PART VII

You can readily understand that the daily papers, both morning and

evening, were going strong on this murder, giving the public all the

sensational stuff they could rake out of the gory mess. Even wild rumor

was sufficiently tamed to occupy a place of honor on first pages, no

least item of the appalling affair being too inconsequent to be written

up until it fairly bristled with significance.

Even at that, very little attention was given to a press dispatch from

Montreal which appeared in the Boston papers on the second morning

after the shooting. Only a few lines it amounted to, and tacked on at

the end of one of the columns devoted to the murder.

This dispatch stated as rather a striking coincidence, that one of the

Montreal papers of the day before—that is, of the morning following

the West Roxbury shooting—had printed in a local news column a short

paragraph to the effect that at a spirit séance in a private house on

Sackville Street the night before—which was the evening of the murder,

a call had come from the spirit of some one (a man it seemed to be)

whose name, owing to his extreme agitation, couldn’t be obtained, but

who was so insistent on speaking that the control brought him in.

The medium, who was in trance, suddenly taken by this spirit, began

crying out: “Stop them! Stop them! Can’t somebody stop them? Oh, it’s

terrible—terrible! They’re going right on—there’s no help for it!

Oh—can’t somebody telegraph?”

Then there was a pause, and some of the sitters began asking this

spirit what the trouble was, and where he wanted them to telegraph,

and what his name was, and things like that. But there was no answer,

and for several minutes nothing more came through. Then suddenly

there was something like a shout for help repeated several times and

followed by wild exclamations about killing some one. “Down in the

States—down in the States! Roxbury—down in the States! They’re killing

a man in Roxbury—killing a man. No one can stop it now! There’s a gun

aimed at him—don’t you understand—aiming a gun—aiming a——Oh, They’ve

shot him!... Now they’ve shot him again!... He’s sinking—sinking

down—down.... Now he’s on the floor—all in a heap!... Now he’s dead!...

Dead!... Dead...!” The words seemed to trail off in the distance toward

the end, and nothing more was heard from the perturbed visitor.

The Montreal paper carrying the account of this went on to say that its

information was obtained from a well-known person who had attended the

sitting. And one of the Boston papers, commenting on it briefly, as

one of those odd coincidences which come along and surprise us every

now and then, added: “This will be less astounding, however, when

we reflect that a medium in Canada or anywhere else can confidently

assert, at any hour of the day or night, that a murder is being

committed in one of the large cities of the United States, and not be

far out of the way in time or place.”

The evidence tending to establish the guilt of Augustus Findlay in

the case of the shooting to death of Charles Michael Haworth was so

overwhelming from the point of view of newspaper readers, that it

threatened to make the case uninteresting—a threat, however, which

was soon swept into the discard. For a few days, though, it looked

unpromising in the extreme to those who revel in newspaper sewerage.

The facts were so plain and Findlay’s guilt so evident that no room was

left for enthralling suspicions as to others—for gossip and scandal,

for the laying bare of nauseous details concerning the habits and

lives of loathsome people, and all those choice morsels of offal that

newspaper addicts go after so ravenously.

It was simply that this Findlay man, the murderer, had always been

threatening to put a bullet into the Haworth man, the murdered, and

had finally done so, being worked up to a sufficient frenzy in his

half-drunken condition, by finding the said Haworth calling upon

his—Findlay’s—wife. He had thereupon followed him home, flourishing a

revolver in his face most of the way and shouting the most murderous

threats and maledictions, and finally had shot him from outside the

Cripps mansion on Torrington Road (where Haworth lived) getting it

there through one of the front windows. Then he had run home and tried

to make his wife uphold him in his statement that he hadn’t left the

house all the evening. If that wasn’t enough to land him in the chair,

what was?

To the authorities, however, it wasn’t quite so easy navigation. No one

had seen Findlay do the deed; no revolver had been found; no bullet

marks in the room had yet been discovered. It was true that everything

pointed to him as the murderer, but pointing wasn’t enough. It answers

very nicely for the general public, but doesn’t go with a Grand Jury.

And there was that obstinate old woman who undoubtedly had intimate

knowledge of the entire episode from A to Z—knowing the persons

involved, the motives behind the murderous deed, and every circumstance

leading up to it;—for hadn’t she run out and warned a patrolman in

Jamaica Plain nearly a week before the event? Fully aware of this

and more, yet keeping her mouth as securely closed as if officially

padlocked. More important still if it was a fact—and a word or two

she’d dropped just after the shooting made it look that way—she’d been

an eyewitness of the murder. Yet so far nothing could be got out of her

on the subject.

But no mistake was made about Amelia Temple. It was seen from the first

that the only chance was in giving it to her easy and waiting patiently

for results. No pressure. On a sign of that she’d have cheerfully gone

to prison for life or permitted herself to be hung by the neck until

dead, before she’d have let out a word. So they kept careful watch on

her without interfering in any way with her freedom or giving her the

least idea they were doing it.

And the Inspector and she enjoyed a couple of pleasant conversations

during this time, in which, “as a matter of form” he gave her the

opportunity to enlighten them as to one or two little things, but

said himself she was perfectly justified in declining to do so if she

still felt that she must—indeed, he wasn’t sure but he’d do the same

in her place. And the patrolman who’d failed to respond to her request

for help had (under instructions, of course) made her a most abject

apology, to which her only response was, “That does a lot o’ good

_now_, don’t it?”

* * * * *

While proceedings in this quarter were at a standstill (for they

wanted to give the old woman time), those in other and unexpected

directions were not. Some rather unusual phenomena relating to the case

were beginning to attract attention. Although the first of these—the

communication that came through a Montreal medium—had hardly caused

a ripple, a manifestation on similar lines now broke out in Boston

itself, and people began to sit up and take notice.

The séance in which this occurred was taking place in a small hall or

conference room, where a committee appointed by some sort of psychical

research society was investigating the spirit manifestations claimed

to be produced by a certain medium. It was a lady in this case—using

the term merely as indicative of sex (though for all I know it could be

applied in a broader sense as well)—and she was trying to cope with the

various tests to which this committee was subjecting her at a series

of meetings held for that purpose, hoping to win a prize that had been

offered; but sure, in any event, of valuable publicity.

As you see, I am fairly well uninformed as to the interior workings of

this particular brand of religious endeavor—if it may be referred to as

such. Nevertheless, I am fully aware of the phenomena that touched on

the Haworth case, and can report them to you with a close approach to

accuracy, leaving you to draw your own conclusions as to their origin.

It was certainly a great surprise to everyone interested in the

affair—with the possible exception of the firm of Harker & Pentecost,

neither member of which was ever surprised at anything—that an attempt

at interference should come from such a quarter. For a time it was

treated as an absurdity not worth serious attention. But that was only

for a time.

It seems that mediums, being forbidden, in these enlightened days, to

give public séances for which admission fees are charged, are obliged

to employ other methods of attracting and doing business. The most

common is to appear before the congregations in the great Spiritist

temples—or whatever name they may go by—where meetings are held at

stated intervals in all the large cities and many of the smaller ones.

At these gatherings a limited number of “inspirational speakers” and

“test mediums” are allowed a certain time each in which to bring the

spirits of the departed into communication with friends or relatives

present, and sometimes with people who cannot be found in the assembly.

The more striking and convincing the feats these inspirational

individuals perform, the greater will be their renown and ultimate

pecuniary reward. For upon the impression made at these meetings (where

no admission fee is charged) largely depends the amount and the value

of the private business they can do thereafter. It has been known that

one extraordinary “demonstration” in the way of spirit communication

or materialization, has come near to making the fortune of the artist

(using the term with entire respect) who brought it about. The field

is of vast extent. The highest aim is the convincing and consequent

conversion of persons of wealth who are undergoing the pangs of recent

bereavement; for the successful medium deals in that for which almost

anything will be paid—if the believing client has the price.

While these appearances at the great Spiritist assemblies are the

most used of the publicity methods for commercial mediums, a greatly

superior one has recently been developed for the few who are fortunate

enough to be able to associate themselves with it. It is one of the

innumerable outcomes—all more or less revolting—of what a few nations

egotistically refer to as “the World War.”

Owing to this absurd and ghastly occurrence, hundreds of

thousands—perhaps millions—of families were suddenly plunged into the

most heartrending grief known to man. Those who were beyond words dear

to them had been snatched away and violently put to death, and the

ones so taken were in the very part of life where death seems most

impossible, most unbelievable, and consequently most terrible.

Resulting from this, the interest in that creed which assures people

that their lost ones are yet here with them in spirit form, trying

to speak to them and often succeeding (through the mediumship of

others), even on occasion appearing before them in person (again

through the interposition of others), was suddenly and tremendously

increased. One result was an enormous enlargement in the number of

believers, among which were included some with a high order of mental

equipment—something in which this “faith” had been painfully deficient

before. A result of the unprecedented interest which this accession to

the ranks of Spiritists inspired, was a stimulation of the efforts made

by the less credulous to learn whether or not there existed grounds for

confidence in the amazing claims set forth. Societies and associations

and investigating committees were organized for this purpose in

various parts of the country, rewards were offered and the claims and

accomplishments of various mediums were subjected to investigation.

As a by-product of these activities, and one, it must be admitted,

wholly unlooked for by those undertaking this enthusiastic search for

truth, the most effective machinery yet devised for the manufacture of

publicity for mediums was put in operation.

The prize of a few thousand dollars offered by the organizations

behind the investigating committees, was as nothing to the enormously

increased business for the medium which was sure to follow the

newspaper accounts of the proceedings, no matter which way they went or

what decision was arrived at. Free newspaper publicity, and in the news

columns—that was the real prize.

* * * * *

It happened that an investigation of this kind was going on in Boston

at the time of the tragic occurrence on Torrington Road. The medium

who was undergoing tests was a Mrs. Belden—Henrietta E. Belden was the

entire name I believe—and she had heretofore revealed her unusual gifts

only in private—that is to say, in her own home out in Quincy. But

accounts of the extraordinary things that took place when she went into

trance, came to the notice of members of a research society, and after

a bit of wirepulling that was kept in the dark (as it certainly should

have been) the lady was invited to submit to a series of test sittings,

and, I need hardly say, accepted.

The first test séance had already been held and with some

success—enough to get half-column reports of it on inside pages of

most of the next day’s papers. But this was only a beginning.

On the evening of the day after the murder in Torrington Road, the

second sitting was scheduled to take place—which it did. Most of the

newspaper reports of this meeting spoke of it as being unsatisfactory

in the extreme, though one or two contended that it would be only fair

to the medium to suspend judgment until the next one, as there appeared

to be some unexplained obstacle in her way, and she should be given a

chance to overcome it.

It seems that after Mrs. Belden had gone into trance, instead of being,

as on the first occasion, immediately controlled by energetic spirits

who spoke volubly (through her) and caused sounds of knockings and

chilly draughts and inexplicable moving of furniture, she was suddenly

plunged by some mysterious influence, into the most overpowering grief,

begging piteously that some one would help her. On questioning by

members of the committee, it developed that they were speaking to the

spirit of a woman named Cynthia. That is to say, the medium herself

had disappeared into trance, and the spirit of this Cynthia woman was

speaking through Mrs. Belden’s terrestrial machinery.

“Cynthia—I’m Cynthia!” the medium kept calling out in a voice entirely

different from her own, and with tears running down her cheeks.

“Yes—Cynthia! Oh, won’t somebody help me! Though you don’t know me, for

God’s sake help me! Isn’t there somebody here who can do _something_?”

And the medium sobbed and moaned and rocked back and forth, and her

very face was changed. All the questions that were put to her by the

members of the committee seemed to get them no further. The Cynthia

spirit was apparently crazed with grief or anxiety, and held her place

for nearly an hour, begging for help, yet leaving those present without

information as to what the trouble was, further than the little that

could be gathered from her incoherent cries of: “Oh—they’ve made a

terrible mistake! Don’t you see—a terrible, frightful mistake!”

“Mistake about what, madam?” would come in a sharp incisive voice from

an investigator.

“About him—about him. He’s my son—my son—my son! Don’t you

understand?—and he’s in such trouble—oh, _such_ trouble! It’s all

wrong—all wrong! Can’t somebody go and tell them it’s all a mistake!

Oh, please somebody tell them!” And thus it went on, the grief-stricken

spirit of Cynthia hysterically begging for assistance and imploring

them to tell somebody that something wasn’t so, yet seemingly unable

to furnish information as to what persons she wished to have told,

or to let them know who she was herself. And although, after some

little time of this, the members of the committee urgently requested

Cynthia’s spirit to leave the medium so that the spirits of others who

were better able to communicate might take her place, she couldn’t be

persuaded to do so.

Even Mrs. Belden’s assistant or director—or whatever it is those people

are called—joined in the efforts to persuade Cynthia to release the

medium, calling out several times to the usual spirit control: “Doctor

Coulter, can’t you relieve this situation? Tell us what this Cynthia

woman wants or take her away.”

But nothing availed and the investigation was finally adjourned until

the evening after the next.

When Mrs. Belden came out of the trance and began to take notice

of things, she discovered, from the behavior of those members of

the committee who had waited, that all was not well. Her director

whispered a few hurried words to her, and she could be heard

exclaiming, “Cynthia? Why—why, what does it mean? I don’t know anybody

named Cynthia—I never heard of such a person!” She appeared greatly

disturbed, evidently fearing her chances of winning the prize which

had been offered for a successful test were gone, or at least greatly

reduced in size.

The condition in which she was left after being under the control of

this sorrowful spirit for more than an hour, was surely bad enough

without the added anxiety as to the failure of the test. One or two of

the gentlemen shook hands with her and said she mustn’t take it so much

to heart, as the next meeting would undoubtedly be a fine one and more

than make up for any shortcomings in this. But it was evident that Mrs.

Belden was disappointed and chagrined.

* * * * *

The next sitting was approached with feelings bordering on trepidation

of one sort or another by nearly everyone concerned. And when Mrs.

Belden had finally succeeded—with more difficulty than usual—in getting

herself into trance condition, and almost immediately thereafter

the tearful voice of Cynthia was heard, the depression among the

investigators became acute.

But there was a surprise awaiting them, for not only was this spirit

calmer and more reasonable than she had been two nights before, but she

spoke in a way that aroused a sudden and peculiar interest.

The Haworth case—barely three days old and still on the front pages—was

the subject of conversation everywhere. So that when the members

of the committee became aware—as they did from the first few words

spoken—that it was the spirit of Cynthia Findlay addressing them,—the

mother of the man arrested for the Haworth murder, and as to whose

guilt there wasn’t a remnant of doubt in the public mind—the deepest

interest was aroused. Her voice was still sad and occasionally

tremulous with emotion, but there was no more sobbing and hysteria.

She begged most piteously that somebody there would tell the Judge or

the Jury or the police or some one, that her son was innocent. It was

all a dreadful mistake. He——Oh no! Oh, believe her, no!—he wasn’t the

one who did it! All the things that looked so terribly incriminating

could be accounted for some other way. Every one of them could be

explained!—Every one!—Every one!

She went on like that for quite a time, becoming more and more affected

until she could hardly speak. But on this occasion her repetitions—even

her paroxysms of emotion—were no longer wearisome to those present.

As soon as it became necessary for her to pause for breath—for while

it’s more than unlikely that a spirit needs any, the same could hardly

be said of a medium—a flood of incisive questioning poured in, which

ran something like this:

PROFESSOR ELBERTSON (_a psychologist_): “Mrs. Findlay, if you know your

son did not commit the crime he’s charged with, you must also know who

did.”

MR. BLATCHFORD (_an attorney_): “Certainly. Your knowledge implies

that you are in a position where you have an insight of the case. This

insight should enable you to give us the name of the guilty one.”

THE SPIRIT: “Oh, don’t ask me! I can’t—I can’t!”

DOCTOR WINGATE (_a physician_): “Who prevents you? Who stops you when

so much depends on it? Let us know who this person—this spirit—is.”

THE SPIRIT: “There’s no ‘who.’ Nothing can be said—no words—no—no—no

words!”

MR. HALSTED (_a prestidigitator_): “Do you mean, Mrs. Findlay, that

there is no person or being or entity of any description who forbids

you or stands in the way of your telling us this?”

THE SPIRIT: “No such thing as that! I am held by an influence from all

that is, of which I myself am an infinitesimal part.”

MR. BLATCHFORD: “Then why does not this prohibitive influence prevent

you from informing us as to your son? You experience no difficulty in

declaring his innocence. Is it a law that operates either way according

to its fancy?”

THE SPIRIT: “My own influence, though infinitesimal as a rule, becomes

of more consequence than all others when it concerns my son, and the

balance is turned. For him I can speak across to you and beg you to

save him.”

MR. BLATCHFORD: “Then surely for him you can reveal the facts that will

accomplish that result.”

THE SPIRIT: “Perhaps I can—oh, perhaps—perhaps! But it can’t be now! If

it can be—I’ll come again!” The voice trailed away in a despairing moan

and the spirit of Cynthia was gone.

Mrs. Belden came out of the trance rather suddenly, rubbing her eyes

and glancing questioningly at her director and the members of the

committee. As before, she seemed greatly exhausted by the use to

which the spirit of Cynthia had put her, and found herself in a cold

perspiration.

While no real test had yet been furnished by Mrs. Belden, a majority

of the committee had a feeling that the next visit of the spirit of

Cynthia would supply one, while a pessimistic minority openly stated

that there wouldn’t be any next visit,—that the questioning they had

given her would keep her occupied in other spheres, and that it was an

exceedingly good way to be rid of her.

Mediumistic episodes such as this wouldn’t get a thing from the

papers under ordinary circumstances. But these investigations the

psychical research people put over, excited enough public interest to

be taken up by the Associated Press and run all over the country. And

this alleged appearance of the grief-stricken spirit of the mother

of Augustus Findlay, the man who was under arrest for the murder of

Charles Haworth, was featured in all the morning editions from Maine to

California and Montreal to New Orleans.

* * * * *

On the day following the publication of these reports, quite a pack

of editors got after it as a specimen of the gullibility of the human

race in general and the people who took part in such “goings-on” in

particular. You can see how the free advertising piles up for them in

cases like this. Even the high and mighty editors push it along!

Of course there was nothing in it for the police—not even enough to

laugh at—and no attention was paid to the matter. It wasn’t even

recognized as having occurred.

Mr. Forbes, the Defense Attorney, read the accounts of the séance with

a grimace. While entirely willing to catch at a straw in this case, he

failed to see anything in the alleged appearance of the spirit of his

client’s mother that could be dignified by such an appellation.

But in the evening of the day following there happened something that

every one of these persons did pay attention to, not to speak of

millions of newspaper readers besides.

It seems that a well-known medium named Dillingworth was having his

chance at one of the meetings of a Spiritist convention that was in

progress at Lilly Dale, a village not far from Chautauqua, in the

westernmost county of New York State, where gatherings of this nature

occur at intervals (no admission charged). Mr. Dillingworth was calling

out names and descriptions of spirit forms that appeared to him, and

asking if anyone in the audience recognized them as departed relatives

or friends. Some one, of course, nearly always did, and thereupon would

follow affectionate messages and disjointed conversations between

the living and the dead, carried on from the dead side through the

mediumship of Mr. Dillingworth.

This sort of thing went on for something like half the medium’s

allotted time, when suddenly he seemed to be strangely affected,

and unable for a moment to proceed. He soon recovered, however, and

half apologizing, told the assembly that some one had come who had a

peculiar sort of influence—an oldish man, it was, who kept saying that

he didn’t know anyone there but couldn’t get control in other places,

and very much wanted a message sent to some one.

“Yes, a—a—damnably important message,” went on the medium abstractedly,

as though trying to listen to something in the distance. “But I can’t

seem to get his name.... Oh—says he doesn’t care to give it.... But

we can hardly send a message unless we know who it’s from!” (Trying

to hear.) “How do you spell it? C—r—i—p—p—Crippen? ... Oh, Cripps.

His name is Cripps—quite an old gentleman—rather portly—medium

height—gray-blue eyes—smooth face—grizzled gray hair—bushy dark

eyebrows. Anyone here know such a person? Wait a minute!... Yes

yes, Mr. Cripps, I know you told me no one knew you, but I’m so

used to asking the question——What?... He’s using the most frightful

language!... All right—all right—there’s no need of getting huffy about

it! Give us the message.... He says it’s to the police somewhere—I

can’t get the place. Yes, go on, Mr. Cripps.... R-o-x-b-u-r—Oh,

Roxbury!... Man shot there, he says—murdered. ... _Boston_ police? Why

not the police where the man was shot?... Oh I see—a part of Boston. I

didn’t know that.... Yes, I guess you’re right, Mr. Cripps!... He says

my geography isn’t worth a God-forsaken damn!... Very well, the Boston

police. Now what’s the message?... Let me get that straight! We’re to

send word that both times—is that right?—both times their detectives

examined the inside of the rain-water conductor on the south side

of the front portico they didn’t reach high enough up. Is that all,

Mr. Cripps?... But you haven’t mentioned what it is they’re reaching

for.... What?... Oh, I see!... He says they’ll know damned well—and

don’t you forget it!... All right, Mr. Cripps. That’s pretty strong

language, but we’ll try not to forget it.... What’s that? Yes, we’ll

tell them.... He says they’d better be careful how they handle it if

the finger marks on the butt are any use to them.... But can’t you tell

us, Mr. Cripps, whether the—What?... Who’s this speaking?... Oh, some

one else! Just a minute.” Then, glancing toward the audience and in a

lower voice: “Will somebody remember that message? I don’t know what

it’s all about, but if it’s going to help the Boston police any, God

knows they ought to have it!”

A roar of laughter, together with some vigorous hissing, followed this

last remark, which could hardly excite surprise when one reflected

on the derision and contempt which had been aroused by the peculiar

behavior of the organization referred to not a great while before.

Though the medium, Mr. Dillingworth, didn’t know what it was all about,

the bunch of reporters sitting at a table down in front of him, did. In

forty-five minutes the Associated Press had the whole thing, and before

midnight newspaper men were dashing madly out to Jamaica Plain, having

obtained permission to look over the ground.

The outcome of all this was that along about 1:30 in the morning half

a dozen chaps from the papers were gathered round the rain-water

conductor on the front of the Cripps mansion, pushing wires and small

rods up from the lower end. But nothing was found—which wasn’t so

very surprising when you take into consideration that headquarters

had received a rush dispatch fully an hour before the papers got it,

giving the spirit message from old Mr. Cripps in full. No one in the

Department had any confidence in it—unadulterated rot, all these spirit

stunts. Still, when it was wired over on a “rush” from Lilly Dale and

signed “H. Thompson, Sergeant State Police,” what was the good of

taking chances? So the Inspector hustled a couple of plain-clothes men

out to the mansion with orders to take another look up the water pipe.

It was ten minutes after the detectives arrived at the mansion that

they pulled Augustus Findlay’s revolver down out of the large zinc

water conductor up which it had been shoved to a height of several

feet, and wedged in with a branch from a shrub to hold it there. They

got a grip on it with hooks and wires so that nobody’s hands came in

contact with it. Two chambers of the gun were empty.

As the Boston papers had no knowledge of this, the dispatch from Lilly

Dale was used inconspicuously in most of them, followed by the brief

statement that reporters had been out and searched, but that nothing

was found in the locality mentioned. Papers elsewhere gave it more

prominence, as it was too late to hit them with the news that the

search made by the reporters had been in vain.

* * * * *

This new evidence—Findlay’s revolver found hidden near the place

where the crime was committed, with two of the chambers empty and his

fingerprints showing up nicely on the handle—was of the utmost value,

though they’d most likely have got an indictment without it. But while

it made the action of the Grand Jury a certainty, and would be damning

evidence when it came to trial, it must be confessed that the views of

the Chief Inspector and of the Assistant District Attorney who was to

prosecute, were a trifle unsettled by the source of the information

which had led to its discovery. It was certainly not an agreeable

position to be placed in, and every effort must be made to keep the

matter quiet. Luckily the presentation of the evidence before the Grand

Jury would be behind closed doors, and by the time it had come up at

the trial people would probably have forgotten what it was all about.

On the following day Assistant District Attorney McVeigh went before

the Grand Jury and the indictment of Augustus Cripps Findlay for the

murder of Charles Michael Haworth was handed down without delay.

* * * * *

The date which had been set for Mrs. Henrietta E. Belden’s final

séance before the researching committee, fell on the third day after

the indictment of Findlay. Many persons not connected in any way with

this committee made strenuous efforts to gain admission, but without

success. Representatives of the press were present, but the public had

been excluded from the beginning.

So when, upon the assembling of the committee on that evening, it was

discovered that a meek-looking person who was not a member, nor a

reporter from any of the papers, was seated near the door, inquiries

were at once made, and the whispered reply of the chairman was that the

stranger was from the office of the Chief of Police. For what purpose

he had been sent, he (the chairman) had not been informed. So far as he

was aware, they hadn’t been violating any police regulations.

As on the two preceding occasions, the spirit of Cynthia took immediate

possession of the medium, but she appeared to be laboring under an

excitement so intense that it was with difficulty she could articulate,

and more than half an hour went by before anything came through that

could be understood.

This incoherency and delay did not, however, have the discouraging

effect which it had on a former occasion, for everyone there was intent

to hear, held so by the feeling that she had something important to

tell if only she could get it across. She would start on something—it

seemed to be some number she was trying to give them—and then break

off with: “I will—I will—I WILL!” repeated again and again.

The committee members were doing what they could to help her along,

and when one of them asked, “Is some one preventing you from telling

us?” the vehement answer came back: “Yes—yes! Such forces against

me!—I can hardly speak! Don’t go away—don’t go away!” And then all was

confusion again, in the midst of which she tried repeatedly to tell the

number. Finally, after many interruptions, she got it out—four hundred

ninety-one, four hundred ninety-one, and went on repeating it, but

still apparently unable to explain its present significance. But after

a long struggle to overcome the obstacle, whatever it was, something

seemed suddenly to release the spirit of Cynthia from what had the

effect of a strangle hold, and she almost screamed out: “West side of

the street! West! West! Four hundred ninety-one!”

As soon as she stopped repeating this long enough for anyone to speak,

every effort was made to get from her the name of the street she was

talking about. She was asked what part of the town—what buildings were

on it—the first letter of its name—everything the committee members

could think of that might be a clue.

The forces holding her back began to weaken from the time she managed

to shriek out about the west side of the street, and the whole thing

came through rather suddenly a few minutes later.

“Don’t forget—don’t forget—four hundred ninety-one Collamore

Street—four hundred ninety-one Collamore Street—west side—west side—man

smoking a pipe—west side of Collamore Street—he saw them take it away

from him. Oh, get him—somebody go and get him—he saw it all!”

Even while this was being repeated (as it was a number of times) there

was the beginning of a quiet and unobtrusive movement by some of the

newspaper men toward the door. But they found the meek and inoffensive

person from the office of the chief of police standing before it and

pulling his coat back the merest trifle so that the edge of his badge

could be seen.

“Sorry but you’ll have to wait a minute, gentlemen,” he said in an

undertone, and before the reporters recovered from their astonishment

he slipped through the door. The indignant journalists started to

follow him, but they found a bulky patrolman just outside who declined

to let them pass. The only reply to their furious questions was,

“Orders.”

* * * * *

It was a great surprise to James Rathbun, who lived with his family on

the second floor of 491 Collamore Street, Roxbury district, and was

employed in a ladies’ boot and shoe factory near the railroad, to be

roused from bed when he’d scarcely more than gone to it, and questioned

by a couple of men who appeared to be ordinary citizens, but were

accompanied by the patrolman on that beat.

No, he didn’t know anything at all about the murder over to Torrington

Road, excepting what he’d seen in the papers.... Sure he’d read about

it.... No, he didn’t know anyone concerned in it and hadn’t seen any

of them so far as he was aware of. They must have got the wrong place,

hadn’t they?... He couldn’t say as he remembered of anything special

happening around there on the night of the murder.... No, he hadn’t

noticed anyone taking anything away from anybody that night—unless

they—unless——Why hold on now! There _was_ a kind of a fight down in the

street, now he came to think of it, and he’d gone down and tried to

stop it, but it was about as good as over when he got there. But now

they were speaking about taking away something from somebody, maybe

that was what they meant.... No, not money or a watch, it wasn’t, but

the other feller’s gun.... No, he hadn’t any idea at all who they

was.... Sure, he’d go to the Inspector’s office if they wanted him to,

but there wasn’t much of anything to it so far as he could see.

The Inspector, it seems, was at the Charles Street jail, and Mr.

Rathbun was taken there and questioned in one of the rooms. His

testimony, as brought out, was straight and simple. He had come home

rather late that night—about half-past ten or so he should say—and

was smoking a pipe at his window facing the street. All of a sudden

he heard a lot of scuffling and cursing outside, and looking out saw

two men down there near one of the street lamps wrestling around and

jabbing each other. There was something shining that they both had

hold of, and once when it got out into the light he could see one man

was holding on to it by the nozzle and trying to get it away from the

other. That one had gloves on.... No, the other chap didn’t have none.

He (Rathbun) yelled out to ’em from the window, but they was at it like

two dogs holding to a stick, so he went downstairs to the street door

and opened it, and just at that minute the man that had the gloves on

give the other fellow a paste in the face that made him loosen his grip

for a second so he could snatch the gun away from him and run up the

street with it.... Yes, he was sure it was the one with the gloves on

that got the gun.... How did he _know_? Well, for one thing he went out

and spoke to the other chap and he didn’t have none on.... No, there

wasn’t any talk between them, for the chap didn’t say anything, but in

a minute or so turned suddenly and beat it down the street toward the

railroad tracks.... _Know_ him? Did the Inspector mean the one he went

out and spoke to? Sure he’d know him if he ever saw him again!

“Why, there he is now!” Rathbun exclaimed with genuine surprise, as he

pointed at a man among about a dozen prisoners who were filing into

the room. It was Augustus Findlay. The Inspector had given a signal a

moment before.

* * * * *

The digging up of James Rathbun of 491 Collamore Street on a tip from

the disembodied spirit of Cynthia Cripps Findlay shook things up a

bit in the Police Department. Of course everyone connected with said

Department was entirely aware that the spirit game was simply cheap

poppycock and that the two rather surprising messages bearing on the

Haworth case were merely instances of odd coincidence. Great God! There

were eleven thousand mediums in the United States, and these giving

out ten communications a day (a conservative estimate) made the output

from the spirits forty million one hundred and fifty thousand messages

a year; it would be a damned pity if one or two of them couldn’t strike

it right once in a while! As for the alleged Cripps message from Lilly

Dale, they had it pretty well covered up—at least for the present. The

papers, to be sure, had printed it, but they had also mentioned the

fact that nothing could be found in the place indicated.

But holding back this Collamore Street message with its extraordinary

results was another matter. It must be done though, if possible. The

precaution of ordering the detention of everybody in the hall where the

séance was held, in case some “spirit” got a message through that might

cause trouble, was certainly well taken, and neither the reporters

nor any others who’d been present during Mrs. Belden’s trance were

permitted to leave the building until Mr. Rathbun had been returned to

his dwelling place and, with his wife (who’d come to the window the

night of the fight on hearing the shouting) sworn to keep the matter

entirely to themselves, and the fact strongly impressed upon them that

it would be a highly dangerous thing _for them_, to let out a word of

it.

A search was quickly made for others in the tenements near who might

have been witnesses to the revolver fight, but none were found. All

this had transpired in not much above an hour, and the Rathbuns, as

requested, locked their door and went to bed.

Some twenty minutes thereafter No. 491 Collamore Street was seething

with baffled newspaper men. They pounded on the door and rang the bell

of the tenement on the second floor, until Mr. Rathbun, apparently

roused from deep slumber, opened it to find out what all the racket was

about.

The reporters surged about him, calling out questions, demanding

statements, jotting down descriptions of him, and making such a riotous

clamor, notwithstanding his assurances that he didn’t know anything

about it, that he finally (to all appearances) lost his temper, and

shoving those nearest to him back on to the landing, slammed the door

in their faces and turned the key in the lock.

By this time there was quite a gathering in the street below, and

when the newspaper boys began to surge down the stairs with the idea

of trying to get in through a rear entrance, there was considerable

excitement; for the crowd hadn’t the least idea what it was all about

and looked for the capture of a desperate burglar or something equally

diverting. In the midst of all this, word was suddenly passed from

somewhere that some one had found a man up the street a ways, who’d

seen the whole thing, and in ten seconds No. 491 was left as quiet as a

church.

The rumor of the man who knew it all turned out to be based on fact. A

solid, reliable-looking chap he was, and the reporters had him penned.

He seemed reluctant to say anything at first, but finally admitted

that he was walking through Collamore Street that night and came right

on it. Must have been half-past ten or eleven, he thought. Two men

fighting for a revolver—that’s all it was. He backed into a doorway on

the other side, about opposite 491, and took it all in. The reporters

got everything down to the minutest details, and you can imagine what

the papers looked like next morning. Not Boston alone, but everywhere.

Headlines you could read a block away. Here was the real thing, and the

newspaper chaps know one of those when they see it.

The authorities laid the leakage to the Rathbuns, but of course

couldn’t hold them for anything. When they came to figure up the effect

of the revolver episode on the case, it didn’t alter matters to any

extent. While it had the look of some kind of framing of Findlay,

it was at the same time shown by this very episode that he had his

revolver in his hands after the shooting and was chasing himself

home with it at the time it was taken from him. The only real loss

sustained by the prosecution was the necessary abandonment of the

contention that Findlay’s revolver had been concealed by himself after

the shooting, for, as it now appeared, somebody else had shoved it up

in the water conductor. But without this, the evidence against the man

was amply sufficient. His violent threats—his frenzy at being shoved

back out of the house by Haworth with the door slammed in his face—his

position at the front window with his gun in his hand at the instant

of the shooting—his mad flight from the grounds of the Cripps mansion,

carrying (as it now appeared) his weapon with him—his incriminating

behavior at the time of his arrest next morning in attempting to escape

and then, when caught, endeavoring to get his wife to support him in

his statement that he hadn’t left the house the evening before—all

this, taken together with other evidence which had since been

collected, meant nothing but swift conviction.

But while the Chief Inspector and the District Attorney entertained

no doubts as to the case against Findlay so far as the actual firing

of the shots that killed his victim was concerned, this extraordinary

seizure of the revolver in the public street and its concealment

near the place where the murder had been committed, were a plain

indication that others were involved in the crime, and now that it was

accomplished, were using every effort to frame it on him alone. It was

a strong hand that was working in the dark against Findlay, and Mrs.

Belden, the spirit medium, had shown that she knew a great deal about

it. She’d been held, after the release of the others, at the room where

the séance took place, notwithstanding the indignant protests of the

committee; and orders were later given to bring her to headquarters.

They’d soon make her tell where she got her information—a key, most

likely, to the whole thing.

They’d have liked very well to get Mr. Dillingworth, too—the Lilly Dale

medium whose control, alleged to be old Mr. Cripps, told where the gun

was concealed. But that would be difficult. And then again a man wasn’t

so easy to handle in a case like this. They could frighten a woman.

She’d lose her head and tell them everything.

* * * * *

Mrs. Belden was brought in by a couple of detectives. It was somewhere

about three in the morning. Notwithstanding what she’d been through

and her virtual arrest coming on top of it—for that’s what it was made

to appear—she showed no signs of disturbance; indeed one would have

thought she hardly noticed what was going on. She had, or assumed, a

detached air, giving the impression that her mind was occupied with

other and more important things than those in the immediate vicinity. A

pleasant but vacant smile had been arranged on her countenance before

her thoughts wandered abroad, as a friendly signal to those who might

notice it fluttering there.

She was brought before the Inspector. Several plain-clothes men stood

about, watching her like hungry wolves. Uniformed police were stationed

at each door and a very large-sized one sat near the Inspector. She was

to be impressed with the importance of what was about to occur.

A detective brought her a chair.

All went smoothly enough as to preliminary questions—name, address,

occupation, etc.—although she replied absently, and several times

had to be recalled to herself and the question repeated before they

could get a response. After this was over and an effective pause had

followed, a police stenographer (plain-clothes) rose, and read in a

loud and impressive voice a report of what Mrs. Belden had said and

done during the séance of the evening just passed, while under the

alleged control of some one deceased.

The moment this man announced what the report was about, that he

intended to read, Mrs. Belden’s manner underwent a drastic change. Her

detachment disappeared, and evidences of the most eager interest took

its place. She listened with rapt attention to every word that had come

through from Cynthia, and when the reading was finished breathed a sigh

of the deepest satisfaction.

“Mrs. Belden, you have heard the report of what was given out and said

and uttered by you at the meeting held in the Board Room at Charnley’s

this evening?”

“What sir?” she asked with a startled turn, aroused from her thoughts

of the séance.

“I say” (in a louder voice) “you have _heard_ what has just been

read—the report of what you gave out at a Spiritualistic meeting this

past evening?”

“Oh yes——yes indeed! How nice of you to put it all down!”

“And do you acknowledge it to be a true and correct statement of your

words on that occasion?”

“Mercy! I’m sure I don’t know!”

“You don’t _know_?”

“Why no,” (shaking her head). “How could I when I was in trance?”

“In what?”

“Trance.”

“What in God’s name is that?”

“I—I really couldn’t tell. Why don’t you ask some of the committee?

That’s what they’re trying to find out. I’m sure they’d be glad to——”

“One moment! Just one moment, madam!” spoke up a large man in uniform

who was standing near the inspector. He wore a face and jowl something

like Von Hindenburg and his voice was as the bellowing of a bull.

“We’re here to ask _you_, Mrs. Belden! _You_ are the person who uttered

those words and we propose to hold you responsible!”

“What the hell’s the committee got to do with it, anyway?” growled one

of the detectives, whose natural gifts for vicious snarling had made

him of value in a business like this. “It was you who said it—now you

answer for it—see?”

Mrs. Belden blinked from one to another of them in cheerful

bewilderment. Her pleasant and comfortable smile still occupied her

face, though for a moment a trifle insecurely.

“Now then,” went on the Inspector, “we’d like very much to hear from

you, Mrs. Belden!”

When he spoke she turned to him as though to a pleasing conversation

with some new-found friend.

“Be so good as to answer the question.”

“The question?”

“Yes, the question!”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t remember what it was!”

“Don’t remember! Don’t remember! Well, I’ll be damned!” (From the

snarling one.)

“Perfectly plain and simple, madam,” continued the Inspector. “Is this

report which has just been read to you a true and correct statement

of the words spoken by you at the séance or meeting this evening just

passed?”

“Oh dear me—but you see, I—I don’t know.”

“You know what you _said_, don’t you?”

“No sir.”

“What’s the reason you don’t?” (Von Hindenburg speaking.) “Give us the

reason! Don’t try to put over any of that trance cackle on us! Don’t

you know what you say to people?”

“Oh, no!” (shaking her head). “Not when I’m in—in——not when it’s like

that.”

“Mrs. Belden, aren’t you perfectly well aware that you told those

present in the room to go to a certain street and number and get a man

who was living there, for a witness?”

“Yes sir.”

“A——h!” (A snarling roar.) “At last you’re beginning to remember, are

you?”

“No sir, I don’t remember.”

“You don’t!”

“No sir.”

“Then how do you know it?”

“I heard that man over there read it.”

“And did you remember then—when you heard him read it—that you’d said

it?”

“Why, I’m sorry, but I didn’t really remember having done so. I hope

you—I hope you won’t mind.”

“Whether you remember or not, Mrs. Belden, the fact that you did

actually tell them this, remains!”

“Oh yes indeed, that remains of course!” She wanted to oblige these

shouting and excited men in any way she could.

“Now then! You fully believe this to be the case—that you told them to

go to the address on Collamore Street, and find a man who was smoking a

pipe there, and bring him in for a witness?”

“Oh yes, I _do_ believe it, really!”

“Ah—you do! Well _that’s_ something!”

“Why, I don’t see why that man” (looking at him) “should want to tell a

lie about it, do you? I’m sure he _looks_ honest!”

“Never mind how he looks. You acknowledge in our presence that you said

those words, or words to that effect—you admit that you _did_ give that

street and number. Now what we want to know is, where you got that

information?”

“Yes!” (From the snarling hyena man.) “Who told you? Where did you find

it out? _I say, where did you find it out?_”

“Find what out?”

“That a man living at four hundred ninety-one Collamore Street saw

something that made him a valuable witness. Where did you find that

out?”

“Oh, but you don’t understand at all—I didn’t find it out!”

“You _knew_ it, didn’t you?”

“Oh no, I really had no idea of it at all!”

“Here! Here!” from the Hindenburg man.

“My God woman” (from the hyena man) “you _said_ it—you acknowledged

it—we’ve got half a dozen witnesses who’ll swear to that!”

“Oh yes! Well, doesn’t that satisfy you?”

“It does not! You’re going to tell us where you got that tip! It came

from somewhere—that somewhere is what we’ll get out of you—and don’t

you make any mistake about that!”

Mrs. Belden, unable to comprehend, smiled vaguely at them as if hoping

to soothe and quiet them thereby.

“Answer me this: How could you tell them all that about Collamore

Street if you didn’t know it yourself?”

“I don’t know, but if you’ll ask one of the committee men——”

“Be quiet!” “That’s enough of that!” “Committee be damned!” And general

protests from the men in the room.

Mrs. Belden subsided pleasantly. Her smile flickered a little but

refused to go out.

“I’m not here to ask committee men,” the Inspector went on. “I’m here

to ask YOU!”

“That’s very nice of you, I’m sure!” (A little doubtfully.)

“And what’s more, you’re going to tell me! You’re going to tell me

where you got your information about that witness in Collamore Street

before you leave this place!”

“Oh, I hope I can—if you feel so about it!”

“Go on with it then! How came you to know anything about that witness

at four hundred ninety-one Collamore Street? How was that? Explain

yourself!”

“Why I thought I told you that I _didn’t_ know anything about him! What

funny questions you ask me!”

“But you acknowledge that you _told_ them about him—you acknowledge

that! Don’t you acknowledge that?”

“Oh yes indeed—I acknowledge that!”

“Well if you _told_ them about him you must _know_ about him! You can’t

tell a thing unless you _know_ it, can you?”

“Well, you see, when I’m in trance——”

(A burst of yells and imprecations from the men in the room.) “Don’t

give us any more of that!” the Inspector went on as soon as it was

quiet. “Just the idea out of your head that you can put that kind of

birdseed over on us! From now on no more trances and rappings and

slates and the whole bag of tricks! We know these games—every one of

’em, an’ they don’t go here! _They don’t go here, Mrs. Belden!_ Now you

tell me straight, where did you get that information about the witness

on Collamore Street?”

“I didn’t get it at all.”

“You mean you told them all that—told them just where to find a man—the

very street—the very number—the very apartment—the very pipe he

smoked—and didn’t know any of those things yourself?”

“Oh yes—it’s so strange, isn’t it! When I’m in a——”

“None o’ that now!” (From the Inspector, speaking above a general

murmur of protest from the police and detectives.)

Mrs. Belden smilingly held her peace.

The Inspector, McCurran, paused a moment in order to increase the

impressiveness of his next question.

“Mrs. Belden,” he began, in a lower voice and with overpowering

solemnity, “do you realize the position in which you are placing

yourself by your refusal to answer this question?”

“Why, I’m afraid you don’t like it at all!”

“Not _like_ it, madam! I can assure you that it’s a great deal worse

for you than NOT LIKING IT! We are compelled to conclude that for some

reason known only to yourself you are SHIELDING the person or persons

WHO ARE GUILTY OF THIS FIENDISH CRIME!”

“Dear me! Why, who do you think it is?”

“You apparently have no idea what such a thing may mean to you!”

“No sir.” (She was so interested that she was leaving her smile alone

to get along the best it could without her.) “I’m almost sure I

haven’t!”

“A person who shields one guilty of murder is an ACCESSORY AFTER THE

FACT!”

“Mercy! Am I—am I one of those?”

“It certainly begins to look like it, madam!”

“Why how _perfectly_ dreadful!”

“Now before you’re arrested and tried on that charge we’ll give you

one more chance to clear yourself! You understand—one more chance and

that’s the last!”

“Well that’s—I’m sure you’re very kind! Is it something you want me to

do?”

“That’s what it is, madam, and your only chance is to DO IT NOW! Tell

us where you got your information about the witness on Collamore

Street!”

“But how can I when I didn’t get it anywhere? It was whoever was in

control that had it. That man there who read it said Cynthia was the

name.”

“Well then, where did Cynthia get it?”

“Oh, well,” (the smile spreading) “I’d like to know that myself!”

And so it went on hour after hour, Mrs. Belden cheerful and unmoved,

her questioners more and more wearied; bored beyond words by her dense

and unshakable simplicity and maddened by her invulnerable smile;

until finally they had to give it up and tell her to go home. Smiling

pleasantly, she thanked them and said she’d enjoyed it very much.

Though it seemed that some mysterious person or persons—dead or

alive—were framing Augustus Findlay, the Grand Jury had indicted him

for murder, and the evidence against him was seemingly overwhelming.

As for Findlay himself, his state of mind was pitiable. He had no doubt

whatever that he had fired the shots that killed Charles Haworth, and

Mr. Forbes (of Houston, Forbes & McAllister), the Defense Attorney, had

all he could do to keep the frightened wretch from confessing in the

hope of having mercy shown him. A prospect of life imprisonment gave

him no uneasiness; what appalled him was the thought of death. And it

certainly looked black for him as the day set for his trial drew near.

Then late one night the Associated Press took a hand—or rather let

us say extended a hand—from the wind-swept reaches of Chicago. Mr.

Harcourt Sidney was a well-established materializing medium doing

business in that city. Through his efforts and ministrations some

remarkable spirit phenomena had taken place, and he had a choice and

well-to-do clientele—the well-to-do feature being by far the more

important one to him. This man Sidney was not only clever in the line

of materialization, but he was a trumpet medium as well, and many of

his other-world communicants appeared to find this an assistance in

getting through.

In the practice of his profession, as Mr. Sidney conducted it, there

would be specially arranged private meetings at the houses of those

belonging to the circle; and Mr. Sidney, securely tied into a plain

kitchen chair with stout ropes, and his thumbs and fingers wound

with easily breakable thread, would bring—or let us say persuade

to come—from the spirit world, many friends or relatives of those

present, so that they seemed to be actually there in the darkened

room, able to converse freely in their own voices, and often with other

characteristics of their earthly existence easily distinguishable.

These sittings or séances were entirely private, and I don’t have to

tell you that no admission fee was charged. But if any of those who

attended felt that their enjoyment had been of quite unusual dimensions

either in the way of witnessing absorbingly interesting phenomena or in

having departed friends or relatives actually speak to them, sometimes

even allowing shadowy glimpses of themselves like faint half-luminous

clouds to be seen shimmering about in the darkness, they were at

liberty to send to Mr. Sidney any little token of esteem that they felt

like offering.

Quiet and select little spiritistic gatherings like this were started

all over the country, when the extraordinary revival of interest in

such things came along carrying some very big names at the top of it.

And I want to tell you that there’s millions of dollars coming to the

people owning these names if a commission on the business they brought

in for the mediums could be collected.

At these private sittings, with Mr. Sidney in the chair, so to speak,

not only the friends and relatives of those present, but also quite a

number of distant acquaintances, or even just fellow townspeople, would

occasionally drop in; a few came at nearly every meeting for a bit of a

chat. It was almost as if they enjoyed talking things over with their

mundane fellow citizens—and for all I know they did.

One of these few who made an occasional spirit call, was a man well

known not only to everyone in that circle, but to nearly everybody in

the United States as well; he had been a renowned—you might almost

say world-famous—detective, a great part of whose life had been spent

in Chicago. A most entertaining talker he was, and seemed to enjoy

the opportunity of conversing with those he had left on earth when he

passed over, as the saying is.

At one of these private séances on an evening along about the time I’ve

just been speaking of, they’d been having visits from various dead ones

(dead in an earthly sense I mean) for upwards of an hour, when the

medium announced the approach of this well-known man, and in a moment

the trumpet was seized in a strong grasp and a visit with him of more

than usual interest followed. Some one in the circle alluded to the

Haworth case in Boston, which had become, by this time, owing to the

unusual occurrences connected with it, quite the talk wherever you went.

Then a man on the other side of the circle asked Mr. P. (which is

what we’ll call this spirit) if he’d be willing to say anything about

that singular affair. “Certainly singular,” he said, talking through

the trumpet, which made his voice loud and clear; “an’ I notice that

several people on this side have got excited about it.”

“But can’t you give us anything about the case yourself?” was the next

question. And I’ll tell you beforehand that his answer was in the

morning edition of every newspaper in the country, as well as Canada.

It was about like this as I got it from the papers.

“Well now,” Mr. P. objected at first, “I can’t say I like talking about

that. What would I do, butting in?”

But many in the circle now began begging him to give them just a

hint of what his opinion was—what he said to be treated as strictly

confidential.

“Well,” he finally said, “if you’ll just consider it a private matter

between ourselves an’ leave my name out of it, I’ll say this: While

I have every respect for those Boston boys, they’ve got it doped out

wrong. I didn’t see the thing done, but as soon as I heard about it I

went over there an’ took a look around. The trouble is they’ve got it

set in their minds the shots were fired from outside. Everything was

fixed to look that way, but, heavenly Jerusalem! that’s what’s the

matter with it—_it was fixed_! They’d ought to take a look at those

front window blinds no matter if the vines _are_ growing over ’em.

You can do a great deal with vines if you give your mind to it. Also

they’ll find a bullet struck one o’ the elms out in front. If they want

it they can get it about fifteen feet up. The feller was firing high,

whoever he was.”

That was all Mr. P. would say on the subject, except that you couldn’t

expect any sort of good work in these days with a pack of yelping

newspaper hounds worrying the life out of you and giving away anything

they could get hold of so the man you were after could act accordingly.

After a few anecdotes about how they kept things quiet in his day, on

the principle that when your man was working in the dark against you

you ought to be let alone to do the same by him, he said good night and

was gone. Instantly the meeting broke up, and everybody was buzzing

about. Two or three jumped into a car and made for the Loop District

to talk it over with a couple of managing editors they knew, and the

conclusion quickly reached was to transmit the message to the Boston

police and also let the Associated Press have it—this without making

use of Mr. P.’s name. The result was that it went out to the press as

a Mediumistic Message from a Celebrated Detective.

It’s hardly necessary to state that the reporters at headquarters

wanted to know this and that, and what you might call a press rush

was made for Torrington Road. But the police were already making an

investigation, and the newspaper men were kept out of the grounds until

it was finished.

* * * * *

The outside blinds to the front window of the room on the left—which

were flat against the wall on each side—had the appearance of having

been undisturbed for years. Tangled Virginia creeper grew so densely

over them that they could hardly be found. Yet when it came to the work

of clearing these vines away it was discovered that hardly any effort

was required. The blinds had evidently been opened as wide as possible

and the vines hung over them.

When brought to view, these shutters told their gruesome tale. Two

smashing bullet holes far up near the top where no one standing on

the ground outside could have reached,—one splintering a slat of the

left-hand shutter, the other cutting a fairly clean hole through the

frame of the one on the right, and both giving unmistakable evidence of

having come through from the inside (of course when the shutters were

closed) submitted their silent evidence.

The murderer, whoever he was, had evidently failed to think of the

blinds until it was too late, and they were shattered by the bullets

that had killed Charles Haworth. Then, with no time to otherwise

dispose of them, the mass of vines had been torn away from the wall on

each side until the shutters could be opened back against it, and the

vines then pulled over them. All this was a trick to make it appear

that the shots were fired from outside the front window—or at any rate

to avoid anything that conflicted with that idea. Again that mysterious

framing for the conviction of Findlay.

In either event the shattered window blinds and one of the bullets

found embedded in the trunk of an elm tree a few feet away, plainly

indicated that Findlay could not have fired the shots, even though he

may have thought he did.

Added to this was the significant fact that the detectives had been

unable to find any trace of a bullet on the walls at the inner end of

the room, where they should have been if fired from outside the front

window. The District Attorney was obliged to enter a _nolle prosse_,

and that was the end of it.

Augustus Findlay was a free man.

* * * * *

His Attorney, Mr. Archibald Forbes, was waiting for him in the

corridor, and with a muttered “Come along, quick!” hurried him out to a

taxi. The windows of this vehicle were covered with newspapers pasted

to the inside, and a man with a heavy and obtrusive jaw was seated

within.

When the door was opened and Augustus saw this man, he hesitated, but

Mr. Forbes shoved him aboard and got in after him. The instant the door

closed, the taxi dashed down the street. The three men were shaken and

tumbled about as they rattled on at what, to Findlay, appeared to be

breakneck speed. The papers pasted to the windows prevented his seeing

where they were going.

It was something like half an hour before the machine stopped.

“Be careful!” warned Mr. Forbes in a hoarse whisper. “We get out here

and you’ve got to keep between us! If they find out we’ve got you away,

they’ll nab you!”

“What is it—what are you——”

“Sh!” warned the lawyer, impressively.

The two men ran across the walk, Augustus between them, and as they did

so the door of the house before which the taxi had stopped was opened

from the inside, and they dashed madly up the steps and plunged in, the

door being instantly closed after them.

It was a vacant house and without furniture of any kind. Findlay was

taken to a dark room in the basement where coal had been kept. It

contained bins and piles of rubbish which could be sat upon in an

extremity.

“You going to do something to me?” Findlay managed finally to stammer

out.

“Shut your mouth!” from the man with the jaw.

“Now listen to me,” began Mr. Forbes in a low voice. “I got you off by

a fluke, but they’ll be on to it in an hour or two. Mr. Sugden here’s

a Department detective and he’ll get you by the police to-night and

put you on a train. Also he’s got a wad of money for you—subscribed by

friends. Now I’m done with you! I said I’d get you off and by God! I’ve

done it! But if they ever get you again you’re finished—remember that!”

Having said which Mr. Forbes went up stairs and left the house.

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.”