in that respect. Tell me, doctor. It was proved at the trial that
Mrs. Layton's death was caused by an overdose of morphia, taken in
the form of effervescing lozenges. It was established that she was
occasionally in the habit of taking one of these lozenges at night to
produce sleep, and her maid swore that her mistress never took more
than one, being aware of the danger of an overdose. The usual mode of
administering these noxious opiates is by placing one in the mouth
and allowing it to dissolve; but they will dissolve in water, and the
medical evidence proved that at least eight or ten of the poisonous
lozenges must have been administered in this way, in one dose, to the
unfortunate lady. The glass from which the liquid was drunk was round,
not by her bedside, but on the mantle-shelf, which is at some distance
from the bed. It is a natural inference, if the unfortunate woman had
administered the dose to herself, that the glass would have been found
on the table by her bedside. It was not so found, and the maid declares
that her mistress was too weak to get out of bed and return to it
unaided. These facts, if they be facts, circumstantially prove that the
cause of death lay outside the actions of the invalid herself. The maid
states that when she left her mistress the bottle containing about a
dozen lozenges was on the table by her mistress's bedside, and also a
glass, and a decanter of water; and that when she visited her mistress
at between six and seven o'clock in the morning there were no lozenges
left in the bottle, and the glass from which they were supposed to be
taken, dissolved in water, was on the mantle-shelf. Now, in my view,
this circumstance is in favor of the prisoner."
"I cannot see that," observed Dr. Daincourt.
"Yet it is very simple," said the lawyer. "Let us suppose, in
illustration, that I am this lady's husband. For reasons into which it
is not necessary here to enter, I resolve to make away with my wife
by administering to her an overdose of these poisonous narcotics,
and naturally I resolve that her death shall be accomplished in such
a manner as to avert, to some reasonable extent, suspicion from
myself. I go into her bedroom at midnight. Our relations, as has been
proved, are not of the most amiable kind. We are not in love with each
other--quite the reverse--and have been living, from the first day of
our marriage, an unhappy life. Indeed, my unhappy life, in relation
to the lady, commenced when I was engaged to her. Well, I go into her
room at midnight, resolved to bring about her death. She complains
that she cannot sleep, and she asks me to give her a morphia lozenge
from the bottle. I suggest that it may more readily produce sleep
if, instead of allowing it to dissolve slowly in her mouth, she will
drink it off at once, dissolved in water. She consents. I take from
the table the bottle, the decanter of water, and the glass I empty
secretly into the glass the eight or ten or dozen lozenges which the
bottle contains; I pour the water from the decanter into the glass,
and I tell my wife to drink it off immediately. She does so, and sinks
into slumber, overpowered by a sleep from which she will never awake.
Perhaps she struggles against the effects of the terrible dose I have
administered to her, but her struggles are vain. She lies before me
in sure approaching death, and both she and I have escaped from the
life which has been a continual source of misery to us. The deed being
accomplished, what do I, the murderer, do? There are no evidences of
a struggle; there have been no cries to alarm the house; what has
been accomplished has been well and skilfully accomplished, and I am
the only actual living witness against myself. What then, I repeat,
is my course of action? Before I killed her I removed the bottle, the
glass, and the decanter from the table by the bedside. I wish it to
be understood that she herself, in a fit of delirium, caused her own
death. This theory would be utterly destroyed if I allowed the glass
from which the poison was taken to be found at some distance from the
unfortunate lady's bedside. Very carefully, therefore, I place not only
that, but the decanter which contained the water, and the bottle which
contained the lozenges, within reach of her living hand. To omit that
precaution would be suicidal, and, to my mind, absolutely untenable
in rational action under such circumstances. Do you see, now, why the
circumstance of the glass being found on the mantle-shelf is a proof of
my innocence?"
"Yes," replied Dr. Daincourt, "I recognize the strength of your
theory--unless, indeed, you had in your mind the idea that it would be
better to throw suspicion upon a third person; say, for the sake of
argument, upon the maid."
"That view," said the lawyer, "demolishes itself, for what _I_ would
naturally do to divert suspicion from myself, a third person would
naturally do to avert suspicion from him or herself."
"True," said Dr. Daincourt; "you seize vital points more readily than
I. Have you any theory about the strange lady who accompanied Layton
home from Prevost's Restaurant?"
"I have a theory upon the point," replied the lawyer, "which, however,
at present is so vague and unsatisfactory that it would be folly to
disclose it."
"And the Nine of Hearts," said Dr. Daincourt, "you have not mentioned
that lately--have you forgotten it?"
"No," said the lawyer, "it is my firm opinion that round that Nine of
Hearts the whole of the mystery revolves."
PART THE THIRD.
THE MYSTERY OF THE NINE OF HEARTS.
"_From Mr. Bainbridge, Q. C., to Archibald Laing, Esq_.
"Dear Sir,--Last night I received your cable from Pittsburg, and sent
you a message in reply, accepting the commission with which you have
been pleased to intrust me. This morning I called upon Messrs. Morgan
& Co., Bankers, Threadneedle Street, and learned from them that they
were prepared to advance me the ten thousand dollars of which you
advised me. I drew upon them for that amount, and received from them
a notification that they would honor my further drafts upon them the
moment they were drawn. I asked them whether, in the event of my
desiring to draw say five thousand pounds, I was at liberty to do so.
They said yes, for even a larger amount if I required it. I did not
explain to them the reason of my asking the question, but I will do so
to you. It has happened, in difficult cases, that information has had
to be purchased, and that a bribe more or less tempting has had to be
held out to some person or persons to unlock their tongues. I have no
reason to suppose that anything of the sort will be necessary in this
case, but I wish to feel myself perfectly free in the matter. I am
satisfied with your bankers' replies, and I shall spare neither money
nor exertion in the endeavor to unravel the mystery which surrounds the
death of Mrs. Edward Layton.
"It is scarcely possible you can be aware of it, but it is nevertheless
a fact that, apart from my professional position in this matter, I take
in it an interest which is purely personal, and that my sympathies are
in unison with your own. Were it not that I have had some knowledge
of Mr. Layton, and that I esteem him, and were it not that I firmly
believe in his innocence, I should, perhaps, have hesitated to engage
myself in his case, and you will excuse my saying that your liberal
views upon the subject of funds might have failed to impress me. It
is, therefore, a matter of congratulation that I enlist myself on Mr.
Layton's side as much upon personal as upon professional grounds. The
time has been too short for anything yet to be done, but it will be a
satisfaction to you to learn that I have a slight clew to work upon.
It is very slight, very frail, but it may lead to something important.
Your desire for a full and complete recital of my movements shall be
complied with, and I propose, to this end, and for the purpose of
coherence and explicitness, to forward the particulars to you from
time to time, not in the form of letters, but in narrative shape.
This mode of giving you information will keep me more strictly to the
subject-matter, and will be the means of avoiding digression. After
the receipt, therefore, of this letter, what I have to say will go
forth under numbered headings, not in my own writing, but in that of a
short-hand reporter, whom I shall specially employ. I could not myself
undertake such a detailed and circumstantial account as I understand
it is your desire to obtain. Besides, it will save time, which may be
of great value in the elucidation of this mystery.
"I am, dear sir, faithfully yours,
"HORACE BAINBRIDGE."
I.
What struck me particularly in your cable message was that portion of
it in which you made reference to a Mr. James Rutland. It happens,
singularly enough, that this Mr. James Rutland was on the jury, and
that he was the one juryman who held out in Mr. Layton's favor, and
through whose unconquerable determination not to bring him in guilty
has arisen the necessity for a new trial. Eleven of the jury were for a
conviction, one only for an acquittal--this one, Mr. Rutland.
The first thing to ascertain was his address, which you could not give
me. However, we have engines at our hand whereby such small matters are
easily arrived at, and on the evening of the day after the arrival of
your cable message I was put in possession of the fact that Mr. Rutland
lives in Wimpole Street. I drove there immediately, and sent up my card.
"I have called upon you, Mr. Rutland," I said, "with respect to Mr.
Edward Layton's case, in the hope that you may be able to give me some
information by which he may be benefited."
Mr. Rutland is a gentleman of about sixty years of age. He has a
benevolent face, and I judged him, and I think judged him correctly, to
be a man of a kindly nature. Looking upon him, there was no indication
in his appearance of a dogged disposition, and I lost sight for a
moment of the invincible tenacity with which he had adhered to his
opinion when he was engaged upon the trial with his fellow-jurymen.
However, his conduct during this interview brought it to my mind.
"It is a thousand pities," he said, in response to my opening words,
"that Mr. Layton refused to accept professional assistance and advice.
I was not the only one upon the jury who failed to understand his
reason for so doing."
"It is indeed," I observed, "inexplicable, and I am in hopes that
you may be able to throw some light upon it. I have come to you for
assistance."
"I can give you no information," was his reply; "I cannot assist you."
"May I speak to you in confidence?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, "although I have nothing to tell. To any but a
gentleman of position I should refuse to enter into conversation upon
this lamentable affair; and, indeed, it will be useless for us to
converse upon it. As I have already said, I have nothing to tell you."
This iteration of having nothing to say and nothing to tell was to me
suspicions, not so much from the words in which the determination was
conveyed as from the tone in which they were spoken. It was flurried,
anxious, uneasy; a plain indication that Mr. James Rutland could say
something if he chose.
"Speaking in confidence," I said, taking no outward notice of his
evident reluctance to assist me, "I think I am right in my conjecture
that you believe in Mr. Layton's innocence."
"I decline to say anything upon the matter," was his rejoinder to this
remark.
"We live in an age of publicity," I observed, without irritation; "it
is difficult to keep even one's private affairs to one's self. What
used to be hidden from public gaze and knowledge is now exposed and
freely discussed by strangers. You are doubtless aware that it is known
that there were eleven of the jury who pronounced Mr. Layton guilty,
and only one who pronounced him innocent."
"I was not," he said, "and am not aware that it is known."
"It is nevertheless a fact," I said, "and it is also known that you,
Mr. Rutland, are the juryman who held out in Mr. Layton's favor."
"These matters should not be revealed," he muttered.
"Perhaps not," I said, "but we must go with the age in which we live.
Mr. Layton's case has excited the greatest interest. The singular
methods he adopted during so momentous a crisis in his life, and the
unusual termination of the judicial inquiry, have intensified that
interest, and I have not the slightest doubt that there will be a great
deal said and written upon the subject."
"Which should not be said and written," muttered Mr. Rutland.
"Neither have I the slightest doubt," I continued, "that your name will
be freely used, and your motives for not waiving your opinion when
eleven men were against you freely discussed. We are speaking here, if
you will allow me to say so, as friends of the unfortunate man, and I
have no hesitation in declaring to you that I myself believe in his
innocence."
He interrupted me.
"Then, if you had been on the jury, you would not have yielded to the
opinions of eleven, or of eleven hundred men?"
He spoke eagerly, and I saw that it would be a satisfaction to him to
obtain support in his view of the case.
"I am not so sure," I said "our private opinion of a man when he is
placed before his country charged with a crime has nothing whatever to
do with the evidence brought against him. Let us suppose, for instance,
that you have been at some time or other, under more fortunate
circumstances, acquainted with Mr. Layton."
"Who asserts that?" he cried, much disturbed.
"No person that I am aware of," I replied. "I am merely putting a
case, and I will prove to you presently that I have a reason for doing
so. Say, I repeat, that under more fortunate circumstances you were
acquainted with Mr. Layton, and that you had grown to esteem him. What
has that purely personal view to do with your functions as a juryman?"
"Mr. Bainbridge," he said, "I do not wish to be discourteous, but I
cannot continue this conversation."
"Nay," I urged, "a gentleman's life and honor are at stake, and I am
endeavoring to befriend him. I am not the only one who is interested in
him. There are others, thousands of miles away across the seas, who are
desirous and anxious to make a sacrifice, if by that sacrifice they can
clear the honor of a friend. See, Mr. Rutland, I will place implicit
confidence in you. Last night I received a cable from America, from Mr.
Archibald Laing."
"Mr. Archibald Laing!" he cried, taken by surprise. "Why, he and Mr.
Layton were--"
But he suddenly stopped, as though fearful of committing himself.
"Were once friends," I said, finishing the sentence for him, and, I was
certain, finishing it aright. "Yes, I should certainly say so. Read the
cable I received." And I handed it to him.
At first he seemed as if he were disinclined, but he could not master
his curiosity, and after a slight hesitation he read the message but he
handed it back to me without remark.
"Mr. Archibald Laing," I said, "as I dare say you have heard or read,
is one of fortune's favorites. He left this country three or four years
ago, and settled in America--where, I believe, he has taken out letters
of naturalization--and plunged into speculation which has made him a
millionaire. No further evidence than his cable message is needed to
prove that he is a man of vast means. Why does he ask me to apply to
you for information concerning Mr. Layton which I may probably turn to
that unhappy gentleman's advantage?"
"I was but slightly acquainted with Mr. Laing," said Mr. Rutland. "He
and I were never friends. I repeat once more that I have nothing to
tell you."
I recognized then that I was in the presence of a man who, whether
rightly or wrongly, was not to be moved from any decision at which he
had arrived, and I understood thoroughly the impossible task set before
eleven jurymen to win him over to their convictions.
"Can I urge nothing," I said, "to induce you to speak freely to me
"Nothing," he replied.
I spent quite another quarter of an hour endeavoring to prevail upon
him, but in the result I left his house no wiser than I had entered it,
except that I was convinced he knew something which he was doggedly
concealing from me. I did not think it was anything of very great
importance, but it might at least be a clew that I could work upon, and
I was both discouraged and annoyed by his determined attitude.
On the following morning, having paved the way to further access to
Mr. Edward Layton, I visited the unhappy man in his prison. He was
unaffectedly glad to see me, and he took the opportunity of expressing
his cordial thanks for the friendliness I had evinced towards him.
I felt it necessary to be on my guard with him, and I did not, thus
early, make any endeavor to prevail upon him to accept me as his
counsel in the new trial which awaited him. There were one or two
points upon which I wished to assure myself, and I approached them
gradually and cautiously.
"Are you aware," I said, "of the extent of the disagreement among the
jury?"
"Well," he replied, "we hear something even within these stone walls. I
am told that eleven were against me and one for me."
"Yes," I said, "that is so."
"A bad lookout for me when I am tried again. Mr. Bainbridge," he said,
"it is very kind of you to visit me here, and I think you do so with
friendly intent."
"Indeed," I said, "it _is_ with friendly intent."
"Is it of any use," he then said, "for me to declare to you that I am
innocent of the horrible charge brought against me?"
"I don't know," I said, "whether it is of any use or not, because of
the stand you have taken, and seem determined to take."
"Yes," he said, "upon my next trial I shall defend myself, as I did on
my last. I will accept no legal assistance whatever. Still, as a matter
of interest and curiosity--looking upon myself as if I were somebody
else--tell me frankly your own opinion."
"Frankly and honestly," I replied, "I believe you to be an innocent
man."
"Thank you," he said, and I saw the tears rising in his eyes.
"Do you happen," I said, presently, "to know the name of the juryman
who was in your favor?"
"No," he replied, "I am quite ignorant of the names of the jurymen."
"But they were called over before the trial commenced."
"Yes, that is the usual course, I believe, but I did not hear their
names. Indeed, I paid no heed to them. Of what interest would they
have been to me? Twelve strangers were twelve strangers; one was no
different from the other."
"They were all strangers to you?" I asked, assuming a purposed
carelessness of tone.
"Yes, every one of them."
"And you to them?"
"I suppose so. How could it have been otherwise?"
"But when they finally came back into court, and the foreman of the
jury stated that they could not agree, you seemed surprised."
"Were you watching me?" he asked, suspiciously.
"Do you not think it natural," I said, in reply, "that every person's
eyes at that moment should be turned upon you?"
"Of course," he said, recovering himself--"quite natural. I should have
done the same myself had I been in a better place than the dock. Well,
I _was_ surprised; I fully anticipated a verdict of guilty."
"And," I continued, "although you may not remember it, you leaned
forward and gazed at the jury with an appearance of eagerness."
"I remember that I did so," he said; "it was an impulsive movement on
my part."
"Did you recognize any among them whose face was familiar to you?"
"No; to tell you the truth, I could not distinguish their faces, I am
so short-sighted."
"But you had your glasses hanging round your neck. Why did you not use
them?"
It amazed me to hear him laugh at this question. It was a gentle,
kindly laugh, but none the less was I astonished at it.
"You lawyers are so sharp," he said, "that there is scarcely hiding
anything from you. Be careful what questions you ask me, or I shall be
compelled"--and here his voice grew sad--"to beg of you not to come
again."
I held myself well within control, although his admonition startled me,
for I had it in my mind to ask him something concerning the surprise
he had evinced when the Nine of Hearts was produced from the pocket
of his ulster; and I had it also in my mind to ask him whether he was
acquainted, either directly or indirectly, with Mr. James Rutland. His
caution made me cautious; his wariness made me wary; I seemed to be
pitted against him in a friendly contest in which I was engaged in his
interests and he was engaged against them.
"I will be careful," I said; "you must not close your door against
me, although it is, unhappily, a prison door. I am here truly as a
sympathizing friend. Look upon me in that light, and not in the light
of a professional man."
"You comfort me," he said. "Although I may appear to you careless and
indifferent, you know well enough it is impossible that I can be so;
you know that I must be tearing my heart out in the terrible position
in which I have been forced by ruthless circumstance. Make no mistake I
am myself greatly to blame for what has occurred. It has been folioed
upon me by my sense of honor and right and truth. Why, life once spread
itself before me with a prospect so glad, so beautiful, that it almost
awed me! But, after all, if a man bears within him the assurance that
he is doing what he is in honor bound to do, surely that should be
something! There--you see what you have forced from me. Yes, I _did_
look eagerly forward when I heard that the jury could not agree. At
least there was one man there who believed me to be innocent, and
without the slightest knowledge of him I blessed him for the belief."
He gazed round with the air of a man who was fearful that every
movement he made was watched and observed by enemies, and then he said,
in a low tone,
"I need a friend."
I replied, instantly, following the tone that he had used, "I am here;
I will be your friend."
"It is a simple service I require," he said; "I have a letter about
me which I wish to be posted. What it contains concerns no one whom
you know. It is my affair and mine only, and rather than make it
another man's I would be burned at the stake, though we don't live in
such barbarous times;" and then he added, with a sigh, "But they are
barbarous enough."
"I will post the letter for you," I said. He looked me in the face,
a long, searching, wistful look, and as he gazed, I saw in his eyes
a nobility of spirit which drew me as close to him in sympathy and
admiration as I had sever been drawn in my life to any man.
"Dare I trust you?" he said, still preserving his low tone. "But if not
you, whom can I trust?"
"You may trust me," I said; "I will post the letter for you faithfully."
"Not close to the prison," he said. "Not in this district. Put it into
a pillar-box at some distance from this spot."
"I will do as you desire."
"Honestly and honorably?" he said.
"Honestly," I responded, "and honorably, as between man and man."
"You are a good fellow," he said, "I will trust you. I can never hope
to repay yon, but one day, perhaps, you may live to be glad that you
did me even this slight service." And he slipped the letter into my
hand, which I as secretly slipped into my pocket. Then I said,
"May I come to see you again?"
"Do. You have lightened the day for me--and many a day in addition to
this!"
Soon afterwards I left him. I was honorably careful in the carrying out
of his directions. I did not take the letter from my pocket until I was
quite three miles from the prison, and then I put it into a pillar-box
but before I deposited it there, I looked at the address. Layton had
not extracted a promise from me that I should not do so, and I will
not say, therefore, whether, if he had, I should have violated it. I
was engaged, against his will and wish, in his vital interests, and I
might have broken such a promise however that may be, my surprise was
overwhelming when I saw that his letter was addressed to "Miss Mabel
Rutland, 32 Lavender Terrace, South Kensington."
Rutland! Why, that was the name of the one juryman who had held
out upon Layton's trial, and from whom I had vainly endeavored to
obtain some useful information! Of all the cases I have been engaged
in, this promised to be not only the most momentous, but the most
pregnant and interesting. Rutland! Rutland! Had it been a common name,
such as Smith or Jones, I might not have been so stirred. It was no
chance coincidence. I was on the track, and with all the powers of my
intellect I determined to carry it to a successful issue.
------------
_Cable message from Mr. Bainbridge, London, to Mr. Archibald Laing, U.
S_.
"Who is Miss Mabel Rutland, and is there any relationship between her
and Mr. James Rutland? Also, in what relation does she stand to Edward
Layton? Can you give me any information respecting the Nine of Hearts?"
_Cable message from Mr. Archibald Laing, U S., to Mr. Bainbridge,
London_.
"Miss Mabel Rutland is the niece of Mr. James Rutland. She and Mr.
Edward Layton were once engaged to be married. The breaking off of the
engagement caused great surprise, as they were deeply in love with each
other. I do not understand your reference to the Nine of Hearts."
_Cable message from Mr. Bainbridge to Mr. Archibald Laing_.
"The Nine of Hearts I refer to is a playing-card. I have reasons for
asking."
_Cable message from Mr. Archibald Laing to Mr. Bainbridge_.
"I know nothing whatever concerning the Nine of Hearts."
II.