, far-off gaze, that refused to focus itself upon anything. As time wore on, however, I noticed with relief that there was a faint expression of wonder in her look, and, as this daily grew stronger, I knew she was beginning to realise her novel surroundings and to ask herself if she were still dreaming. Yet she did not speak; she seemed to fear the sound of her own voice and to determine to solve, unaided, the mystery confronting her. I requested that no one question her or make any attempt to induce her to break silence, for I knew the time would come when she would do so of her own free will. As it happened, her first words were spoken to me, and, as my writing this recalls the event, a thrill of pleasurable pain passes through me. You may think this foolish, the more so, indeed, when you learn that nothing was said to warrant such a feeling, but I must urge upon you not to let your satisfied heart set itself up as judge in bachelor regions.

I had been mixing some medicine for her and was holding the cup to her lips that she might drink the draught. She laid her hand upon my wrist and gently put the cup aside, saying, as she gazed thoughtfully at me: "Did you not bring me here?" "Yes," I replied. She reached for the cup, and drinking its contents, sank back upon the pillows with a half-satisfied look upon her face, as if my reply had cleared up one mystery, but left many more to be solved.

From this day Jeannette steadily improved, and within two weeks she and Gwen had come to a very good understanding. It was plainly evident that Alice, too, came in for a very good share of the little French girl's love. They did not exchange confidences to any great degree, for, as Maitland used to say, Alice was one of those rare, sweet women who say but little, but seem to act upon all around them by a sort of catalysis, sweetening the atmosphere by their very presence.



CHAPTER II

Belief, though it be as ample as the ocean, does not always similarly swell in crystallising. It has, however, its point of maximum density, but this, not infrequently, is also ifs point of minimum knowledge.

During all these days Gwen was gaining rapidly. Maitland came to visit us almost every night, and he told Gwen that he did not feel altogether certain that, in arresting M. Latour, the law had secured her father's real assassin. It would be necessary to account for, he told her, some very singular errors in his early calculations if M. Latour was the man.

"When first I took up my abode under the same roof with him," he said, "I had no doubt that we had at last run down our man. Now, although another detective has come to the same conclusion, I myself have many misgivings, and you may be assured, Miss Darrow, that I shall lose no time in getting these doubts answered one way or the other. At present you may say to your friend Jeannette that I am straining every nerve in her father's behalf."

Why all this should so please Gwen I was at a loss to comprehend, but I could not fail to see that it did please her greatly. She had been the most anxious of us all to see her father's murderer brought to justice, and now, when through the efforts of M. Godin, a man stood all but convicted of the crime, she was pleased to hear Maitland, whose efforts to track Latour she had applauded in no equivocal way, say that he should spare no pains to give the suspect every possible chance to prove his innocence. There was certainly a reason, whatever it might have been, for Gwen's attitude in this matter, for that young woman was exceptionally rational in all things. Nothing of especial moment occurred between this time and the beginning of the trial. Maitland, for the most part, kept his own counsel and gave us little information other than a hint that he still thought there was a chance of clearing M. Latour.

With this end in view he had become an associate attorney with Jenkins in order the better to conduct M. Latour's case along the lines which seemed to him the most promising. I asked him on one occasion what led him to entertain a hope that Latour could be cleared and he replied: "A good many things." "Well, then," I rejoined, "what are some of them?" He hesitated a moment and then replied laughingly: "You see I hate to acknowledge the falsity of my theories. I said shortly after the murder was committed that I thought the assassin was short and probably did not weigh over one hundred and thirty-five pounds; that he most likely had some especial reason for concealing his footprints, and that he had a peculiarity in his gait. I felt tolerably sure then of all this, but now it turns out that M. Latour is six feet tall in his stockings, and thin; and that, emaciated as he is, he tips the scales at one hundred and fifty pounds by reason of his large frame. His feet are as commonplace as—as yours, Doc, and his gait as regular as—mine. Is it to be expected that I am going to give up all my pet illusions without a struggle?"

When the hour for the trial arrived Gwen insisted on accompanying us to the court-room. She had a great deal of confidence in George and felt sure that, as he expressed a strong doubt of the prisoner's guilt, he would triumph in proving him innocent. She determined, therefore, to be present at the trial, even before her attendance should be required as a witness.

M. Latour, when he was led into the prisoner's box, seemed to have aged greatly during his incarceration. It was with a marked effort that he arose and straightened himself up as the indictment was read to him. When the words: "Are you guilty or not guilty?" were addressed to him every eye was turned upon him and every ear listened to catch the first sound of his voice, but no sound came. The question was repeated more loudly, "Are you guilty or not guilty?" Like one suddenly awakened from a reverie M. Latour started, turned toward his questioner, and in a full, firm voice replied: "Guilty!" I was so dumfounded that I could offer Gwen no word of comfort to alleviate this sudden shock. Maitland and Godin seemed about the only ones in the court-room who were not taken off their feet, so to speak, by this unexpected plea, and George was at Gwen's side in a moment and whispered something to her which I could not hear, but which I could see had a very beneficial effect upon her. We had all expected a long, complicated trial, and here the whole matter was reduced to a mere formality by M. Latour's simple confession, "Guilty!" Is it any wonder, therefore, that we were taken aback?

While we were recovering from our surprise at this sudden turn of affairs, Maitland was engaged in private conversation with the Judge, with whom, he afterward told me, he had become well acquainted both in his own cases and in those of other lawyers requiring his services as an expert chemist. He never told me what passed between them, nor the substance of any of the brief interviews which followed with the prosecuting attorney, his associate counsel, and other legal functionaries. All I know is that when the case was resumed M. Latour's senior counsel, Jenkins, kept carefully in the background, leaving the practical conduct of the case in Maitland's hands.

If a hazelnut had the shell of a cocoanut, its meat would, in my opinion, sustain about the same relation to its bulk as the gist of the usual legal proceeding sustains to the mass of verbiage in which it is enshrouded. For this reason you will not expect me to give a detailed account of this trial. I couldn't if I would, and I wouldn't if I could. My knowledge of legal procedure is far from profound, albeit I once began the study of law. My memories of Blackstone are such as need prejudice no ambitious aspirant for legal honours. I have a recollection that somewhere Blackstone says something about eavesdropping,—I mean in its literal sense—something about the drippings from A's roof falling on B's estate; but for the life of me I couldn't tell what he says. More distinctly do I remember this learned lawgiver stated that there could be no doubt of the evidence of witchcraft, because the Bible was full of it, and that witches should be punished with death. This made an impression upon me, because it was an instance, rare to me then, but common enough now, of how minds, otherwise exceptionally able, may have a spot so encankered with creed, bigotry, and superstition as to render their judgments respecting certain classes of phenomena erroneous and illogical, puerile and ridiculous.

But to return to those points of the trial which I can remember, and which I think of sufficient interest to put before you. These refer chiefly to Maitland's examination of M. Latour, and of the government's chief witness, M. Godin. Such portions of their testimony as I shall put before you I shall quote exactly as it was given and reported by Maitland's friend, Simonds.

When Maitland began for the defence he said:

"At about half-past seven on the night of the 22d of April, John Darrow met his death at his home in Dorchester. He died in the presence of his daughter, Messrs. Willard, Browne, Herne, and myself. His death was caused by injecting a virulent poison into his system through a slight incision in his neck. That wound the prisoner before you confesses he himself inflicted. I would like to know a little more definitely how he succeeded in doing it without detection, in the presence, not only of his victim, but of five other persons sitting close about him. M. Latour will please take the stand."

As M. Latour stepped into the witness-box, a wave of suppressed excitement ran all over the court-room. Every nerve was strained to its tensest pitch, every ear eager for the slightest syllable he might utter. What could be done for a man who had confessed, and what would be the solution of the crime which had so long defied the authorities? The explanation was now to be made and it is no wonder that the excitement was intense.

I omit all uninteresting formalities.

Q. Have you ever seen me before to-day?

A. Not to my knowledge.

Q. Have you any reason to believe I have ever seen you before to-day?

A. None whatever—er—that is—unless on the night of the murder.

Q. Were you acquainted with John Darrow?

A. Yes.

Q. How long have you known him?

A. About six months—perhaps seven.

Q. What were your relations?

A. I don't understand.—We had gambled together.

Q. Where?

A. In this city—Decatur Street.

Q. What motive led you to kill him?

A. He cheated me at cards, and I swore to be even with him.

Q. Had you any other reason?

A. I owed him twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars which I borrowed of him hoping my luck would change. He won it all back from me by false play, and when I could not meet it he pressed me over hard.

Q. You say this occurred on Decatur Street. What was the date?

A. I do not remember.

Q. What month was it?

A. It was in March. Early in March.

Q. You are sure it was in March?

A. Yes.

Q. Should you say it was between the 1st and 15th of March?

A. Yes. I am positive it was before the 15th of March.

Q. Have you long known that M. Godin was at work upon this case?

A. No.

Q. When did you first become aware of it?

A. Not until my arrest.

Q. When did you first see M. Godin?

A. When I was arrested.

Q. Did he ever call at your rooms?

A. Never—not to my knowledge—I never saw him till the day of my arrest.

Q. With what weapon did you kill Mr. Darrow?

A. I made use of a specially constructed hypodermic syringe.

Half-smothered exclamations of surprise were heard from every part of the room. Even the Judge gave a start at this astounding bit of testimony. Every person present knew perfectly well that no human being could have entered or left the Darrow parlour without certain discovery, yet here was a man, apparently in his right mind, who soberly asserted that he had used a hypodermic syringe. Maitland and Godin alone seemed cool and collected. Throughout all Latour's testimony, M. Godin watched the witness with a burning concentration. It seemed as if the great detective meant to bore through Latour's gaze down to the most secret depths of his soul. Not for an instant did he take his eyes from Latour. I said to myself at the time that this power of concentration explained, in a great measure, this detective's remarkable success. Nothing was permitted to escape him, and little movements which another man would doubtless never notice, had, for M. Godin, I felt sure, a world of suggestive significance.

Maitland's calm demeanour, so resourceful in its serenity, caused all eyes to turn at length to him as if for explanation. He continued with slow deliberation.

Q. In what particulars was this hypodermic syringe of special construction?

M. Latour seemed nervous and ill at ease. He shifted from side to side as if M. Godin's glance had pierced him like a rapier, and he were trying vainly to wriggle off of it. He seemed unable to disengage himself and at length replied in a wearied and spiritless tone:

A. In two particulars only. In the first place, it was very small, having a capacity of but five or six drops, and, in the second place, it was provided with an internal spring which, when released, worked the plunger and ejected the contents with extreme rapidity.

Q. What operated this spring?

A. Around the needle-like point of the syringe, less than a quarter of an inch from its end, was a tiny, annular bit of metal. This little metallic collar was forced upward by the pressure of the flesh as the sharp point entered it, and this movement released the spring and instantly and forcibly ejected the contents of the cylinder.

Q. Did you use a poison in this syringe?

A. Yes, sir.

Q. What did you use?

M. LATOUR hesitated and shifted helplessly about as if he dreaded to go farther into these particulars, and fondly hoped someone might come to his rescue. His gaze seemed to shift about the room without in the least being able to disentangle itself from that of M. Godin. He remained silent and the question was repeated.

Q. What did you use?

Again the witness hesitated while everyone, save only Maitland and Godin, leaned eagerly forward to catch his reply. At length it came in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

A. Anhydrous hydrocyanic acid.

A long-drawn "Hum!" escaped from Maitland, while M. Godin gave not the slightest indication of surprise. It was quite evident to us all that the astute Frenchman had acquired complete control of the case before he had arrested the assassin. At this juncture the Court said, addressing Maitland:

"This substance is extremely poisonous, I take it."

"Your Honour," Maitland replied, "it is the most fatal of all poisons known to chemists. It is also called cyanhydric, and, more commonly, prussic acid. An insignificant amount, when inhaled or brought into contact with the skin, causes immediate death. If a drop be placed upon the end of a glass rod and brought toward the nose of a live rabbit he will be dead before it reaches him."

A profound silence—the death-like quiet which accompanies an almost breaking tension—reigned in the court-room as Maitland turned again to Latour.

Q. I understand you to say you used anhydrous hydrocyanic or cyanhydric acid.

A. Yes, sir.

Q. Do you sufficiently understand chemistry to use these terms with accuracy? Might you not have used potassium cyanide or prussiate of potash?

A. I am a tolerably good chemist, and have spoken understandingly. Potassium cyanide, KCN, is a white, crystalline compound, and could hardly be used in a hypodermic syringe save in solution, in which condition it would not have been sufficiently poisonous to have served my purpose.

At this reply many of the audience exchanged approving glances. They believed M. Latour had shown himself quite a match for Maitland in not falling easily into what they regarded as a neat little trap which had been set to prove his lack of chemical knowledge. They attributed Maitland's failure to further interrogate Latour upon his understanding of chemistry as evidence that he had met an equal. To be sure, they were not quite clear in their own minds why Latour's counsel should be at such pains to carefully examine a man who had already confessed, but they believed they knew when a lawyer had met his match, and felt sure that this was one such instance. Clinton Browne, who sat in one of the front seats, seemed to find a deal more to amuse him in this incident than was apparent to me. Some men have such a wonderful sense of humour!

Maitland continued:

Q. When Mr. Darrow was murdered he sat in the centre of his parlour, surrounded by his daughter and invited guests. Will you tell the Court how you entered and left this room without detection?

Again the witness hesitated and looked irresolutely, almost tremblingly, about him, but seemed finally to steady himself, as it were, upon Godin's glance. It's a strange thing how the directness and intense earnestness of a strong man will pull the vacillation of a weak one into line with it, even as great ships draw lesser ones into their wakes. The excited audience hung breathlessly upon Latour's utterance. At last they were to know how this miracle of crime had been performed. Every auditor leaned forward in his seat, and those who were a trifle dull of hearing placed their hands to their ears, fearful lest some syllable of the riddle's solution should escape them. M. Latour remained dumb. The Judge regarded him sternly and said:

"Answer the question. How did you enter the Darrow parlour?"

A. I—I did—I did not enter it.

Again a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise traversed the room.

Q. If you did not enter the room how did you plunge the hypodermic syringe into your victim's neck?

It seemed for a moment as if the witness would utterly collapse, but he pulled himself together, as with a mighty effort, and fairly took our breath away with his astounding answer:

A. I—I did not strike Mr. Darrow with the syringe.

The audience literally gasped in open-mouthed amazement, while the Court turned fiercely upon Latour and said:

"What do you mean by first telling us you killed Mr. Darrow by injecting poison into his circulation from a specially prepared hypodermic syringe, and then telling us that you did not strike him with this syringe. What do you mean, sir? Answer me!"

A sudden change came over M. Latour. All his timidity seemed to vanish in a moment, as he drew himself up to his full height and faced the Judge. It seemed to me as if till now he had cherished a hope that he might not be forced to give the details of his awful crime, but that he had at last concluded he would be obliged to disclose all the particulars, and had decided to manfully face the issue.

Every eye was fixed upon him, and every ear strained to its utmost as he turned slowly toward the Judge and said with a calm dignity which surprised us all:

A. Your Honour is in error. I said that I made use of a specially constructed hypodermic syringe. I have not said that I struck Mr. Darrow with it. There is, therefore, nothing contradictory in my statements.

Again the prisoner had scored, and again the audience exchanged approving glances which plainly said: "He's clever enough for them all!"

Then the Court continued the examination.

Q. Were you upon the Darrow estate when Mr. Darrow met his death?

A. Yes, your Honour.

Q. Where?

A. Just outside the eastern parlour-window, your Honour.

Q. Did you strike the blow which caused Mr. Darrow's death?

A. No, your Honour.

Q. What! Have you not said you are responsible for his murder?

A. Yes, your Honour.

Q. Ah, I see! You had some other person for an accomplice?

A. No, your Honour.

Q. Look here, sir! Do you propose to tell us anything of your own accord, or must we drag it out of you piecemeal?

A. No power can make me speak if I do not elect to, and I only elect to answer questions. Commission for contempt will hardly discipline a man in my position, and may lead me to hold my peace entirely.

The Court turned away with an expression of disgust and engaged Jenkins and Maitland in a whispered conversation. The prisoner had again scored. There is enough of the bully in many judges to cause the public to secretly rejoice when they are worsted. It was plain to be seen that the audience was pleased with Latour's defiance.

Maitland now resumed the examination with his accustomed ease. One would have thought he was addressing a church sociable,—if he judged by his manner.

Q. You have testified to being responsible for the death of John Darrow. The instrument with which he was killed was directly or indirectly your handiwork, yet you did not strike the blow, and you have said you had no other person for an accomplice. Am I substantially correct in all this?

A. You are quite correct.

Q. Very good. Did John Darrow's death result from a poisoned wound made by the instrument you have described?

A. It did.

This reply seemed to nonplus us all with the exception of Maitland and Godin. These two seemed proof against all surprises. The rest of us looked helplessly each at his neighbour as if to say, "What next?" and we all felt,—at least I did and the others certainly looked it,—as if the solution of the enigma were farther away than ever.

Maitland proceeded in the same methodical strain.

Q. A blow was given, yet neither you nor any person acting as your accomplice gave it. Did Mr. Darrow himself give the blow?

A. No, sir.

Q. I thought not. Did any person give it?

A. No, sir.

The audience drew a deep inspiration, as if with one accord! They had ceased to reason. Again and again had we been brought, as we all felt sure, within a single syllable of the truth, only to find ourselves at the next word more mystified than ever. It would hardly have surprised us more if the prisoner had informed us that Mr. Darrow still lived. The excitement was so intense that thought was impossible, so we could only listen with bated breath for someone else to solve the thing for our beleaguered and discouraged minds. After a word with his colleague, Maitland resumed.

Q. A blow was given, yet no person gave it. Was it given by anything which is alive?

A. It was not.

You could have heard a pin drop, so silent was the room during the pause which preceded Maitland's next question.

Q. Did you arrange some inanimate object or objects outside the eastern window, or elsewhere, on the Darrow estate so that it or they might wound Mr. Darrow?

A. No,—no inanimate object other than the hypodermic syringe already referred to.

Q. To my question: "A blow was given, yet no person gave it. Was it given by anything which is alive?" you have answered: "It was not." Let me now ask: Was it given by anything which was at that time alive?

A. It was.

There was a stir all over the court-room. Here at last was a suggestive admission. The examination was approaching a crisis!

Q. And you have said it was not a person. Was it not an animal?

A. It was.

"An animal!" we all ejaculated with the unanimity of a Greek chorus. So audible were the exclamations of incredulity which arose from the spellbound audience that the crier's gavel had to be brought into requisition before Maitland could proceed.

Q. Did you train a little Capucin monkey to strike this blow?

A. I did.

A great sigh, the result of suddenly relieved tension, liberally interlarded with unconscious exclamations, swept over the court-room and would not be gavelled into silence until it had duly spent itself.

Even the Judge so far forgot his dignity as to give vent to a half-stifled exclamation.

Maitland proceeded:

Q. In order that this monkey might not attack the wrong man after you had armed him, you taught him to obey certain signals given by little twitches upon the cord by which you held him. A certain signal was to creep stealthily forward, another to strike, and still another to crawl quickly back with the weapon. When circumstances seemed most favourable to the success of your designs,—that is, when Miss Darrow's voice and the piano prevented any slight sound from attracting attention,—you gently dropped the monkey in at the window and signalled him what to do. When Mr. Darrow sprang to his feet you recalled the monkey and hastened away. Is not this a fairly correct description of what occurred?

A. It is true to the letter.

Q. And subsequently you killed the monkey lest he should betray you by exhibiting his little tricks, at an inopportune moment in a way to compromise you. Is it not so?

A. It is. I killed him, though he was my daughter's pet.

We were stricken aghast at Maitland's sudden grasp of the case. Even Godin was surprised. What could it all mean? Had Maitland known the facts all along? Had he simply been playing with the witness for reasons which we could not divine? M. Godin's face was a study. He ceased boring holes in Latour with his eyes and turned those wonderful orbs full upon Maitland, in whom they seemed to sink to the depths of his very soul. Clearly M. Godin was surprised at this exhibition of Maitland's power.

Browne, who throughout the trial had glared at Maitland with an unfriendliness which must have been apparent to everyone, now lowered blacker than ever, it seemed to me. I wondered what could have occurred to still further displease him, and finally concluded it must either be some transient thought which had come uncalled into his mind, or else a feeling of envy at his rival's prominence in the case, and the deservedly good reputation he was making. His general ill-feeling I, of course, charged to jealousy, for I could not but note his uncontrollable admiration for Gwen. I fully believed he would have given his own life—or anyone else's for that matter—to possess her, and I decided to speak a word of warning to George. After a short, whispered consultation with Jenkins and the prosecuting attorney, Maitland turned to the prisoner and said:

"That will do. M. Latour may leave the stand."

It seemed to the spectators that the affair was now entirely cleared up, and they accordingly settled themselves comfortably for the formal denouement. They were, therefore, much taken aback when Maitland continued, addressing the jury:

"The evidence against the prisoner would indeed seem overwhelming, even had we not his confession. Apart from this confession we have no incriminating evidence save such as has been furnished by the government's chief witness, M. Godin. As it is through this gentleman's efforts that Latour was brought within reach of justice, it is but natural that much should be clear to him which may be puzzling to those who have not made so close a study of the case. I think he will enlighten us upon a few points. M. Godin will please take the stand."

At this there was much whispering in the courtroom.. Maitland's course seemed decidedly anomalous. Everyone wondered why he should be at such pains to prove that which had been already admitted and which, moreover, since he was representing Latour, it would seem he would most naturally wish to disprove. M. Godin, however, took the stand and Maitland proceeded to examine him in a way which only added amazement to wonder.

Q. How long have you been at work on this case?

A. Ever since the murder.

Q. When did you first visit M. Latour's rooms?

A. Do you mean to enter them?

Q. Yes.

A. I did not enter his rooms until the day he was arrested. I went to other rooms of the same tenement-house on previous occasions.

Q. Have you reason to believe M. Latour ever saw you prior to the day of his arrest?

A. No. I am sure he did not. I was especially careful to keep out of his way.

Q. You are certain that on the several occasions when you say you entered his rooms you were not observed by him while there?

A. I did not say I entered his rooms on several occasions.

Q. What did you say?

A. I said I never was in his rooms but once, and that was upon the day of his arrest.

Q. I understand. Were you not assisted in your search for Mr. Darrow's murderer by certain library books which you discovered M. Latour had been reading?

A. I—I don't quite understand.

Q. M. Latour obtained some books from the Public Library for hall use, giving his name as—as—

A. Weltz. Yes, they did assist me. There were some also taken under the name of Rizzi.

Q. Exactly. Those are the names, I think. How was your attention called to these books?

A. I met Latour at the library by accident, and he at once struck me as a man anxious to avoid observation. This made it my business to watch him. I saw that he signed his name as "Weltz" on the slips. The next day I saw him there again, and this time he signed the slips "Rizzi." This was long before the murder, and I was not at work upon any case into which I could fit this "Weltz" or "Rizzi." I was convinced in my own mind, however, that he was guilty of some crime, and so put him down in my memory for future reference. During my work upon this present case this incident recurred to me, and I followed up the suggestion as one which might possibly throw some light upon the subject.

Q. Did you peruse the books M. Latour borrowed under the names of Weltz and Rizzi?

A. I did not.

Q. Did you not look at any of them?

A. No. It did not occur to me to examine their names.

Q. You probably noticed that there were several of them. Among the pile was one by Alexander Wynter Blyth entitled, "Poisons, Their Effects and Detection." Did you notice that?

A. No. I did not notice any of them.

Q. But after you became suspicious of M. Latour, did you not then look up the slips, find this work, and read it?

A. No. I have never seen the book in my life and did not even know such a work existed.

Q. Oh! Then the perusal of the books had no part in the tracking of M. Latour.

A. None whatever.

Q. Do you ever play cards?

A. Yes, sometimes, to pass the time.

Q. Do you play for money?

A. Sometimes for a small stake—just enough to make it interesting.

Q. Are you familiar with the house in which Mr. Darrow was murdered?

A. I have only such knowledge of it as I acquired at the examination immediately after the murder. You will remember I entered but the one room.

Q. And the grounds about the house? Surely you examined them?

A. On the contrary, I did not.

Q. Did you not even examine the eastern side of the house?

A. I did not. I have never been within the gate save on the night in question, and then only to traverse the front walk to and from the house in company with Messieurs Osborne and Allen. I was convinced that the solution of the problem was to be found within the room in which the murder was committed, and that my notes taken the night of the tragedy contained all the data I could hope to get.

Q. Was not this rather a singular assumption?

A. For many doubtless it would be; but I have my own methods, and I think I may say they have been measurably successful in most cases. [This last was said with a good-natured smile and a modest dignity that completely won the audience.]

At this point Maitland dismissed M. Godin and the court adjourned for the day. That night M. Godin made his first call upon Gwen. Their interview was private, and Gwen had nothing to say about it further than that her caller had not hesitated to inform her that he was aware a reward had been offered and that he considered he had earned it. Maitland questioned her as to what he had claimed as his due, but Gwen, with her face alternately flushed and ashen, begged to be permitted to keep silence.

This attitude was, of course, not without its significance to Maitland, and it was easy to see that M. Godin's visit had much displeased him. But he was not the only one who was displeased that night. I regret that my promise of utter candour compels me to bear witness to my own foolishness; for when Maitland found it necessary to take Jeannette into the back parlour and to remain there alone with her in earnest conversation one hour and twelve minutes—I happened to notice the exact time—it seemed to me he was getting unpleasantly confidential, and it nettled me. You may fancy that I was jealous, but it was, most likely, only pique, or, at the worst, envy. I was provoked at the nonchalant ease with which this fellow did offhand a thing I had been trying to work myself up to for several days, and had finally abandoned from sheer lack of courage. Why couldn't I carelessly say to her, "Miss Jeannette, a word with you if you please," and then take her into the parlour and talk a "whole history." Oh, it was envy, that's what it was! And then the change in Jeannette! If he had not been making love to her—well, I have often wondered since if it were all envy, after all.

The next morning M. Latour's trial was resumed, and Maitland again put M. Godin upon the stand. The object of this did not appear at the time, though I think the Judge fully understood it. Maitland's first act was to show the Judge and Jury a glass negative and a letter, which he asked them to examine carefully as he held the articles before them. He then passed the negative to M. Godin, saying:

"Please take this by the lower corner, between your thumb and forefinger, so that you may be sure not to touch the sight of the picture; hold it to the light, and tell me if you recognise the face." M. Godin did as directed and replied without hesitancy: "It is a picture of M. Latour." "Good," rejoined Maitland, taking back the negative and passing him the letter; "now tell me if you recognise that signature." M. Godin looked sharply at the letter, holding it open between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, and read the signature, "'Carl Cazenove.' I should say that was M. Latour's hand."

"Good again," replied Maitland, reaching for the paper and appearing somewhat disconcerted as he glanced at it. "You have smutched the signature;—however, it doesn't matter," and he exhibited the paper to the Judge and Jury. "The negative must have been oily—yes, that's where it came from," and he quietly examined it with a magnifying glass, to the wonderment of us all. "That is all, M. Godin; thank you."

As the celebrated detective left the stand we were all doing our best to fathom what possible bearing all this could have upon Latour's confession. M. Godin for once seemed equally at a loss to comprehend the trend of affairs, if I may judge by the deep furrows which gathered between his eyes.

Maitland then proceeded to address the Court and to sum up his case, the gist of which I shall give you as nearly as possible in his own words, omitting only such portions as were purely formal, uninteresting, or unnecessarily verbose.

"Your Honour and Gentlemen of the Jury: John Darrow was murdered and the prisoner, M. Gustave Latour, has confessed that he did the deed. When a man denies the commission of a crime we do not feel bound to consider his testimony of any particular value; but when, on the other hand, a prisoner accused of so heinous a crime as murder responds to the indictment, 'I am guilty,' we instinctively feel impelled to believe his testimony. Why is this? Why do we doubt his word when he asserts his innocence and accept it when he acknowledges his guilt? I will tell you. It is all a question of motive. Could we see as cogent a motive for asseverating his guilt as we find for his insisting upon his innocence, we should lend as much credence to the one as to the other. I propose to show that M. Latour has what seems to him the strongest of motives for confessing to the murder of John Darrow. If I am able to do this to your satisfaction, I shall practically have thrown M. Latour's entire testimony out of court, and nothing of importance will then remain but the evidence of the government's witness, M. Godin."

A great wave of excitement swept over the room at these remarks. "What!" each said to himself, "is it possible that this lawyer will try to prove that Latour, despite his circumstantial confession, did not commit the murder after all?" We did not dare let such a thought take hold of us, yet could not see what else could explain Maitland's remarks. Is it any wonder, therefore, that we all waited breathlessly for him to continue? M. Godin's face was dark and lowering. It was evident he did not propose to have his skill as a detective,—and with it the Darrow reward,—set aside without a struggle—at least so it seemed to me. The room was as quiet as the grave when Maitland continued.

"I shall show you that M. Godin's testimony is utterly unreliable, and, moreover, that it is intentionally so."

This was a direct accusation, and at it M. Godin's face became of ashen pallor. I felt that he was striving to control his anger and saw the effort that it cost him as he fastened Maitland with a stiletto-like look that was anything but reassuring. George did not appear to notice it and continued easily:

"I shall prove to you beyond a doubt that, in the actual murder of John Darrow, only one person was concerned,—by which I mean, that only one person was outside the east window when he met his death. I shall also show that M. Latour was not, and could not by any possibility have been, that person. [At this juncture Browne arose and walked toward the door. He was very pale and looked anything but well. I thought he was going to leave, but he reseated himself at the back of the room near the door.] I shall convince you that M. Latour's description of the way the murder was committed is false."

All eyes were turned toward Latour, but he made no sign either of affirmation or dissent. With his eyes closed and his hands falling listlessly in front of him, he sat in a half-collapsed condition, like one in a stupor. M. Godin shifted uneasily in his chair, as if he could not remain silent much longer. Maitland proceeded with calm deliberation:

"Mr. Clinton Browne—"

But he did not finish the sentence. At the name "Mr. Clinton Browne" he was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the rear of the room, followed by a heavy fall which shook the whole apartment. We all turned and looked toward the door. Several men had gathered about someone lying upon the floor, and one of them was throwing water in the face of the prostrate man. Presently he revived a little, and they bore him out into the cooler air of the corridor. It was Clinton Browne. The great tension of the trial, his own strong emotions, and the closeness of the room had doubtless been too much for him. I could not but marvel at it, however. Here were delicate women with apparently little or no staying power, and yet this athlete, with the form of a Mars and the fibre of a Hercules, must be the first to succumb. Verily, even physicians are subject to surprises!

When quiet had been fully restored Maitland continued:

"I was about to say when the interruption occurred that Mr. Clinton Browne and Mr. Charles Herne would both testify to the fact that a very sensible time elapsed between the delivery of the blow and the death of the victim. You will see, therefore, that I shall prove to your satisfaction that Mr. Darrow's death did not result from prussic acid, as stated by the prisoner. I shall show you that a chemical analysis of the wound made in my laboratory shortly after the murder gave none of the well-known prussic-acid reactions. I shall prove to you that John Darrow sprang to his feet after receiving the blow which caused his death. That he clutched at his throat, and that, after an effort consuming several seconds, he spoke disjointedly. I shall convince you that if he had been poisoned in the manner described he would have been dead before he could have so much as raised his hand to his throat. We have been very particular to make sure the exact nature of the poison which it is claimed was used, so there can be no possible doubt upon this point. I shall show you further that the little Capucin monkey which M. Latour says he killed is still alive, and I will produce him, if necessary, and will challenge M. Latour, or anyone else for that matter, to put him through the drill which it is claimed he has been taught. I shall inform you that, since I claim the monkey had no part in Mr. Darrow's death, I could not, during my examination of the prisoner, have been stating anything from knowledge when I spoke of the manner in which he had trained the animal, and gave details which M. Latour accepted as those of the murder. My sole effort was to state a plausible way, in order to see if the prisoner would not adopt it as the actual course pursued. I also coupled with this the killing of the monkey (though I knew the animal was still alive), that I might see if M. Latour would follow my lead in this also. You have seen that he did so; that he indorsed my guesses where they were purely guesses, and that he also accepted the one statement I knew to be false. I shall therefore ask you to consider about what the chances are that a series of guesses like those which I made would represent the exact facts as M. Latour has claimed, while at the same time you do not lose sight of the undeniable fact that upon the only detail regarding which I had positive information, M. Latour bore false testimony."

Here Maitland whispered to Jenkins, who in turn spoke to the sheriff or some other officer of the court. I would have given a good deal just then to have been able to translate M. Godin's thoughts. His face was a study. Maitland immediately resumed:

"It has been positively stated by M. Latour that he gambled with Mr. Darrow on Decatur Street between the 1st and 15th day of March. This is false. In the first place it can be shown that while Mr. Darrow occasionally played cards at his own home, he never gambled, uniformly refusing to play for even the smallest stake. Furthermore, Mr. Darrow's physician will testify that Mr. Darrow was confined to his bed from the 25th day of February to the 18th day of March, and that he visited him during that time at least once, and oftener twice, every day.

"Again; M. Latour asserts that he never saw M. Godin till the day of his arrest, and M. Godin asserts that he never entered M. Latour's rooms until that day. I have a photograph and here a phonographic record. The picture shows M. Latour's rooms with that gentleman and M. Godin sitting at a table and evidently engaged in earnest conversation. This cylinder is a record of a very interesting portion of that conversation—M. Godin will please not leave the room!"

This last was said as M. Godin started toward the door. The officer to whom Jenkins had recently spoken laid his hand upon the detective and detained him. "We may need M. Godin," Maitland continued, "to explain things to us.

"I invite your attention to the fact that M. Godin has testified that he was assisted in his search for Mr. Darrow's murderer by certain library slips which he saw M. Latour make out in two different names. He has also testified that he did not know even the names of any of the books procured on these slips, and that one of them, entitled 'Poisons, Their Effects and Detection,' he not only never read, but never even heard of. I shall show you that all of these books were procured with M. Godin's knowledge, and that most of them were read by him. I shall prove to you beyond a doubt that he has not only heard of this particular work on poisons, but that he has read it and placed his unmistakable signature on page 469 thereof beside the identical paragraph which suggested to Mr. Darrow's murderer the manner of his assassination!" M. Godin started as if he had been stabbed, but quickly regained his self-control as Maitland continued: "Here is the volume in question. You will please note the thumb-mark in the margin of page 469. There is but one thumb in the world that could have made that mark, and that is the thumb you have seen register itself upon this letter. It is also the thumb that made this paint smutch upon this slip of glass."

All eyes were turned upon M. Godin. He was very pale, yet his jaw was firmly set and something akin to a defiant smile played about his handsome mouth. To say that the audience was amazed is to convey no adequate idea of their real condition. We felt prepared for anything. I almost feared lest some sudden turn in the case might cast suspicion upon myself, or even Maitland. Without apparently noticing M. Godin's discomfiture, George continued:

"M. Godin has testified that he sometimes plays cards, but only for a small stake—just enough, he says, to make it interesting. I shall show you that he is a professional gambler as well as a detective.

"The morning after the murder was committed I made a most careful examination of the premises, particularly of the grounds near the eastern window. As the result of my observations, I informed Miss Darrow that I had reason to believe that her father had been murdered by a person who had some good motive for concealing his footprints, and who also had a halting gait. The weight of this person I was able to estimate at not far from one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and his height as about five feet and five inches. I also stated it as my opinion that the person who did the deed had the habit of biting his finger nails, and a particular reason for sparing the nail of the little finger and permitting it to grow to an abnormal length. This was not guesswork on my part, for in the soft soil beneath the eastern window I found a perfect impression of a closed hand. Here is the cast of that hand. Look well at it. Notice the wart upon the upper joint of the thumb, and the crook in the third finger where it has evidently been broken. M. Godin says he never entered the yard of the Darrow estate, except on the night of the murder in company with Messrs. Osborne and Allen, and that then he merely passed up and down the front walk on his way to and from the house, yet the paint-mark on this slip of glass was made by his thumb, and the glass itself was cut by me from the eastern window of the Darrow house—the window through which the murder was committed. This plaster cast was taken from an impression in the soil beneath the same window on the morning after the murder. The hand is the hand of M. Godin. You will note that one of this gentleman's feet is deformed and that he habitually halts in his walk."

We all glanced at M. Godin to verify these assertions, but that gentleman folded his arms in a way to conceal his hands and thrust his feet out of sight beneath the chair in front of him, while he smiled at us with the utmost apparent good nature. He would be game to the last, there was no doubt of that.

Maitland recalled our attention by saying:

"Officer, you will please arrest M. Godin!"

An excited whisper was heard from every corner, and many were the half-audible comments that were broken off by the imperative fall of the crier's gavel. So tense had been the strain that it was some time before complete order could be restored. When it was again quiet Maitland continued:

"Your Honour and Gentlemen of the Jury: We will rest our case here for to-day. To-morrow, or rather on Monday, we shall show the strange influence which M. Godin exercised over M. Latour, as well as M. Latour's reasons for his confession. We shall endeavour to make clear to you how M. Latour was actually led to believe he had murdered John Darrow, and how he was bribed to confess a crime committed by another. Of the hypnotic power of M. Godin over M. Latour I have indisputable proof, though we shall see that M. Godin by no means relied wholly upon this power. We shall show you also that sufficient time elapsed to enable M. Godin, by great skill and celerity, to make away with the evidences of his guilt in time to enable him to be present with Messrs. Osborne and Allen at the examination. In short, we shall unravel before you a crime which, for cleverness of conception and adroitness of execution, has never been equalled in the history of this community."

Maitland having thus concluded his remarks by dropping into a courteous plural in deference to Mr. Jenkins, the court adjourned until Monday, and I left Gwen in Maitland's charge while I hurried home, fearful lest I should not be the first to bring to Jeannette the glad news of her father's innocence, for I had not the slightest doubt of Maitland's ability to prove conclusively all he had undertaken.

I need not describe to you my interview with Jeannette. There are things concerning it which, even at this late day, when their roseate hue glows but dimly in the blue retrospect of the past,—it would seem sacrilege for me to mention to another. Believe me, I am perfectly aware of your inquisitive nature, and I know that this omission may nettle you. Charge it all up, then, to the perversity of a bachelor in the throes of his first, last, and only love experience. You must see that such things cannot be conveyed to another with anything like their real significance. Were I to say I was carried beyond myself by her protestations of gratitude until, in a delirium of joy, I seized her in my arms and covered her with kisses, do you for a moment fancy you could appreciate my feelings? Do you imagine that the little tingle of sympathy which you might experience were I to say that, instead of pushing me from her, I felt her clasp tighten about me,—would tell you anything of the great torrent of hot blood that deluged my heart as she lay there in my arms, quivering ecstatically at every kiss? No! a thousand times no! Therefore have I thought best to say nothing about it. Our love can keep its own secrets.—But alas! this was long ago, and as I sit here alone writing this to you, I cannot but wonder, with a heavy sense of ever-present longing, where on this great earth Jeannette—'my Jeannette,' I have learned to call her—is now. You see a bachelor's love-affair is a serious thing, and years cannot always efface it. But to return to the past:

Jeannette, I think, was not more pleased than Gwen at the turn affairs had taken. Indeed, so exuberant was Gwen in her quiet way that I marvelled much at the change in her, so much, indeed, that finally I determined to question Alice about it.

"I can understand," I said to her, "why Gwen, on account of her sympathy and love for Jeannette, should be glad that M. Latour is likely to be acquitted. I can also appreciate the distaste she may have felt at the prospect of having to deal with M. Godin under the terms of her father's will; but even both of these considerations seem to me insufficient to account for her present almost ecstatic condition. There is an immediateness to her joy which could hardly result from mere release from a future disagreeable possibility. How do you account for it, sis?" Alice's answer was somewhat enigmatical and didn't give me the information I sought. "Ned," she replied," I'll pay for the tickets to the first circus that comes here, just to see if you can find the trunks on the elephants." Do my best, I couldn't make her enlighten me any further, for, to every question, she replied with a most provoking laugh.

Maitland called and spent most of the next day, which was Sunday, with us, and we all talked matters over. He did not seem either to share or understand Gwen's exuberance of spirits, albeit one could easily observe that he had a measure of that satisfaction which always comes from success. More than once I saw him glance questioningly at Gwen with a look which said plainly enough: "What is the meaning of this remarkable change? Why should it so matter to her whether M. Latour's or M. Godin's death avenges her father's murder?" When he left us at night I could see he had not answered that question to his own satisfaction.



CHAPTER III

The Devil throws double sixes when he turns genius heliward.

The next morning after the events last narrated I was utterly dumfounded by an article which met my gaze the instant I took up my paper. It was several moments before I sufficiently recovered my faculties to read it aloud to Gwen, Alice, and Jeannette, all of whom had noticed my excitement, and were waiting with such patience as they could command. I read the following article through from beginning to end without pause or comment:

M. Godin Anticipates the Law.—The Real Murderer of John Darrow Writes His Confession and Then Suicides in His Cell.—Contrived to Mix His Own Poison Under the Very Nose of His Jailer!— The Dorchester Mystery Solved at Last.—Full Description of the Life of One of the Cleverest Criminals of the Century.

At 4.30 this morning M. Godin was found dead in his cell, No. 26, at Charles Street Jail. The manner of his death might still be a mystery had he not left a written confession of his crime and the summary manner of his taking off. This was written yesterday afternoon and evening, M. Godin being permitted to have a light on the ground that he had important legal documents to prepare for use on the morrow. We give below the confession in full.

"I am beaten at a game in which I did my own shuffling. I never believe in trying to bluff a full hand. Had I had but ordinary detectives with whom to deal, I make bold to say I should have come off rich and triumphant. I had no means of knowing that I was to play with a chemist who would use against me the latest scientific implements of criminal warfare. It is, therefore, to the extraordinary means used for my detection that I impute my defeat, rather than to any bungling of my own. This is a grim consolation, but it is still a consolation, for I have always prided myself upon being an artist in my line. As I propose to put myself beyond the reach of further cross-examination, I take this opportunity to make a last statement of such things as I care to have known. After this is finished I shall sup on acetate of lead and bid good-night to the expectant public.

"Lest some may marvel how I came by this poison, and even lay suspicions upon my jailers, let me explain that there is a small piece of lead water-pipe crossing the west angle of my room. This being Sunday, I was permitted to have beans and brown bread for breakfast. I asked for a little vinegar for my beans, and a small cruet was brought to me. I had no difficulty in secreting a considerable quantity of the vinegar in order that I might, when occasion served, apply it to the lead pipe. This I have done, and have now by me enough acetate of lead to kill a dozen men. This form of death will not be particularly pleasant, I am aware, but I prefer it to its only alternative. So much for that.

"I was horn in Marseilles, and my right name is Jean Fouchet. My father intended me for the priesthood, and gave me a good college education in Paris. His hopes, however, were destined to disappointment. In college I formed the habit of gambling, and a year after my graduation found me at Monte Carlo. While there I quarrelled with a gambling accomplice and ended by killing him. This made my stay in France dangerous for me, and I took the first opportunity which presented itself to embark for America.

"Familiarity with criminals had made me familiar with crime, and I added the occupation of detective to my profession of gambling. These two avocations had now become my sole means of support, and I plied my trades in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia for several years, during which time I became a naturalised citizen of the United States.

"When the Cuban rebellion broke out I could not restrain my longing for adventure, and joined a filibustering expedition sailing from New York. I did this from no love I bore the Cuban cause, but merely for the excitement it promised. While handling a heavy shot during my first engagement I accidentally dropped it upon my left foot, crushing that member so badly that it has never regained its shape. This deformity has rendered it impossible for me to conceal my identity. Three months after this accident I was taken prisoner by the Spanish and shipped to Spain as a political malefactor. A farce of a trial was granted to me, not to see whether or not I was guilty, but simply to determine between the dungeon and the garrote. It would have been far better for me had I been sentenced to the latter instead of the former.

"As a political offender I was doomed to imprisonment at Ceuta, an old Moorish seaport town in Morocco, opposite Gibraltar and upon the side of the ancient mountain Abyla. This mountain forms one of the 'Pillars of Hercules,' the Rock of Gibraltar being the other. It is almost impregnable, and is used by Spain as Siberia is used by Russia, only it is far, far more horrible. The town was built by the Moors in 945, and nowhere else on earth are there to be found an equal number of devices for the torture of human beings. If anyone thinks the horrors of the Inquisition are no longer perpetrated let him get sent to Ceuta: I have good cause to believe that the Inquisition itself is far from dead in Spain. Alas for the person who is sent to Ceuta! The town is small, and, to guard against possible attack, the Moors constructed a chain of fortresses around it. It is in the black cellars of these disintegrating fortresses that the dungeons are located. They are in tiers to the depth of fifty or sixty feet, and are hewn out of the solid rock. They are reached through narrow openings in the stone floors of the fortresses, and when one of these horrible holes is opened the foul odor of filth and decomposition is utterly overpowering. Some of these dungeons contain as many as thirty or forty men. I was placed in a cell reserved for solitary confinement. I have never been a man who regarded life seriously, or feared to risk it upon sufficient occasion, but my heart froze within me when the horror of my situation was revealed to me. A stone box perhaps eight feet square —as I lay upon the floor I could touch its opposite sides with my hands and feet—had been prepared for my entrance by cutting a slit in one of its walls just large enough for the passage of my body. Through this narrow opening I was dropped into the total darkness within. A blacksmith followed and welded my fetters, for locks and keys are never used. A chain having a heavy weight pendant from it was riveted to my ankle, and an iron band was similarly fastened to my waist. This band was fastened by a chain to an iron ring deeply sunk in the solid rock. When these horrible preparations were completed the blacksmith left me and a mason bricked up the slit through which I had entered, leaving only a hand-breadth of space for air and the thrusting through of such scraps of food as were to be allowed me. Language is powerless to describe the feelings of a man in such a position. He realises that his only hope is in disease —disease bred of the darkness, the dampness, the starvation, and the horrible filth. He says to himself: 'How long, O God! how long?'—For hours I remained prone and inert—how long I do not know; night and day are all one in the dungeons of Ceuta. Then I began to think. Could I escape? I felt that all power of thought, all cleverness would soon desert me, and I said to myself: 'If anything is to be done, it must be done at once.' I knew not then what long-drawn horrors a mortal could endure. Whenever I attempted to walk the iron mass fastened to my leg would 'bring me up short,' often, in my early forgetfulness of it, throwing me prone upon my face. After a little I learned to move with a halting gait, striding out with the free limb and pausing to pull my burden after me with the other. This habit, learned in the squalor and darkness of the dungeon hells of Ceuta, I have never been able to unlearn.

"It was many days before I could see how anything short of a miracle could enable me to escape. I tried to calmly reason it all out, and every time came to the same horrible conclusion, viz.: I must rot there unless help came to me from without. This seemed impossible, and all the horrors of a lingering death stared me in the face. Every two or three days one of the jailers would come to the slit in the masonry and leave there a dish of water and a few crusts of bread. I tried on one occasion to speak with him, but he only laughed in my face and turned away. Finally I hit upon a plan which seemed to offer the only possible means of escape. In my college days I was well acquainted with M. Charcot, and even assisted in some of his earlier hypnotic experiments. The subject interested me, and I followed it closely till I became something of an adept myself. There were in those days but few people I could not mesmerise, provided sufficient opportunity were allowed me for hypnotic suggestion. I determined to see if any of this old power still remained with me, and, if so, to strive to render my jailer subservient to my will. But how should I keep him within ear-shot long enough to work upon him? Clearly all appeals to pity were useless. I must excite his greed, nothing else would reach him. This was not an easy thing to do without a sou in my possession, yet I did it. When I heard his step I crawled to the opening in the wall and mumbled in a crazy sort of a way about a hidden treasure. At the word 'treasure' I saw him pause and listen, but I pretended not to be aware of his presence and rambled on, in a loose, disjointed fashion, about piracies committed by me and the great amount of booty I had secreted. My plan worked perfectly. The jailer came to the aperture in the wall and called me to him. Muttering incoherently, I obeyed. He asked me what offence brought me there, and I, with a good deal of intentional misunderstanding, told him I was a pirate and a smuggler. He asked me where the treasure I had been talking about was hidden. My reply,—I remember the exact words in which I couched it,—made him mine completely. I said: 'We buried it near Fez— Treasure? I don't know anything about any treasure.'