IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
MISTRESS KATE HOBART, California-born and bred, was of the cheerful
salt of the earth, a frank and outspoken young woman whose vivacity
was unfettered, and to whom mystery and melancholy were alike
insupportable. Having twice entertained the Langfords on Jack Mountain
during the summer, she thought she knew the family well enough to enjoy
a visit in the Denver household, and so had accepted Mrs. Langford’s
invitation willingly. But after two such depressive days as had never
before been ticked off in any calendar of hers, days which made her
homesick for Jack Mountain, she went down to breakfast on the Saturday
morning determined to make some excuse--any excuse--for flight.
But at the breakfast table she was moved to reconsider. In some manner
quite as inexplicable as its gathering, the storm cloud had lifted in a
night; and for the first time since her darkening of the Hollywood door
she was made to feel that an atmosphere of gloomy mystery was not the
normal respiratory medium of the household.
As yet, no one save his mother had seen the returned prodigal, but they
all knew he was safe at home. And since he had seen fit to account for
his absence by a most ingenious paraphrase of the truth, there was no
hint of the terrible story wrapped up in the damp newspaper beside the
judge’s plate to mar the good cheer of the meal. Isabel alone appeared
to lag in the ascent of the mount of cheerfulness; whereat her father
rallied her, as fathers will:
“What is it this morning, Bella? Is it the unattainable Paris art
school, or just an everyday picture that doesn’t paint itself? You look
as if you had lost a friend, or gained an enemy.”
Isabel choked at the unintentional pointing of the thrust, and Dorothy
came to her rescue:
“Don’t be a tease, papa,” she begged. “Isabel is going to surprise us
all some day, and then you will lose your courtesy title and be known
as the father of Miss Langford, the artist.”
“‘A prophet is not without honour,’” quoted Mistress Kate. “I think
Isabel does very good work; don’t you, Mrs. Langford?”
“I refuse to call it work,” the mother asserted, pouring a second cup
of coffee for the guest. “It is a very proper accomplishment for a
young woman, and as such I have always encouraged it.”
“Oh, _don’t_!” said Isabel, and when the judge looked up and saw the
real distress in her eyes he changed the subject, or thought to.
“I wonder what has become of Harry lately,” he remarked, and thereupon
Isabel quaked afresh and nerved herself for the worst that could
possibly be said.
No one seemed to know, and it was Dorothy who ventured the suggestion
that possibly the superintendent’s prolonged absence and Antrim’s added
responsibility were accountable.
“And who may ‘Harry’ be?” inquired Kate.
“Young Mr. Henry Antrim, the son of an old friend of ours in
Tennessee,” Mrs. Langford explained. “He is almost a member of the
family, I may say,” she added, with a glance in Isabel’s direction
which was not thrown away upon the guest.
The younger daughter dropped her napkin, stooped to recover it, and so
had an obvious excuse for the painful flush called up by the suggestive
reply. Her self-control was beginning to sag threateningly, and she
gave a little sigh of relief when her father began to smooth out the
morning paper.
“I saw in the paper yesterday that Harry was out with the president’s
car,” he said, straightening the damp sheet and unfolding it. “Let us
see if----”
They all looked up at the abrupt pause. The judge was sitting very
straight in his chair, his thin lips compressed in two colourless
lines, and a gray shadow of grief and anger spreading slowly from cheek
to brow. The paper trembled a little in his hands, but he read steadily
through the leaded nonpareil under the staring headlines. Mrs. Langford
was the first to find speech.
“Robert!” she cried. “What is it?”
The judge pushed back his chair and rose stiffly, as one upon whom the
palsy of old age had come suddenly.
“Send William to me in the library,” he said, and his voice had in it
something of the judicial sternness which had so often struck hope out
of a culprit’s heart in the courtroom days. He turned away, and then he
remembered the guest, and came back to apologize with grave dignity.
“You must excuse me--excuse us all, Mrs. Hobart. We are in great
trouble; you can see for yourself.” And he gave her the newspaper.
He left the room, and Mrs. Langford followed at once. Kate looked
askance at the paper, but she took it up at Dorothy’s nod. A glance at
the staring headlines appalled her, but she saw that it was no time for
nice distinctions in the conventional field, if she were to be of the
helpers.
“Shall I read it aloud?” she asked.
“If you please,” Dorothy assented, slipping her arm around Isabel’s
waist.
So Mistress Kate read, and stopped to gasp and read again:
“‘SACRIFICED TO OSIRIS!
“‘WILLIAM LANGFORD AND JAMES HARDING
PLAY CARDS, AND GEORGE BRANT
KILLS THE WINNER!
“‘Last night, at the solemn hour of midnight, another murder was added
to the long list of crimes that have made bloody abattoirs of the
temples of chance here and elsewhere. The “Osirian” clubhouse was the
scene of the grim tragedy. The details of the killing are somewhat
obscure, but it seems that William Langford, the young son of one of
our most respected citizens, and James Harding, better known as the
“Professor,” met in one of the private rooms of the Osirian for a
quiet game of draw. About midnight a pistol shot rang out, and those
who rushed to the scene found Harding weltering in his blood. He had
been shot in the face as he sat in his chair, the bullet--a 45-calibre
Colt--entering beside the left eye and passing out at the back to bury
itself in the wall.
“‘The affair is shrouded in mystery, which will probably not be cleared
up until the facts are brought out at the trial. It was at first
supposed that young Langford had fired the fatal shot, but when the
officers were about to arrest him, Brant, whose presence in the card
room is unexplained, stepped out and surrendered himself. The motive
for the crime is not far to seek. It is said, by those who know both,
that Brant and the “Professor” have long been deadly enemies; and as
the former had been seeking the latter at the various resorts in the
city, it is supposed that the killing was the culmination of an old
feud.
“‘Harding’s record is most unsavoury, and he has more than once been a
fugitive from justice. The reports about his slayer are conflicting,
some asserting that he is no other than “Plucky George” Brant, the
notorious snap-shot faro dealer of the mining camps, while others say
he is a civil engineer in the employ of the C. E. & W. Ry.’”
* * * * *
Dorothy went white at the third line of the heading and drew closer to
her sister; and Kate was scarcely less moved when she put the paper
down at the end.
“Isn’t it just simply dreadful!” she said; and the trite phrase showed
how far beyond adequate speech the dreadful thing was.
Dorothy’s lips moved, but they were too dry to form even the single
word of assent, and it was Isabel who answered:
“Indeed it is; it’s too awful to realize. But we all ought to be so
thankful that Will was cleared so quickly and so easily.”
Dorothy drew herself up and stared at her sister as if she doubted that
she had heard aright. Was it so easy, then, to choose between one’s
lover and one’s brother?
“But, sister, is it any less terrible for that?” she cried out
reproachfully.
“Oh, no; I suppose not. It is too awful to think about, anyway. But
it is just what one would expect of Mr. Brant--the giving himself up,
I mean. I wonder if what the paper says about him is true--about his
double identity.”
“How can you think of that now!” Dorothy burst out passionately.
“Of course it isn’t true; and even if it were--” She stopped short
and caught her breath in a quick gasp, suddenly remembering Brant’s
parable.
“I am afraid it is true,” said Kate sorrowfully. “He is an old friend
of Ned’s, and Ned would never tell me how he came to meet him in
Silverette, or what Mr. Brant was doing there.”
Dorothy’s heart was too full for any kind of utterance. The open
disgrace brought upon the family by her brother; the terrible tragedy
for which she felt that her letters to Brant were partly responsible;
the dreadful fate that awaited the slayer of James Harding, and
Isabel’s apparent indifference thereto--these were all past speech.
And when there came a dim suspicion of a more horrible thing--a bare
suggestion that Brant had shielded the real murderer by giving himself
up in his stead--she burst into tears and ran from the breakfast room.
In the meantime William Langford was having an exceedingly painful
quarter of an hour in the library. Much to her dissatisfaction, Mrs.
Langford had not been permitted to accompany her son in the capacity of
special pleader, and for once in his life the young man was compelled
to face his father’s wrath unsupported, while his mother awaited
the outcome with what fortitude she could summon in the deserted
drawing-room.
“Tell me the whole story, and tell me the truth,” was the judge’s stern
command when his son appeared before him.
William did neither. From long practice in presenting his own case at
home in the most favourable light the young man was blankly unable
to tell a straightforward story in plain words, though for this once
his will to do it was good. But what he did tell put his father in
possession of a fairly consistent series of facts. On the day before
the tragedy the boy had met Harding and had become his guest at a
hotel. There had been liquor and cards, he admitted--so much of the
former that he had been afraid to come home. That was all.
“And how did you come to be in this place last night?”
“Harding took me there. He said it was a gentlemen’s club.”
“Didn’t you know it was a gambling house?”
The boy hung his head. “I--I guessed it was--after we got in.”
“Well, go on.”
“We went upstairs and began to play cards. Harding won everything I
had, and then--” He stopped, but the lash of his father’s command
struck him smartly.
“Tell it all. What then?”
“Then he got me to put my promise to get some papers away from Mr.
Brant up against all the money on the table. I thought he was just
joking, y’know, and I did it--and he won.”
The judge groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. “It wasn’t enough
for you to be a knave; you must be a fool as well. Go on.”
“Then he said I must pay; that if I didn’t, he’d give me away for what
I did the night before.”
“And what was that?”
Again the boy hung his head and went dumb. “I don’t know. I can’t
remember.”
“Which is another way of saying that you were too drunk to know what
you were about. God help us!” said the judge, and he got up to walk to
the window. When he could trust himself to speak he began again:
“About these papers that Harding wanted you to get from Brant: what
were they?”
“I don’t know--some affidavits or something that Brant was holding over
him.”
“How were you to get them?”
“Any way I could. I was--to--steal them--I suppose.”
“And you--you deliberately put your honour, my honour, the good name
you have made a hissing and a reproach, on the table as a stake in a
game of cards!”
“I--I thought it was only a joke--before God, I did! And when I found
out it wasn’t, I kicked, and we quarrelled.”
The dreadful suspicion that had just sent Dorothy sobbing to her
room seized upon the judge and gripped him till his knees trembled.
“You--you quarrelled?” he echoed. “Go on--go on, my son; let me know
the worst.”
It is a hardened son indeed who can look unmoved upon the vicarious
anguish of a father. William Langford was not unmoved, but the churlish
habit had grown to be second nature, and all the gates of generous
expression were closed and barred. He went on as if it were another’s
story, and not his own, that he was telling.
“He cursed me, and said I’d have to do it. I swore I wouldn’t, and when
I started to get up he held his gun on me. That scared me, but it made
me madder, too, and I told him I wouldn’t talk any more till he put
that gun down. He did put it down--laid it on the table--and I jumped
for it. I don’t know just what I meant to do if I got hold of it. Part
of the time I wanted to kill him, and part of the time I was scared
stiff for fear he’d kill me.”
The culprit stopped to take breath. The effort of such continuous
truth-telling was exhausting.
“Go on,” said the father.
“I don’t know as I can--so that you’ll understand. When I jumped for
the pistol everything seemed to happen at once. The room was only a
little box of a place, lighted by an electric globe sticking out
from the wall at the end nearest the door. There was a big chandelier
hanging from the ceiling right over the table, but that wasn’t lighted.
Just as I jumped up the light went out with a smash, and there were
three of us grabbing for the pistol on the table, instead of two. I got
hold of it, somebody snatched it and pushed me back, and the shot was
fired, all in the same breath. Then some one on the outside snapped the
key of the big chandelier, and I saw that Harding was shot right where
he sat.”
The judge crossed the room unsteadily and laid his hand on his son’s
head. “William, you say ‘the shot was fired’; tell me, as you hope to
be forgiven, did you fire that shot?”
The boy hesitated, doubting for the moment his ability to answer the
question truthfully. The memories of the past eight-and-forty hours
were like those of a fantastic dream in which a single incident more or
less was hard to affirm or deny.
“I--I don’t think I did,” he stammered. “Most of the time I’m sure I
didn’t; I was sure of it when the officers started to take me, and told
’em so. But there is a queer thing about it that I can’t understand.
I told you that I grabbed the pistol in the dark, and that somebody
snatched it from me just as the shot was fired. That’s true, and I’d
swear to it if I stood on the gallows. But when the thing was done, I
found that pistol in my hand just as if I’d never let go of it, and I
threw it on the floor as if it had been hot and burned me.”
“But surely you can remember whether you fired it or not!”
“It seems as if I’d ought to, but I can’t. I was stunned and scared up
and crazy mad all in one breath, and the whole thing happened before
you could swallow twice. I’m glad I don’t have to remember.”
“Don’t have to remember? What do you mean?”
“Why, Brant settled it when he gave himself up, didn’t he? And yet, if
he hadn’t done that, I’d have been ready to swear that he didn’t fire
the pistol, either.”
The judge shook his head despairingly. “This uncertainty of yours
is simply maddening, William. If you know you didn’t fire the shot
yourself, why do you think Brant didn’t fire it?”
“Because the noise didn’t seem near enough, and I didn’t see any flash.
The room was dark, y’know, and rattled as I was I’d ought to have seen
it if it had been fired as close to me as that.”
The judge shook his head again, and began to pace the floor in a
fresh access of grief and humiliation. But the exigencies of the case
presently asserted themselves.
“I believe you have told me the truth, or that you have tried to tell
it. But you must pull yourself together and get the facts in the shape
of a consistent story. You will be put upon the witness stand, and
Brant’s life may depend upon your testimony.”
The clang of the front-door bell broke in upon them, and the painful
interview was at an end. The caller was an officer, come to summon
William Langford as a witness in the preliminary examination, which was
set for ten o’clock. The judge groaned inwardly at this fresh proof of
the relentless march of publicity and disgrace, but he got his hat and
coat and went with his son.
There were no new developments in the courtroom. William Langford told
his story more coherently than the judge had believed it could be told;
and, in accordance with his expressed determination, Brant refused
counsel and maintained a stubborn silence. Hence the magistrate, having
no alternative, ordered a plea of “Not guilty” to be entered for him,
remanded him to jail, and fixed his bail at the sum of ten thousand
dollars.
Forsyth and Antrim were both present at the preliminary examination,
and after it was over the latter introduced Judge Langford and the
editor. True to his promise to befriend Brant in the time of need, the
judge immediately offered to procure bondsmen, but Forsyth shook his
head.
“It is no use,” he explained. “He won’t accept bail, and I can’t even
get him to consent to employ counsel.”
“But, my dear sir, that is sheer folly! Indeed, in this case it is
worse than folly--it is suicide.” So said the judge, and so he fully
believed.
“I know it; that is just what I tell him. But he is as stubborn as a
mule.”
The lawyer in the judge awoke at this, and he became interested at once
on the part of the mulish one. “What reason does he give, pray?”
Forsyth hesitated, not knowing precisely how far he might confide in
the questioner. So he felt his way:
“He doesn’t give any reason; he simply refuses to talk. But I have
my own theory. We are all friends of his, I take it, and I may speak
plainly?”
“Certainly; go on.”
“Well, he is a singular fellow in some respects, and you can’t apply
the law of averages. I believe he did the thing deliberately, and for
some reason which does not appear on the surface. And, having done it,
he means to let the law take its course without opposition--to take the
consequences.”
“H’m,” said the judge reflectively; then he remembered how easy it
would have been for Brant to have shifted suspicion to Will, and his
heart warmed toward the culprit. “We mustn’t allow that, Mr. Forsyth.
Of course, the court will assign him counsel at the trial whether he
wants it or not, but we mustn’t let it come to that. Do you see him
again, and endeavour to make him listen to reason.”
Forsyth promised to do what he might toward that desirable end, and the
judge and his son left the courtroom together. The editor followed with
Antrim, and when the Langfords were out of earshot the chief clerk put
in his word:
“You may say what you please, Forsyth, but I am not going to believe
that Brant did it till he admits it himself.”
“But, my dear boy, hasn’t he as good as admitted it already?”
“No. In what little he has said he has dodged that point very
cunningly.”
“Of course he has; that is the proper thing to do. He is not obliged to
criminate himself.”
“It is proper enough, as you say, but, don’t you see, it doesn’t fit
into your theory. If he killed the man and is determined to take the
consequences, why on top of earth shouldn’t he plead ‘Guilty’ and be
done with it?”
That was a logical question, and Forsyth was unable to answer it. When
he had said as much the inevitable alternative suggested itself, and he
spoke of it:
“If you exonerate Brant, you put the boy in a bad box.”
Antrim had thought about that. “I can’t help it,” he said promptly.
“The tree will have to lie where it falls. If you go back to motives,
you will have to admit that, according to his own story, the thing
looks bad for Will. He was the one who was quarrelling with Harding.”
“Yes, but--pshaw! I can’t believe it, Antrim. Why, he is only a boy!”
“That is true. But it is also true that he is a young tough, hot-headed
and quick-tempered. I have known him all his life, and neither the
thing itself nor the denial of it is much beyond him.”
They had reached the corner where Antrim should turn aside to go to his
office, and the editor stopped and regarded his companion curiously.
“You are a friend of the Langfords, aren’t you?” he asked.
“If they have a better one, I don’t know it. But right is right. I
should say the same if Will Langford were my own brother,” Antrim
asserted stoutly. “I know you won’t agree with me, and I don’t expect
any one else will, but I say George Brant isn’t guilty, and, unless he
admits it himself in so many words, I am going to stick to it till the
last dog is dead.”
Forsyth went his way unconvinced, but it was inevitable that Antrim’s
suggestion should colour the editor’s talk with Brant that afternoon.
And the colouring had its effect, too, though not in the way Forsyth
would have wished. While the prisoner said little, and no thing of that
little that could be construed into an admission of guilt, the editor
left the jail with his own assumption confirmed and fortified beyond a
question of doubt. Furthermore, he had failed utterly in the renewed
attempt to make Brant listen to reason in the matter of employing
counsel.