IN THE NAME OF THE LAW
Don's moody face suddenly lighted up. A young woman was stepping down
from one of the cars at the farther end of the train, the porter
assisting her to the footstool. Now she was coming steadily along the
edge of the platform, carrying in one hand a trim little bag, in the
other a trim little umbrella. Now she was looking about, expectant. It
was she--Anne!
His heart leaped out to her, his love rose surgingly at sight of her,
sweet and beautiful as she seemed, and all so fit for love of man.
A tall young girl she was, who walked with head well up and the
suggestion of tennis about her--an indefinable something of chic also
about her, as indicative of physical well-being as that suggested by
some of the young faces on the magazine covers of the day; which would
explain why in her college Anne Oglesby always was known as "the
magazine girl." She had straightforward gray eyes, a fine mouth of much
sweetness. Above her forehead rose a deep and narrow ruff of dense brown
hair, golden brown. Trim, yet well-appointed, she was one of those types
whom unhesitatingly we class as aristocrats. A young woman fit for any
higher class, qualified for any rank, she seemed--and a creature utterly
apart from the crowd that now jostled her on the narrow platform.
Her eyes, too, lighted up at sight of the young man who now hurried
forward to meet her, but no unseemly agitation marked her own personal
conduct in public. Demure, clean, cool and sweet, all in hand, she did
not hasten nor hold back.
Dieudonne Lane had told his mother that never yet had he kissed Anne
Oglesby. Now, at sight of her and at the thought that almost at once
they must part forever, a great rebellion rose in his heart. He stepped
forward swiftly, impulsively, irresistibly.
He caught her quickly in his arms before all the crowd and kissed
her--once. It was his great salutation to love--a salutation of great
longing--a salutation which meant farewell.
She gasped, flushed rosy red, but walked straight along with him as he
caught the bag from her hands. She looked up at him, astonished, yet not
wholly resentful. It was no place for speech on the part of either. The
dust of the street seemed naught to him or her, and as for this curious
crowd, they did not chill nor offend--Anne Oglesby suddenly wished to
take all the world into her arms and greet it. Anne Oglesby at that
moment loved--the touch of this man's lips on hers had wrought the
irrevocable, immortal, awful change.
They had not yet spoken a word, these two, at the time he left her to
call some vehicle for her use. He turned and looked directly into the
face of Dan Cowles, sheriff, a man whom he had never seen before, but
who now reached out and laid a hand upon his shoulder. Cowles had that
instant reached the station platform.
Don would have passed, but the sheriff spoke:
"I want you. Come with me."
The tempestuous blood of the young man flamed at this, but now, as he
looked into the solemn face before him, he found something to give him
pause.
"What's up?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
"I'm the sheriff of this county," said Cowles. "Come with me."
"What do you want?" again demanded Don. "I'm with this young lady."
"That's no difference," said Cowles.
"It must be about the Tarbush matter," said Dewdonny Lane. "I'll
testify, but I know nothing of that. I'll come on over directly. This
young lady is going to Judge Henderson's."
The sheriff looked at the young girl curiously. The crowd now had surged
about them. Like so many cattle at the smell of blood, a strange low
sound, animal-like, a sort of moan of curiosity, seemed to rise.
Wide-eyed, the girl turned.
"What is it, Don?" she exclaimed. "What has happened? The Tarbush
case--what do you mean?"
"I'm going to take him to the coroner's hearing, miss," said the sheriff
in a low tone of voice.
"Why, you see, Anne," began Don, "the city marshal of this town was
killed last night. I suppose the coroner is looking into it. It's a
terrible thing--the town's all upset--haven't you heard anything of it?"
"Why, no. I left home before any of our papers came out. How did it
happen?"
Don felt the sheriff again touch his arm. "Step into my car," said he,
"both of you--you get on the front seat with me."
A moment later they were whirling off up the dusty street toward the
central part of the town. The crowd, breaking into little groups, came
hurrying on along the sidewalks, some even falling into a run in the
middle of the street.
"Well, he got him!" said one citizen to another. "Quick work for the
sher'ff, wasn't it? A little more and that fellow would 'a' got off on
that train, like enough. That's what he was down here for. I seen him
lookin' for the train."
"Yes, and that young fellow had a dangerous look on him, too," said
another. "He's _bad_, that's what he is! Look how he showed it
yesterday--right after court, too."
Each had this or that comment to make, but all followed on now toward
the scenes where the further action in the drama of the day must now
ensue.
Cowles pulled up on the side of the square on which Judge Henderson had
his office. "You may get out here, Miss," said he. "I think you'll find
the Judge in right now."
"But why--what's the reason----" she began, much perturbed, and looking
at Don. "What's wrong, Don? Aren't you coming?"
"Yes, Mr. Sheriff," said Don, "let me go up with her. I'll be right on
over."
The big man looked at the two, a sort of pity in his face. "I'm sorry,"
said he, "but you'll have to come with me right away. Tell me, are you
Miss Oglesby, his kin from over Columbus way?"
"Yes, yes," said she. "I've been here before. But tell me, what does
this mean--this murder? It's an awful thing, isn't it? It seems to me I
remember the marshal's name--maybe I've seen him. Who did it--whom do
they suspect?"
"That's what we don't know for sure," said the sheriff, "and it's what
we've got to find out."
"Why, who would ever have thought it of this little town!"
"Things happen in this little town, I reckon, about the same as they do
anywhere," said the sheriff.
"Don----" She turned to him once more as she stood on the pavement, he
still remaining on the front seat of the car where the sheriff's hand
restrained him. "Why, Don----"
But the sheriff's solemn face was turned towards her. He shook his head.
An instant and the car had whirled away from the curb.
They had parted, almost before they had met!
To Dieudonne Lane, ignorant as he was of the cause of all this, it
seemed that the final parting of all had come, and, bitterly he
reflected, they had had no chance--no chance whatever--for what was due
them from their love, their life itself.
Anne Oglesby, the kiss of her lover's lips still sweet and trembling
upon her mouth, her own mind confused, her own heart disturbed, turned
towards the dusty stair, all her senses in a whirl. And within five
minutes Don Lane, very pale and much distressed, was in the front part
of the little home of Joel Tarbush. The officer had brought him before
Justice Blackman, the coroner, and the coroner's jury, six solemn-faced
men who sat now in the front parlor which had no other occupants save
the red-eyed daughter of the dead man, and save the long and shrouded
figure which lay upon the couch near by.
Don Lane could not misread the hostility of the gaze turned upon him by
most of these whom now he saw.
Something suddenly caught at his heart--his first feeling of fear, of
uncertainty; but even this was mingled with a rage at fate, which could
be so cruelly unjust to him. And always, in spite of himself, he felt
his eyes turning to look, awed, terrified, upon the long thing which lay
upon the couch. And always the eyes of these six men saw what he did,
saw what he saw.
"This is Dewdonny Lane," said the Sheriff briefly, and himself sat down
to await the progress of events.
The formalities were few. "You may be sworn," said the coroner to
him--"it's just as well." Then the oath administered, Blackman began the
regular questions, and Don answered steadily.
"My name is Dieudonne Lane. I am twenty-two years of age. I have no
residence as yet. I am a graduate in engineering. I'm going to Wyoming
some time this month to take up my work there."
There was a little silence in the room, and then the coroner began
again:
"Where were you just now?" he asked. "We sent for you at your home."
"I was at the station--I went to meet a friend."
"What friend was it?"
Don Lane flushed red. "What difference is it? Oh, if I must answer, it
was Miss Anne Oglesby, of Columbus. I went down to the train to meet
her."
Sheriff Cowles nodded. "That's true," said he. "I took her up to Judge
Henderson's office myself."
"What relations have you with this young lady?" asked Blackman.
"That's not the business of anyone," said Don Lane hotly.
"Do you want counsel to protect you now?"
"No, why should I? I am perfectly willing to tell all I know about the
case, and that's all I can do. There's no lawyer I'd send for anyhow."
"Where were you last night at about midnight?"
"I was at the library meeting with my mother."
"When did you leave there?"
"It must have been midnight or later--oh, yes, I remember seeing the
town clock as we passed through the square. That was just before one
o'clock--perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. We were out late--every one
was."
"Who was with you when you were going home?"
"My mother, and for a time Mr. Rawlins here--one of you gentlemen of the
jury. He will know. Just as we left the library we were joined by Mr.
Horace Brooks."
"Where did you go?"
"We three walked on together. It was at the second corner of the square,
where Mulberry Street turns off, that Mr. Brooks left me."
Nels Jorgens, one of the jury, now spoke up. "That's true," said he. "I
saw the three of them walking along the front of the square, and saw
them turn in at Mulberry Street. Across from where I live I saw two
people at the gate. It was a man--a tall man--and her--Aurora Lane."
"You yourself were not at the gate then?"
"No," said Don, "I had left just at the corner of the square."
"Why did you leave them?"
"Well, I wanted to have a little run before I went to bed. I'm used to
taking exercise every night--I always did at college, to keep up my
training."
"Where did you go when you were running?"
"I may be mistaken in the directions, but it was across the square,
opposite from Mulberry Street. I turned to the right. I must have run
perhaps four or five blocks, I don't know just how far it was. It was
quite warm."
"Did you come into this street?"
"I don't really know."
"You didn't see anybody?"
"Not a soul. I didn't hear a sound."
"What time was that?"
"I heard the clock strike one before I turned back."
"Gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, "it was just about that time
that Joel Tarbush was killed, right here."
"That's true," said Don Lane. "It's terrible to think of--but why----"
"You heard Judge Henderson's testimony, gentlemen," went on the coroner.
"He told of seeing these three people pass by on the square in front of
his office stair. Just before that he had said good night to Tarbush
himself. He saw Tarbush start right over this way for his home. Now,
just in time to catch him before he got into his home--if a man was
running fast--a man _did_ run from the square over in this direction!"
The members of the jury remained silent. Their faces were extremely
grave.
"And, gentlemen, you have heard the testimony of other witnesses here
before now, stating that this witness was heard to make threats to
Tarbush yesterday afternoon, right after he was dismissed from my own
court upstairs. Mr. Jorgens, I believe you were there. What did this
young man say after he had for the second time assaulted Ephraim
Adamson--twice in one day, and entirely regardless of the rebuke of the
law?"
"He said, Mr. Coroner," replied Nels Jorgens gravely, even with sadness
in his face, "just when he came out of the crowd where he had left
Adamson laying on the ground already--he said to Tarbush, 'You'll come
next'--or I'll get you next'--something of that kind."
"Was he angry at that time?"
"Yes, Mr. Coroner, he was," said Nels Jorgens, against his will.
Ben McQuaid leaned over to whisper to Jerome Westbrook. "It seems like
this young fellow comes in here with his college education and
undertakes to run this whole town. Pretty coarse work, it looks like to
me."
Jerome Westbrook nodded slowly. He recalled Sally Lester's look.
Of all the six faces turned toward him from the scattered little group
of the coroner's jury, not more than two showed the least compassion or
sympathy. Don Lane's hot temper smarted under the renewed sense of the
injustice which had assailed him yet again.
"What's the game?" he demanded. "Why am I brought here? What's the
matter with you people? Do you mean to charge me with killing this man?
What have I done to any of you? Damn your town, anyhow--the rotten,
lying, hypocritical lot of you all!"
"The less you say the better," said the coroner; and the sheriff's
steady gaze cautioned Don Lane yet more.
"Now, gentlemen," went on Blackman, "we have heard a number of witnesses
here, and we have not found any man here that could bring forward any
sight or sound of any suspicious character in this town. There hasn't
been a tramp or outsider seen here, unless we except this young man now
testifying here. The man on whose body we now are a-setting hadn't a
enemy in this town, so far as has been shown here--no, nor so far as
anyone of us knows. There has been no motive proved up here which would
lead us to suspect anyone else of this crime."
Ben McQuaid once more leaned over to whisper to his seat-mate: "It's a
likely thing a man would be running for his health, a night like last
night, when he didn't have to! Ain't that the truth?"
The coroner rapped with his pencil on the table top. He was well filled
with the sense of his own importance. In his mind he was
procureur-general for Spring Valley. And in his mind still rankled the
thought of the fiasco in his courtroom but the day before, in which he
had made so small a figure.
"I want to ask you, Mr. Cowles," he said, turning to the sheriff, "if
you ever have seen this young man before."
"Only once," said the sheriff, standing up. "Last night or this morning,
just after the clock had struck one--say, two or three minutes or so
after one o'clock--I was going out of my office and going over to the
east side of the square. I met this young man then. As he says, he was
running--that is, he was coming back from this direction, and running
toward the southeast corner of the square, the direction of his own
home."
"Was he in a hurry--did he seem excited?"
"He was panting a little bit. He was running. He didn't seem to see me."
"Oh, yes, I did," said Don. "I remember you perfectly--that is, I
remember perfectly passing some man in the half darkness under the trees
as I came along that side of the square. As I said, it was warm."
"Now, gentlemen, we have thought it over for a long time," said the
coroner, after a solemn pause. "We must bring in our verdict before
long. It must either be 'party or parties unknown,' or we must hold
someone we do suspect.
"We have had no one here that we could suspect until now. Take this
young man--he is practically a stranger. He proves himself to be of
violent and ungovernable temper. Allowed to go once from the justice of
the law, he forgets that and goes violent again. He assaults a second
time one of our citizens, Mr. Adamson. He resists arrest once by a
officer of the law, and in the same afternoon he threatens that officer.
He says, 'I'll get you.'
"This young man is seen just before one o'clock running over in this
direction. Just a little ahead of him the victim of this crime was seen
walking. He was killed, as his daughter testifies, somewhere just about
one o'clock--it was at that time that he staggered into the house here.
"Just after one o'clock this young man is seen running--one of the
hottest nights we have had this summer--running away from the scene of
the crime, and toward his own home.
"I don't want to lead your own convictions in any way. I am willing to
say, however, that if we have not found a man to hold for this crime,
then we ain't apt to find him!"
"But, gentlemen, you don't mean"--poor Don began, his face pale for the
first time, a sudden terror in his soul--"you _can't_ mean that _I_ did
this!"
But he gazed into the faces of six men, upon whom rested the duty of
vengeance for the wrong done to the society which they represented. Of
these six all but two were openly hostile to him, and those two were
sad. Rawlins, minister of the Church of Christ; Nels Jorgens, the
blacksmith--they two were sad. But they two also were citizens.
"This witness," went on Coroner Blackman, "has in a way both abused us
and defied us. He said he was not on trial. That is true. We can't try
him. All we can do is to hold any man on whom a reas'nable suspicion of
this crime may be fixed. We could hold several suspects here, if there
was that many. All we do is to pass the whole question on to the grand
jury when it meets here. That's tomorrow morning. Before the grand jury
any man accused can have his own counsel and the case can be taken up
more conclusive. So the question for us now is, Shall we call it 'party
or parties unknown,' or shall we----"
Don Lane dropped into a seat, his face in his hands, in his heart the
bitter cry that all the world and all the powers of justice governing
the world had now utterly forsaken him. The sheriff rose, and taking him
by the arm, led him into another room.
In ten minutes a half-dozen reporters, trooping up from the train and
waiting impatiently at the outer door, knew the nature of the verdict:
"We the jury sitting upon the body of Joel Tarbush, deceased by
violence, find that deceased came to his death by a blow from a blunt
instrument held in the hands of Dieudonne Lane."