Dockbridge yawned, threw down his fountain-pen, whirled his chair away
from the window, through which the afternoon sun was pouring a dazzling
flood of light, crossed his feet upon the rickety old table whose faded
green baize was littered with newspapers, law books, copies of
indictments, and empty cigarette boxes, and idly contemplated the
graphophone, his latest acquisition. To a stranger, this little office,
tucked away behind an elevator shaft under the eaves of the Criminal
Courts Building, might have proved of some interest, filled as it was on
every side with mementoes of hard-fought cases in the courts below,
framed copies of forged checks and notes, photographs of streets and
houses known to fame only by virtue of the tragedies they had witnessed,
and an uncouth collection of weapons of all varieties from a stiletto
and long tapering bread knife to the most modern Colt automatic. On the
bookcase stood an innocent-looking bottle which had once contained
poison, while above it hung a faded indictment accusing someone long
since departed of administering its contents to another who did "for a
long time languish, and languishing did die." An enormous black leather
lounge, a safe, several chairs, and some pictures of English and
American jurists completed the contents of the room. Here Dockbridge had
for five years interviewed his witnesses, prepared his cases, and
dreamed of establishing a forensic reputation which should later by a
shower of gold repay him in part for the many tedious hours passed
within its walls. From the grimy windows he could look down upon the
court-yard of the Tombs and see the prisoners taking their daily
exercise, while from the distance came faintly the din and rattle of
Broadway. An air-shaft which passed through the room communicated in
some devious manner with the prison pens on the mezzanine floor far
beneath, and at times strange odors would come floating up bringing
suggestions of prison fare. On such occasions Dockbridge would throw
wide both windows, open the transom, and seek refuge in the library.
Taken as a whole, his five years there had been invaluable both from a
personal and professional point of view. He had found himself from the
very first day in a sort of huge legal clinic, where hourly he could run
through the whole gamut of human emotions. It was to him, the embryonic
advocate, what hospital service is to the surgeon. He was, as it were,
an intern practising the surgery of the law. And what a multitude of
cases came there for treatment--every disease of the mind and heart and
soul! For a year or two he had been racked nervously and emotionally,
forced from laughter in one moment, to tears the next. Then the mere
fascination of his trade as prosecutor, the marshalling of evidence, the
tactics of trials, the thwarting of conspiracies, the analysis of
motives, the exposure of cunning tricks to liberate the guilty, had so
possessed his mind that the suffering and sin about him, though keenly
realized, no longer cost him sleep and peace of mind. And the stories
that he heard! The mysteries which were unravelled before his very eyes,
and those deeper mysteries the secrets of which were never revealed, but
remained sealed in the hearts of those who, rather than disclose them,
sought sanctuary within prison walls!
How he wished sometimes that he could write--if only a little! Through
what strange labyrinths of human passion and ingenuity could he conduct
his readers! Sometimes he tried to scribble the stories down, but the
words would not come. How could you describe your feelings while trying
a man for his life, when he sat there at the bar pallid and tense, his
hands clutching each other until the nails quivered in the flesh; the
groan of the convicted felon; the wail of the heart-broken mother as
her son was led away by the officer? He had seen one poor fellow faint
dead away on hearing his sentence to the living tomb; and had heard a
murderer laugh when convicted and the day set for his execution.
Sometimes, in sheer desperation at the thought of losing what he had
seen and experienced, he would turn on the graphophone and talk into it,
disconnectedly, by the hour. It usually came out in better shape than
what he turned off with his pen. If he could only write!
"Dockbridge! Hi, there, Dockbridge!"
The door was kicked open, and the lank figure of one of his associates
stood before him. His visitor grinned, and removed his pipe.
"Bob'll be up in a minute. Come along to 'Coney.'"
"Don't feel kittenish enough," answered Dockbridge.
"Oh, come on! It'll do you good."
The sound of rapid steps flew up the stairs, and Bob burst into the
room, almost upsetting the first arrival.
"What are you doing up here in this smelly place?" he inquired. "Got a
cigarette?"
Dockbridge threw him a package without altering his position.
At this moment the heavily built figure of the chief of staff entered.
"Holding a reception?" he asked good-naturedly.
Bob had slipped behind the owner of the graphophone and was rapidly
surveying his desk. Suddenly he pounced on a pile of yellow paper, and,
snatching it up, ran across the room.
"I thought so! He's been writing."
"Here you, Bob, give that back!" cried Dockbridge, springing up. He was
blocked by the chief of staff.
"Fair play, now. It may be libellous. The censor demands the right of
inspection."
"Oh, I don't mind if _you_ see it!" said Dockbridge, "only I don't
intend that cub to snicker over it. It's nothing, anyway."
"'The Maximilian Diamond!'" shouted the thief. "By George, what a
rippin' title! Full of gore, I bet!"
"You give that back!" growled its owner.
"Gentlemen, allow me to present the well-known author and brilliant
young literary man, Mr. John Dockbridge, whose picture in four colors is
soon to appear on the cover of the 'Maiden's Gaslog Companion,'"
continued Bob. "I read, 'The villain stood with his dagger elevated for
an instant above the bare breast of his palpitating victim.' My, but
it's great!"
"You see you'd better read it to us in self-defence," remarked the
chief of staff. "Go ahead!"
"Promise, and I'll give it back," said Bob, from the door. "Refuse, and
I send it to the 'American.'"
"It wasn't for publication, anyway," explained Dockbridge.
"Of course not," answered Bob. "We'll pass on it. Perhaps we'll send it
in for that Five-Thousand-Dollar competition."
"Well, shut up, and I will. Give it here!" Dockbridge recovered the
manuscript and returned to his armchair. The others disposed themselves
upon the lounge.
"Oyez! Oyez!" cried Bob. "All persons desiring to hear the great
American novel, draw near, give your attention and ye shall be heard."
"Keep still!" ordered the chief of staff. "Go ahead, Jack. I'll make him
shut up."
"Mind you do," said Dockbridge. "It's about that big diamond, you know.
The story begins in this room."
"Well, begin it," laughed Bob.
His companions pulled his head down on the chief's lap and smothered him
with a handkerchief.
"Well," said Dockbridge rather sheepishly, "here goes."