Nobody could devote himself with greater assiduity to an almost
hopeless task than Lem Pawlett did to his pursuit of the unknown
lawyer. The weather was exceedingly hot in the city, and he,
accustomed to breathing the pure fresh breezes of the sea-shore, felt
it terribly oppressive. The pavements were very hard to his feet, used
to the soft earth and sand of the country, and he was actually lame
most of the time. The interminable streets and the multitude of people
confused him and gave him a horrible sense of isolation among them
all. Then he very much missed little Ruth's affectionate despotism,
and her practical good sense and encouragement, for he had so many
disappointments and discouragements to encounter that he was fairly
heart-sick almost all the while. Still the good fellow did not give up
his chase. He had come to town for a purpose, he said to himself, and
he would succeed in it or die trying. Day after day he haunted the
courts and the streets where there were most lawyer's offices, and it
was not long before he became actually a terror to all the little
elderly gentlemen who practised law in New York--and there were a
great many of them, as there are even yet. Seeing one who, it seemed
to him, might come within the somewhat wide specifications he alone
had for his guidance, of being small and past middle age, it was his
habit to buttonhole the suspected person and put to him directly the
question:
"Do you know the Van Deusts of Easthampton?"
They all said "No." A very few of them, at first, had curiosity enough
to add "why?" But upon his commencing his story which from his manner
promised to be long, they would always exclaim, "Ah! One
moment--excuse me. I see a man--" and would dart away. Generally they
did not even ask "why?" but darted away about their own business all
the same.
His frequent repetitions of the same question were overheard by other
members of the bar than those to whom it was addressed, and it was
observed that the interrogation was always directed to little, elderly
gentlemen. So very speedily it became a stock-joke among the
profession for waggish counsellors to ask of his selected class of
victims, at the most inopportune times and unexpected places, "_Do_
you know the Van Deusts of Easthampton?" until they were almost
maddened by the iteration.
One jocose attorney christened Lem "The Mad Avenger," and by that
title he was soon generally known. The poor fellow was much puzzled to
account for the hilarity that his appearance in court sometimes seemed
to occasion; for the general interest that appeared to be awakened
among the lawyers when he approached one of whom he thought he should
ask his question; and for the angry haste with which the person so
approached would reply, oft-times before he said more than "Do you--"
with an emphatic "No. Never heard of them in my life." Sometimes he
asked the same person, twice or thrice even, on different days, for he
could not be expected to remember them all.
There are always haunting the courts a few poor, harmless mad
people,--wrecks whose hearts and minds have been at some time crushed
by the Juggernaut of the law. The mercy of forgetfulness has wiped
away the memory of ruinous defeat and made place for ever-springing
hope in their breasts. They imagine always that their cases are
"coming on very soon--to-morrow, perhaps;" for the bitter,
heart-sickening lesson of legal procrastination is deepest graven, and
survives all else in their blighted brains. Lem got to be regarded as
one of those unfortunate beings. And then, even if he had got an
opportunity to tell his story to anybody, the chances are that it
would have been taken for a fiction of his imagination. Still he
plodded on indefatigably, with his eyes always open for the wanted
witness, and his one question ever trembling on his lips. His manner
of operation was certainly not the best,--not the one that a skilful
detective would have adopted,--but it was the best he knew; and sooner
or later Providence is pretty certain to help those who endeavor for
themselves as earnestly and well as they know how.
Once only he sought to make a divergence from the path upon which he
had set out. He went to the police, thinking to ask their aid. The
superintendent received him brusquely, demanding as soon as he put
his foot over the threshold of the office:--
"Well, my man, what do you want?"
"I have come, sir, to ask some help here in finding out about the
murder of Jacob Van Deust, of Easthampton, Long Island."
The superintendent referred to a book at his elbow, and replied
curtly, "Man on that case now."
"Yes, I know there is," answered Lem, "but it seems to me that he's on
the wrong tack, and--"
The superintendent did not trouble himself to hide his contempt for
the criticism of an unprofessional, and a countryman at that, upon one
of his force of detectives, and interrupted with the abrupt retort:
"Very probably. But I guess you are not likely to teach him his
business. Martin!"--turning to his messenger--"Tell the captain I'll
see him now."
Lem accepted this discourteous dismissal, and found his way into the
street without anybody seeming to have noticed that he said,
"Good-day, sir."
Singularly enough as it might appear, in view of the notoriety that
Lem's question had obtained among the lawyers, but for a very
excellent reason, nevertheless, the one man of all of them who could
have responded "yes;" the one man of whom he was in search, had not in
all this time heard that anybody was hunting an acquaintance of the
Van Deusts and, though he was the only person in New York who had any
direct business interest in the Van Deusts, knew anything about them
or would have been likely to know of any important event happening to
them, he had not even heard that Jacob Van Deust had been murdered.
That one man was Mr. Pelatiah Holden. Of late years he had practiced
very little in the courts. He had amassed a considerable fortune--one
so regarded in those days, at least--by the exercise of his
profession; and as he grew older and attained a high and deserved
reputation by his ability, gradually drifted into the comparatively
quiet, easy, and lucrative life of an office lawyer--one who gives
counsel to other lawyers in difficult and important cases. His deep
learning in the law, his wide knowledge of rulings and precedents, and
his great caution in forming and framing opinions, gave weight and
value to his advice, and put him in the position of a general who
plans battles for others to fight, but seldom finds himself directly
engaged in combat.
It was his custom to go to his office at an early hour every week-day
morning; lock himself in a little inner room, the walls of which were
covered with a magnificent legal library; receive there only persons
who came on such important business as could not be attended to by Mr.
Anderson, his old and able confidential clerk; have a lunch handed
into him at noon precisely; and, at four o'clock to leave for his home
somewhere in the upper part of the city. During his seclusion in that
inner room, he was constantly busy, poring over law books, reading
points submitted by counsel, and writing opinions. When a person was
admitted to see him, the very atmosphere by which he was surrounded,
was a warning against waste of time in idle conversation. Not one, of
even his most intimate friends, would have dreamed of taking up his
time with mention of a new lunatic haunting the courts.
So it was that Lem met him and passed him by in the street,
unconsciously, over and over again, not even knowing that he was a
lawyer. The young man was so uneasy, restless and unhappy, as the days
flew rapidly by, and the time for Dorn's trial was drawing nearer--for
the grand jury had found an indictment against him within a week
after his commitment by the magistrate, and he was to be tried for his
life at the next session of the court--that he could no more sleep at
night than rest in the daytime, and was almost constantly strolling
aimlessly about the streets, growing thinner, more careworn and
despondent daily.
One evening, as he was passing the front of the old Chatham Street
theatre, he was surprised to hear himself called by name, and turning,
found himself face to face with Silas Thatcher. He had not seen the
scapegrace for more than three years, had never been at all intimate
with him, and hardly recognized him now, so greatly had his appearance
changed. Silas was dressed in black cloth, wore a silk hat, flashing
breast-pin and shining boots, had a moustache and goatee, and was
smoking a long cigar. In all respects he was a good sample of the lot
of a dozen or more fellows lounging near the theatre door, every one
of whom was known to the police as a gambler or a thief, and most of
them as deserving official notice in both characters. The vulgar
affectation with which he sought to impress his rustic acquaintance,
did not lacquer over the coarse blackguardism of his customary
manners, and Lem, without well knowing why, felt an instinctive
dislike for, and distrust of, him. Still, he stood and talked a little
while, telling the last news he had from home; that Uncle and Aunt
Thatcher and Mary were all well; that Eben Stebbins had gone
a-whaling; that the schooner "Pretty Polly," with Captain Marsh and
three men, had been lost in a gale; that Dorn Hackett had come back
and been arrested on suspicion of having murdered Jacob Van Deust--
"Murdered old Jake Van Deust! You don't mean to say that you folks
down in that dead-alive little village, have had the sensation of a
real murder!"
"Ah! yes. A terrible sensation, too, the killing and robbery of a
poor, weak, old man, and the arrest of an innocent person for the
crime."
"Let's go and get a drink, while you tell me all about it."
"No, thank you. I don't drink. But I can tell you all about it here,
all the same." And he told the whole story, at least, as far as it was
known to the public, instinctively suppressing, however, all mention
of the evidence he hoped to find in the city.
"That handkerchief business will be likely to hang him, won't it?"
asked Silas.
"It seems very serious to his friends."
"Mighty queer that he should have had the thing!--if he isn't guilty."
"And yet I am as sure as that I am alive this moment, that if they
hang Dorn Hackett for that murder, they will hang an innocent man for
the crime of another."
"Come, let's go and take a drink, just one. Take something light if
you like. And then we'll go around and see some life. Come on. I want
a drink."
"No, you'll have to excuse me, Silas. I never drink, and I feel pretty
tired; and, I think I'll go to bed."
"Go to bed! now! Why, a man isn't a hen. Night is the only time to see
life in New York. I've only been up a couple of hours or so. Come
along, and I'll show you the elephant."
"No, thank you. I have no desire to see him. I'd rather go to bed.
Good-night."
"Well, good-night,--if you will go."
Silas, when left alone, hastily entered the bar-room attached to the
theatre, and called for a glass of brandy. While he was pouring out
the fiery beverage, an acquaintance entered, and, looking at him with
surprise, exclaimed:--
"Why, Sile! What the deuce is the matter with you? You look as if
you'd seen a ghost!"
"Maybe I have. What'll you take?" answered Silas, dryly.
"Brandy," replied his friend, and the young man's looks were no more
commented on.