When Sleeny was led from the room of the police justice in the
afternoon, he was plunged in a sort of stupor. He could not recover
from the surprise and sense of outrage with which he had listened to
Offitt's story. What was to happen to him he accepted with a despair
which did not trouble itself about the ethics of the transaction. It
was a disaster, as a stroke of lightning might be. It seemed to him the
work had been thoroughly and effectually done. He could see no way out
of it; in fact, his respect for Offitt's intelligence was so great that
he took it for granted Andy had committed no mistakes, but that he had
made sure of his ruin. He must go to prison; if Farnham died, he must
be hanged. He did not weary his mind in planning for his defence when
his trial should come on. He took it for granted he should be
convicted. But if he could get out of prison, even if it were only for
a few hours, and see Andy Offitt once more--he felt the blood tingling
through all his veins at the thought. This roused him from his lethargy
and made him observant and alert. He began to complain of his
handcuffs; they were in truth galling his wrists. It was not difficult
for him to twist his hands so as to start the blood in one or two
places. He showed these quietly to the policemen, who sat with him in a
small anteroom leading to the portion of the city jail, where he was to
be confined for the night. He seemed so peaceable and quiet that they
took off the irons, saying good-naturedly, "I guess we can handle you."
They were detained in this room for some time waiting for the warden of
the jail to come and receive their prisoner. There were two windows,
both giving view of a narrow street, where it was not bright at
noonday, and began to grow dark at sunset with the shade of the high
houses and the thick smoke of the quarter. The windows were open, as
the room was in the third story, and was therefore considered
absolutely safe. Sleeny got up several times and walked first to one
window and then to another, casting quick but searching glances at the
street and the walls. He saw that some five feet from one of the
windows a tin pipe ran along the wall to the ground. The chances were
ten to one that any one risking the leap would be dashed to pieces on
the pavement below. But Sleeny could not get that pipe out of his head.
"I might as well take my chance" he said to himself. "It would be no
worse to die that way than to be hanged." He grew afraid to trust
himself in sight of the window and the pipe: it exercised so strong a
fascination upon him. He sat down with his back to the light and leaned
his head on his hands. But he could think of nothing but his leap for
liberty. He felt in fancy his hands and knees clasping that slender
ladder of safety; he began to think what he would do when he struck the
sidewalk, if no bones were broken. First, he would bide from pursuit,
if possible. Then he would go to Dean Street and get a last look at
Maud, if he could; then his business would be to find Offitt. "If I
find him," he thought, "I'll give them something to try me for." But
finally he dismissed the matter from his mind,--for this reason. He
remembered seeing a friend, the year before, fall from a scaffolding
and break his leg. The broken bone pierced through the leg of his
trousers. This thought daunted him more than death on the gallows.
The door opened, and three or four policemen came in, each leading a
man by the collar, the ordinary riffraff of the street, charged with
petty offences. One was very drunk and abusive. He attracted the
attention of everybody in the room by his antics. He insisted on
dancing a breakdown which he called the "Essence of Jeems' River"; and
in the scuffle which followed, first one and then the other policeman
in charge of Sleeny became involved. Sleeny was standing with his back
to the window, quite alone. The temptation was too much for him. He
leaped upon the sill, gave one mighty spring, caught the pipe, and slid
safely to the ground. One or two passers-by saw him drop lightly to the
sidewalk, but thought nothing of it. It was not the part of the jail in
which prisoners were confined, and he might have been taken for a
carpenter or plumber who chose that unusual way of coming from the
roof. His hat blew off in his descent, but he did not waste time in
looking for it. He walked slowly till he got to the corner, and then
plunged through the dark and ill-smelling streets of the poor and
crowded quarter, till he came by the open gate of a coal-yard. Seeing
he was not pursued he went in, concealed himself behind a pile of
boards and lay there until it was quite dark.
He then came out and walked through roundabout ways, avoiding the
gas-lights and the broad thoroughfares, to Dean Street. He climbed the
fence and crept through the garden to the back door of the house. He
had eaten nothing since early morning, and was beginning to be hungry.
He saw there were no lights in the rear of the house, and thought if he
could enter the kitchen he might get a loaf of bread without alarming
the household. He tried the back door and found it fastened. But
knowing the ways of the house, he raised the cellar door, went down the
steps, shut the door down upon himself, groped his way to the inner
stairs, and so gained the kitchen. He was walking to the cupboard when
the door opened and he saw Maud coming toward him.
She did not seem in the least startled to see him there. In the
extremity of her terror, it may have seemed to her that he had been
sent especially to her help. She walked up to him, laid her hands on
his shoulders and whispered, "Oh, Sam, I am so glad to see you. Save
me! Don't let him touch me! He is in there."
Sam hardly knew if this were real or not. A wild fancy assailed him for
an instant--was he killed in jumping from the window? Surely this could
never happen to him on the earth; the girl who had always been so cold
and proud to him was in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her warm
breath on his cheek. She was asking his help against some danger.
"All right, Mattie," he whispered. "Nobody shall hurt you. Who is it?"
He thought of no one but the police.
"Offitt," she said.
He brushed her aside as if she had been a cobweb in his path, and with
a wild cry of joy and vengeance he burst through the half-open door.
Offitt turned at the noise, and saw Sam coming, and knew that the end
of his life was there. His heart was like water within him. He made a
feeble effort at defence; but the carpenter, without a word, threw him
on the floor, planted one knee on his chest, and with his bare hands
made good the threat he uttered in his agony in the court-room,
twisting and breaking his neck.
Sleeny rose, pulled the cover from the centre-table in the room, and
threw it over the distorted face of the dead man.
Maud, driven out of her wits by the dreadful scene, had sunk in a
rocking-chair, where, with her face in her hands, she was sobbing and
moaning. Sam tried to get her to listen to him.
"Good-by, Mattie, I shall never see you again, I suppose. I must run
for my life. I want you to know I was innocent of what they charged me
with----"
"Oh, I know that, Sam," she sobbed.
"God bless you, Mattie, for saying so. I don't care so much for what
happens, now. I am right glad I got here to save you from that----" he
paused, searching for a word which would be descriptive and yet not
improper in the presence of a lady, but his vocabulary was not rich and
he said at last, "that snide. But I should have done that to him
anyhow; so don't cry on that account. Mattie, will you tell me
good-by?" he asked with bashful timidity.
She rose and gave him her hand; but her eyes happening to wander to the
shapeless form lying in the corner, she hid her face again on his
shoulder and said with a fresh burst of tears. "Oh, Sam, stay with me a
little while. Don't leave me alone."
His mind travelled rapidly through the incidents that would result from
his staying--prison, trial, and a darker contingency still, rearing its
horrible phantom in the distance. But she said, "You will stay till
father comes, won't you?" and he answered simply:
"Yes, Mattie, if you want me to."
He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, to wait for his doom.
In a few minutes, they heard a loud altercation outside the door. The
voice of Saul Matchin was vehemently protesting, "I tell ye he ain't
here," and another voice responded,
"He was seen to climb the fence and to enter the house. We've got it
surrounded, and there's no use for you to get yourself into trouble
aidin' and abettin'."
Sam walked to the door and said to the policeman, with grim humor,
"Come in! you'll find two murderers here, and neither one will show any
fight."
The policemen blew their whistles to assemble the rest, and then came
in warily, and two of them seized him at once.
"It's all very well to be meek and lowly, my friend," said one of them,
"but you'll not play that on us twice--least ways," he added with
sarcastic intention, "not twice the same day. See here, Tony Smart,"
addressing a third, who now entered, "lend a hand with these
bracelets," and in a moment Sam was handcuffed and pinioned.
"Where's the other one you was talking about?" asked the policeman.
Sam pointed with his foot in the direction where Offitt lay. The
policeman lifted the cloth, and dropped it again with a horror which
his professional phlegm could not wholly disguise.
"Well, of all the owdacious villains ever I struck ---- Who do you
think it is?" he asked, turning to his associates.
"Who?"
"The witness this afternoon,--Offitt. Well, my man," he said, turning
to Sam, "you wanted to make a sure thing of it, I see. If you couldn't
be hung for one, you would for the other."
"Sam!" said Saul Matchin who, pale and trembling, had been a silent
spectator of the scene so far, "for heaven's sake, tell us what all
this means."
"Mind now," said the officer, "whatever you say will be reported."
"Very well, I've got nothing to hide," said Sam. "I'll tell you and
Mother Matchin" (who had just come in and was staring about her with
consternation, questioning Maud in dumb show) "the whole story. I owe
that to you for you've always used me well. It's a mighty short one.
That fellow Offitt robbed and tried to murder Captain Farnham last
night, and then swore it onto me. I got away from the officers
to-night, and come round here and found him 'saulting Mattie, and I
twisted his neck for him. If it's a hanging matter to kill snakes, I'll
have to stand it--that's all."
"Now, who do you think is going to believe that?" said the captain of
the squad.
Maud rose and walked up to where Sam was standing and said, "I know
every word he has said is true. That man was the burglar at Captain
Farnham's. He told me so himself to-night. He said he had the money in
his pocket and wanted to make me go with him."
She spoke firmly and resolutely, but she could not bring herself to say
anything of previous passages between them; and when she opened her
lips to speak of the ladder, the woman was too strong within her, and
she closed them again. "I'll never tell that unless they go to hang
Sam, and then I won't tell anybody but the Governor," she swore to
herself.
"It's easy to see about that story," said the officer still
incredulous.
They searched the clothing of Offitt, and the face of the officer, as
one package of money after another was brought to light, was a singular
study. The pleasure he felt in the recovery of the stolen goods was
hardly equal to his professional chagrin at having caught the wrong
man. He stood for a moment silent, after tying up all the packages in
one.
"It's no use dodging," he said at last. "We have been barking up the
wrong tree."
"I don't know about that," said the one called Tony Smart. "Who has
identified this money? Who can answer for this young lady? How about
them marks on the door and the ladder? Anyhow there's enough to hold
our prisoner on."
"Of course there is," said the captain. "He hadn't authority to go
twisting people's necks in this county."
At this moment the wagon which had been sent for arrived. The body of
Offitt was lifted in. The captain gathered up the money, notified
Matchin that he and his family would be wanted as witnesses in the
morning, and they all moved toward the door. Sam turned to say
"Farewell." Pinioned as he was, he could not shake hands, and his voice
faltered as he took leave of them. Maud's heart was not the most
feeling one in the world, but her emotions had been deeply stirred by
the swift succession of events; and as she saw this young fellow going
so bravely to meet an unknown fate, purely for her sake, the tears came
to her eyes. She put out her hand to him; but she saw that his hands
were fastened and, seized with sudden pity, she put her arms about his
neck and kissed him, whispering, "Keep up a good heart, Sam!" and he
went away, in all his danger and ignominy happier than he had been for
many a day.
The probabilities of the case were much discussed that night at police
head-quarters, in conferences from which the reporters were rigorously
excluded, and the next morning the city newspapers revelled in the
sensation. They vied with each other in inventing attractive head-lines
and startling theories. The _Bale-Fire_ began its leader with the
impressive sentence: "Has a carnival of crime set in amongst us? Last
night the drama of Algonquin Avenue was supplemented by the tragedy of
Dean Street, and the public, aghast, demands 'What next?' A second
murder was accomplished by hands yet dripping with a previous crime.
The patriotic witness who, yesterday, with a bleeding heart, denounced
the criminality of his friend, paid last night with his life for his
fidelity." In another column called for a "monument, by popular
subscription for Andrew Jackson Offitt, who died because would not tell
a lie." On the other hand, _The Morning Astral_, representing the
conservative opinion of the city, called for a suspension of judgment
on the part of its candid readers; said that there were shady
circumstances about the antecedents of Offitt, and intimated that
documents of a compromising character had been found on his person;
congratulated the city on the improved condition of Captain Farnham;
and, trusting in the sagacity and diligence of the authorities,
confidently awaited from them a solution of the mystery. Each of them,
nevertheless, gave free space and license to their reporters, and
Offitt was a saint, a miscreant, a disguised prince, and an escaped
convict, according to the state of the reporter's imagination or his
digestion; while the stories told of Sleeny varied from cannibalism to
feats of herculean goodness. They all agreed reasonably well, however,
as to the personal appearance of the two men, and from this fact it
came about that, in the course of the morning, evidence was brought
forward, from a totally unexpected quarter, which settled the question
as to the burglary at Farnham's.
Mrs. Belding had been so busy the day before, in her constant
attendance upon Farnham, that she had paid no attention to the story of
the arrest. She had heard that the man had been caught and his crime
clearly established, and that he had been sent to jail for trial. Her
first thought was, "I am glad I was not called upon to give evidence.
It would have been very disagreeable to get up before a court-room full
of men and say I looked with an opera-glass out of my daughter's window
into a young man's house. I should have to mention Alice's name, too,--
and a young girl's name cannot be mentioned too seldom in the
newspapers. In fact, twice in a life-time is often enough, and one of
them should be a funeral notice."
But this morning, after calling at Farnham's and finding that he was
getting on comfortably, she sat down to read the newspapers. Alice was
sitting near her, with hands and lap full of some feminine handiwork. A
happy smile played about her lips, for her mother had just repeated to
her the surgeon's prediction that Captain Farnham would be well in a
week or two. "He said the scalp wound was healing 'by the first
intention,' which I thought was a funny phrase. I thought the maxim was
that second thoughts were best." Alice had never mentioned Farnham's
name since the first night, but he was rarely out of her mind, and the
thought that his life was saved made every hour bright and festal. "He
will be well," she thought. "He will have to come here to thank mamma
for her care of him. I shall see him again and he shall not complain of
me. If he should never speak to me again, I shall love him and be good
to him always." She was yet too young and too innocent to know how
impossible was the scheme of life she was proposing to herself, but she
was thoroughly happy in it.
Mrs. Belding, as she read, grew perplexed and troubled. She threw down
one newspaper and took up another, but evidently got no more comfort
out of that. At last she sighed and said, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I shall
have to go down there after all. They have got the wrong man!"
Alice looked up with wondering eyes.
"These accounts all agree that the assassin is a tall, powerful young
man, with yellow hair and beard. The real man was not more than medium
height, very dark. Why, he was black and shiny as a cricket. I must go
and tell them. I wonder who the lawyer is that does the indicting of
people?"
"It must be the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Dalton," said Alice. "I heard
he was elected this spring. You know him very well. You meet him
everywhere."
"That elegant young fellow who leads germans? Well, if that is not too
absurd! I never should have thought of him, outside of a dress-coat. I
don't mind a bit going to see _him_. Order the carriage, while I get my
things on."
She drove down to the City Hall, and greatly astonished Mr. Dalton by
walking into his office and requesting a moment's private conversation
with him. Dalton was a dapper young man, exceedingly glib and well
dressed, making his way in political and official, as he had already
made it in social life. He greeted Mrs. Belding with effusion, and was
anxious to know how he might serve her, having first cleared the room
of the half-dozen politicians who did their lounging there.
"It is a most delicate matter for a lady to appear in, and I must ask
you to keep my name as much in reserve as possible."
"Of course, you may count upon me," he answered, wondering where this
strange exordium would lead to.
"You have got the wrong man. I am sure of it. It was not the blonde
one. He was black as a cricket. I saw him as plainly as I see you. You
know we live next door to Captain Farnham----"
"Ah!" Dalton cried. "Certainly. I understand. This is most important.
Pray go on."
With a few interruptions from him, full of tact and intelligence, she
told the whole story, or as much of it as was required. She did not
have to mention Alice's name, or the opera-glass; though the clever
young man said to himself, "She is either growing very far-sighted, or
she was scouring the heavens with a field-glass that night--perhaps
looking for comets."
He rang his bell and gave a message to an usher who appeared. "I will
not ask you to wait long," he said, and turned the conversation upon
the weather and social prospects for the season. In a few minutes the
door opened, and Sleeny was brought into the room by an officer.
"Was this the man you saw, Mrs. Belding?" asked Dalton.
"Not the slightest resemblance. This one is much taller, and entirely
different in color."
"That will do"; and Sleeny and the officer went out.
"Now may I ask you to do a very disagreeable thing? To go with me to
the Morgue and see the remains of what I am now sure is the real
criminal?" Dalton asked.
"Oh, mercy! I would rather not. Is it necessary?"
"Not positively necessary, but it will enable me to dismiss the
burglary case absolutely against young Sleeny."
"Very well. I'll go. I am so glad," she said to herself, "that I did
not bring Alice."
They went in her carriage to the Morgue. Dalton said, "I want to make
it as easy as I can for you. Please wait a moment in your carriage." He
went in and arranged that the face of Offitt, which was horrible,
should be turned away as much as possible; the head, and shoulders and
back being left exposed, and the hat placed on the head. He then
brought Mrs. Belding in.
"That is the man," she said, promptly, "or at least some one exactly
like him."
"Thank you," he said, reconducting her to her carriage. "The first
charge against Sleeny will be dismissed, though of course he must be
held for this homicide."
A few weeks later Sleeny was tried for the killing of Offitt, on which
occasion most of the facts of this history were given in evidence. Mrs.
Belding had at last to tell what she knew in open court, and she had an
evil quarter of an hour in the hands of Mr. Dalton, who seemed always
on the point of asking some question which would bring her opera-glass
into the newspapers; but he never proceeded to that extremity, and she
came away with a better opinion of the profession than she had ever
before entertained. "I suppose leading germans humanizes even a lawyer
somewhat," she observed, philosophically.
Maud Matchin was, however, the most important witness for the defence.
She went upon the stand troubled with no abstract principles in regard
to the administration of justice. She wanted Sam Sleeny to be set free,
and she testified with an eye single to that purpose. She was perhaps a
trifle too zealous--even the attorney for the defence bit his lip
occasionally at her dashing introduction of wholly irrelevant matter in
Sleeny's favor. But she was throughout true to herself also, and never
gave the least intimation that Offitt had any right to consider himself
a favored suitor. Perhaps she had attained the talent, so common in
more sophisticated circles than any with which she was familiar, of
forgetting all entanglements which it is not convenient to remember,
and of facing a discarded lover with a visage of insolent unconcern and
a heart unstirred by a memory.
The result of it all was, of course, that Sleeny was acquitted, though
it came about in a way which may be worth recording. The jury found a
verdict of "justifiable homicide," upon which the judge very properly
sent them back to their room, as the verdict was flatly against the law
and the evidence. They retired again, with stolid and unabashed
patience, and soon reappeared with a verdict of acquittal, on the
ground of "emotional insanity." But this remarkable jury determined to
do nothing by halves, and fearing that the reputation of being queer
might injure Sam in his business prospects, added to their verdict
these thoughtful and considerate words, which yet remain on the record,
to the lasting honor and glory of our system of trial by jury:
"And we hereby state that the prisoner was perfectly sane up to the
moment he committed the rash act in question, and perfectly sane the
moment after, and that, in our opinion, there is no probability that
the malady will ever recur."
After this memorable deliverance, Sam shook hands cordially and gravely
with each of the judicious jurymen, and then turned to where Maud was
waiting for him, with a rosy and happy face and a sparkling eye. They
walked slowly homeward together through the falling shadows.
Their lives were henceforth bound together for good or evil. We may not
say how much of good or how much of evil was to be expected from a
wedlock between two natures so ill-regulated and untrained, where the
woman brought into the partnership the wreck of ignoble ambitions and
the man the memory of a crime.