THE RESULT OF THE TRIAL.
If fate was playing a joke upon Ralph Ashley, her humour erred upon
the side of grimness. His friends met with no success in their
endeavours to find some other possible culprit, and, on the other
hand, a succession of small incidents occurred, all of which seemed
to lead him on inevitably a little nearer to the gallows. Of these,
the most important was the finding of a revolver in the gun-room at
the Manor House and a quantity of bullets similar to that which had
penetrated Sir Geoffrey's heart. At the trial this seemed to be the
most conclusive point in the case for the Crown. There was no
indication that it had been recently used, but the same remark
applied to all the weapons in the little armoury, all of them being
kept in perfect condition. The explanation of its existence was
given frankly by Ralph and corroborated by Melville; it was one of
two given years before by Sir Geoffrey to his nephews, but to which
of the two it properly belonged neither of the brothers could
declare; both averred they had not used them for a very long time,
and the damning fact remained that the other pistol was missing. It
had been thrown away, the prosecution suggested, after the tragedy,
and that all the ammunition had not also been destroyed was due to
that oversight of which every criminal is capable, and but for which
many more murderers would escape conviction.
Ralph was haggard and pulled down by confinement and by want of
sleep; if he were a criminal, he was, at any rate, no actor, and his
obvious nervousness was interpreted by many as symptomatic of a
guilty conscience. He listened attentively to the entire proceedings
with visibly increasing consternation and dismay, and it was not
until Melville took up his position in the witness-box that any gleam
of hope appeared upon his face.
Melville once more engrossed the sympathy of a court; he was so
distressed upon his brother's account, so anxious to testify to his
integrity of character, so ready, and yet so concise, in his replies,
that he made an ideal witness.
"Ralph was always my uncle's favourite," he said again, with a rather
pathetic smile; "they were just like father and son." No, he had
never heard of any difference of opinion between them, and was
convinced they had never had any quarrel. It was impossible, he
protested, that Ralph could or would have committed such a crime.
His generous indignation warmed Ralph's heart, and was subsequently
commented on with approbation by counsel for the Crown in his
concluding address to the jury, although, as that great lawyer
pointed out, it did not affect the issue. What was more important
was the admission he was rather skilfully beguiled into making that
on one occasion he had known his brother to be embarrassed by want of
money. An apparently trivial question had been put as to his
knowledge of Ralph's financial position, and Melville answered it
candidly; both of them were absolutely dependent on Sir Geoffrey's
bounty, both received a liberal allowance, and on one occasion Sir
Geoffrey had paid a considerable sum in which Melville himself was
indebted. Presumably, therefore, he would have done the same for
Ralph, to whom he was, by common consent, more attached.
"In short, you are not aware that your brother has ever been in want
of ready money?"
Melville hesitated, coloured, and was lost. Reluctantly, and only as
the result of a long series of skilfully worded questions, he let out
the fact that Ralph had once applied to him for an immediate loan of
a hundred pounds. He was at Monte Carlo at the time, and Ralph wrote
from Fairbridge. Yes, he supposed that Ralph might have applied to
Sir Geoffrey, but it did not follow that he had done so and been
refused. The inference was unwarrantable, he declared warmly, but
his protest failed to have effect, and the harm was done. In reply
to a few further questions, he accounted moodily for his own time on
the day of the murder. He had gone out for a walk after a late
breakfast, and in the afternoon had remained at home, owing to the
storm. The telegram announcing his uncle's death was not brought to
him at once, as his valet was off duty. The manager of the chambers
brought it up with some letters when, on waking up from a doze,
Melville rang for tea. He was obviously downcast by the information
previously extracted from him, and when he finally left the box, it
was felt that he had slipped the noose around his brother's neck.
Of the rest of the proceedings Melville had no knowledge at first
hand. His nerves, strong and finely tempered as they were, could not
stand the tension, and he hurried to the hotel, where he had engaged
a private room. There he paced up and down like a caged beast,
unable to think coherently, and only waiting with horrible anxiety
for the verdict. In the still silence of the court, Gwendolen sat
motionless, her whole attitude a prayer, and downstairs Ralph waited,
glad to escape the observation of the hundreds of curious eyes. But
to neither of them, to whom the verdict meant so much, did the time
seem so appallingly long as it seemed to Melville, nor was their
anguish any thing like his.
Three hours dragged by, each one composed of sixty minutes of agony,
and then the waiter brought a note to him. He tore it open, afraid
to read its contents, yet unable to endure another second of
suspense. The jury had been unable to agree, and the case was sent
back to be tried again.
Melville groaned. So it all had to be gone through again, all the
examination and cross-examination and re-examination, all the
hypocrisy and ingenuity and deceit, and at the end perhaps another
murder, or perhaps suicide; for Ralph's conviction would be
equivalent to the one, and his acquittal might be procurable only by
the revelation of the truth, which would involve the other. Melville
had honestly expected his brother's acquittal, had been quite sincere
in his words of encouragement to Gwendolen; and now there was this
miserable, ineffectual conclusion to the solemn farce.
White lipped, wide eyed, with furrows scored across his brow, he
turned to the waiter and forced a smile.
"Well, that's the end of it to-day. Order a fly to take me to the
station. I'll go up by the next train," and writing a note to Mr.
Tracy to say he could be got at at once in Jermyn Street if required,
he presently returned to town.
In the cells below the court Mr. Tracy found a very different man
awaiting him from the one he had last seen in the dock. The
intolerant indignation with which Ralph had listened to the various
suggestions of the prosecution, and the scorn with which he had heard
the address to the jury, with its denunciation of his supposed
ingratitude and treachery, were all gone. He was pale and exhausted
by the long day in the crowded court, but he was also dignified and
self-possessed. He turned to the solicitor with a whimsical smile.
"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Since some of
the twelve good men and true were not convinced of my innocence, I
suppose I ought to be grateful that things are not worse than they
are. Did I behave myself better to-day?"
"Much better," Mr. Tracy answered. "You know," he added seriously,
"the circumstantial evidence was very strong, and although, as I have
maintained all along, the probabilities are always against a
miscarriage of justice, you are not out of the wood yet. Mr. Ashley,
if the jury had convicted you we should only have had a matter of
three weeks in which to discover new facts. I think you ought to be
grateful that we have three months."
"That is true," said Ralph soberly. "But what a three months for me!
Is there no chance of bail?"
Mr. Tracy shook his head.
"No. You must go through with it, but a great deal may happen in
three months, and it won't be for want of trying if I don't get you
out long before then. Now, Mr. Ashley, I have two questions to ask
you. First, do you know who this is?"
Ralph looked at the photograph which Mr. Tracy showed him.
"To the best of my knowledge I've never seen this before, and I'm
certain I don't know the original. Who is it?"
"I have an idea it is Lady Holt," Mr. Tracy answered, "but I dare say
I shall find out soon. It is curious how everything seems to be in a
conspiracy against you. The man who took that photograph retired
from business a few years ago and is now dead. I hoped I might find
out the name of the lady from him, but he's dead and the books can't
be traced. Now the next point. The hundred pounds you asked your
brother to lend you; what about that?"
Ralph's brows contracted.
"I asked him for it," he said curtly. "That's true enough; but I
didn't get it."
"That don't matter," Mr. Tracy retorted. "The fact that you asked
for it did you a lot of harm to-day."
"I don't see why Melville should have referred to it at all."
"Perhaps he couldn't help himself," the solicitor said. "Some of
those fellows are marvellous at making you say more than you mean to
say. Why did you ask him for it?"
"Because I was a silly ass," Ralph answered viciously, "and didn't
like to ask Sir Geoffrey. I never did ask him for a sovereign in my
life; goodness knows he gave me enough without that. Do you remember
selling out some railway stock for me a little time ago?"
"Yes," said Mr. Tracy, "and advising you not to do it, but you would
not listen."
"That was the time," Ralph said. "I had bought a yacht for Gwen and
didn't want to give it to her not paid for, and you were slower than
usual, and I was cleaned out, and only just engaged. And I asked
Melville to lend me a hundred till you settled up. Of course, Sir
Geoffrey would have given it to me if I had asked him, but he would
have insisted on its being a gift, not a loan, and I wanted the boat
to be my present to Gwen, not his."
"Well, I'll see that some of that comes out next time," said Mr.
Tracy. "I could see that it made a very bad impression to-day."
"There's a continuation to the story," said Ralph, with a hard look
in his eyes, "and since Melville has chosen to reopen it, I don't see
why I should not tell you the rest. He did not answer my letter, did
not send me the money."
"Well?" said Mr. Tracy.
"He came back from Monte Carlo broke to the world and fetched up at
Fairbridge. I happened to go away that night and just missed him,
but he saw Sir Geoffrey and asked for some money. Sir Geoffrey said
he wouldn't give him another sixpence, and asked what he had done
with two hundred and fifty pounds he'd had six weeks before. I'm
blest if Melville didn't produce my letter and say he'd lent me a
hundred of it."
"Oh!" said Mr. Tracy; "and what happened then?"
"The dear old chap begged his pardon and paid him the hundred pounds
for me. If ever there was a rank swindle that was one. When I came
home next day he began to pitch into me for asking Melville instead
of him for help, and, of course, the whole thing came out at once."
"Yes," said Mr. Tracy. "What did Sir Geoffrey say?"
"He said rather a lot," Ralph answered grimly. "He was going to
instruct you to take proceedings against Melville for getting money
under false pretences, but I persuaded him to let me repay him the
hundred pounds and take the matter up myself. He agreed--rather
reluctantly--and that was the end of the matter, except that I had a
bit of a rumpus with Melville, who owes me the money to this day."
Mr. Tracy was much more interested than he allowed Ralph to perceive;
the story let in a flood of light upon much that he had not been able
to understand.
"Then your brother is extravagant, I suppose?"
"Money runs through his fingers like water through a sieve," Ralph
answered. "Just six weeks before that Sir Geoffrey wiped off all his
debts, as he admitted to-day; he gave him two hundred and fifty
pounds, and told him to go to the deuce; Melville blew the lot at
Monte Carlo, came home, got that extra hundred out of Sir Geoffrey,
and went away. And the very next day he turned up again at
Fairbridge, had a long session with the old chap, and got round him
so far that he stayed a week at the Manor House and began to tap him
again, just as casually as ever. I couldn't understand it then, and
I can't now. Sir Geoffrey never talked about him after we had that
palaver about my supposed debt, but I am quite clear it was because
of that swindle that Melville got himself disinherited. Sir Geoffrey
didn't like his gambling, but he liked the other thing less--and I
don't wonder."
"Why didn't you tell me something about this on the day of the
funeral," Mr. Tracy asked, "when I read the will?"
"Oh, well," said Ralph, "I'm a slow-witted chap, you know, and you
were in a hurry; and, besides, it's not a pretty story. I wouldn't
have mentioned it now, only Melville brought it up so unnecessarily.
You had better know the rights of it since you think what he said did
me harm to-day."
For the time being, Ralph forgot the position in which he actually
stood, and turned as if to accompany Mr. Tracy to the door when he
rose to leave, but the sight of the warders, who had retired to the
far end of the room, re-awakened him to the fact that he was a
prisoner, and he flushed as he put out his hand.
"I'm awfully grateful, sir, for all you have done and are doing for
me. If you succeed and clear my name, I may be able to show my
gratitude practically."
"When I succeed, you mean," Mr. Tracy corrected him smilingly. "I
must say good-bye now, but next time I come I hope I shall have good
news for you. Don't brood over your grievance, Mr. Ashley. That may
seem a counsel of perfection, but try to act up to it, if only for
the sake of that charming young lady who is waiting for you. Faith
in God and a clear conscience can make even prison tolerable, and
nobody can rob you of those."
He put his bag down upon the table while he shook both Ralph's hands
violently. Then he blew his nose with equal violence, seized his
bag, and hurried away, scolding himself inwardly for being so upset
by so commonplace an incident as an interview with a client. Not
until he was in the railway carriage and on his way to town did he
recover his usual equanimity. With his characteristic stare of mild
surprise he surveyed the bag which reposed on the seat opposite to
him, but the only remark which escaped his lips was when at length he
removed his eyes from it, as if he had ascertained what was in it by
some mental adaptation of the X ray process. His remark was brief
and pregnant: "Well, I'm hanged."