out of your blood. This is an excellent wine—it was a favorite brand
with Judson Pickford. Yes, sir; and Judson was a competent judge. Ha,
ha!"
His laugh made me shiver. It sounded like the exultation of a fiend.
But I declined the wine, and Parton himself drained the bottle.
"You've never heard of Judson Pickford?" he asked.
"No."
"Of course not. That was before you came, and it isn't likely that
excellent Messrs. Dillard & Hatch would mention him to you. But they
could tell you a great deal about Judson if they were so disposed."
"Judson Pickford was a strange, dark man. I met him first in society
in Baltimore. And, strange to say, many declared that there was a
strong resemblance between Pickford and Parton. Be that as it may, fate
decreed that we should both love the same girl,—beautiful, winsome
Mabel Raymond. I loved her from the hour we first met, and I've no
doubt my rival's passion was as intense as my own. I was a rich wine
merchant, and Pickford a wealthy, brilliant stock-broker. Both of us
vowed to win Miss Raymond, but from the first I saw that she favored
Pickford's suit. This made me hate my rival with deepest hatred. After
they were married I went about for months like one stupefied. In losing
the only woman I loved I lost all interest in life. I drank heavily,
but the more I drank the more I felt myself urged on to revenge. Then I
began to lay plans for Pickford's ruin.
"When he and his wife were in Europe I saw an excellent chance to
mature my scheme for his destruction. I first converted all my property
into cash. Then I came to this secluded place and had this house built,
where I might live apart from the world I hated. Afterward I went to
Dillard & Hatch, and placed five hundred thousand dollars in their
bank. I knew Dillard to be a noted schemer, so I took him into my
confidence, and got his promise to help me. Hatch, being a weak man,
was not hard to rope into the plot. No need for me to go into details
of the steps by which Dillard and I artfully spread a net for our
unsuspecting victim. It is enough to say that soon after Pickford's
return from abroad he was a ruined man. Penniless though he was, he
didn't lose heart. He moved into plainer quarters and took up the
practise of law, a profession which he had followed before he became
a stock-broker. But my vengeance was not yet satisfied. Mind you,
though, I took pains never to let him suspect I was even most remotely
connected with the cause of his ruin.
"Just when Pickford was having his hardest struggle I went to him with
an offer to start him in business. He gratefully accepted my offer. I
sent him alone to New York with a large sum of money. Then, disguising
myself, I followed him. In the city I removed my disguise and sought
out Pickford, telling him I had changed my plans for him. I directed
him to come here the next night, but to tell no one of our business.
He kept the appointment. We met at the station, six miles below the
hills, and walked here to this house. It was a dark night. No one saw
us. He was fond of wine, so after I had urged many a glass upon him I
conducted him to this vault. In his drunken condition I had no trouble
to get him to enter it. Then I shut and locked that iron door upon him.
He had only a cask of wine to keep him company. That was ten years ago,
and that door has never been opened since."
A low laugh from the narrator ended his grewsome tale, while a gleam of
fiendish triumph flitted across his swarthy face.
A cold chill crept up my spine, and I arose involuntarily.
Was there truth in his awful narration, or was it merely the ravings of
a maniac?
"A wholesome tale to go to bed on, eh, Mr. Hope? Ha, ha!" he laughed,
as he arose and led the way upstairs.
When I was alone in the room where I was to spend the night, I decided
that the wine which Parton had drunk was responsible for the horrible
story to which I had listened.
Next morning, while I was despatching an early breakfast, Negro Joe and
Parton carried out a cask of wine, which they placed in my wagon.
Just before starting, my strange host handed me a sealed letter, saying:
"Give this to Dillard, and tell him I hope he'll find the wine superb.
Good-by, Mr. Hope," and he waved me off.
When I reached the bank I gave the letter to Mr. Dillard. As he read
it his face turned a sickly hue and his mouth twitched nervously.
Recovering himself, however, he ordered Hatch and me to open the cask
which Parton had sent him.
We obeyed at once. As the top of the cask was broken open, we started
back in horror.
There, preserved in wine, was a _human head_,—the head and face of
Caleb Parton, the recluse millionaire!
Then Dillard explained that his letter was from Judson Pickford, who,
with the help of Negro Joe, who hated his harsh master, Caleb Parton,
had effected his escape from the vault. But a month later, his wife
having died, Pickford had returned one dark night and killed the man
who had so cruelly ruined him. The head of his enemy had been put in a
cask of wine to send to the banker, who had aided in accomplishing his
financial ruin. With peculiar cunning, he had appropriated not only the
name and looks of Parton, but his property and bank account as well. In
carrying out this deception, he had a faithful ally in Negro Joe.
It was Pickford himself who had related the dark story to me. It seemed
almost incredible. A visit to the lonely stone house with two officers
discovered a headless body in the vault. But Pickford and his ally had
disappeared.
[Illustration]
Stateroom Six.
BY WILLIAM ALBERT LEWIS.
THINGS have changed greatly on the river. There are no open bars, no
card playing, no shooting; much less travel, for that matter.
We were a half dozen at supper. I sat opposite a gray-bearded man, who,
when he had completed his meal, closely scrutinized a modest-appearing
young woman quietly supping at another table. She finished and
departed. When she was gone my neighbor leaned across and said:
"Perhaps you thought it funny I watched that lady so closely? But
that's 'Sis.' I remember her twenty years back, on this very boat. My!
but what a look at her brings to my mind!"
He leaned back, his eyes on the table, a grim smile broadening a kindly
countenance, and pushed both hands deeply into his pockets.
The man had something he wanted to tell.
"A romance, I suppose? I'd like to hear it."
"It was twenty years ago, and on this boat, the Hester Hale.
Professional gamblers were always aboard, looking for victims. None
were more daring nor more lucky than 'Ready' Rankin. A handsome fellow,
of good family, with a heart big and manly, if he was a cut-throat
gambler and a bad man all around. Down at that landing we left before
sundown,—Kellyville,—an old man was waiting, one night, with a wee
tot of a girl. He brought her aboard. You know how natural it is to
consign children to the care of some person? The child was the old
man's granddaughter. She was to get off at Low Water Landing, which is
the next stop we'll make, a few minutes from now. He happened to put
the child in 'Ready' Rankin's care. He agreed to see her safely ashore
and to deliver her to her ma. 'Ready' got a stateroom, put the child
in one of the berths, and gave her a bag of candy to keep her from
crying. Then he went below for a game. The play chanced to be tolerable
heavy that night, with Rankin an eight-thousand-dollar winner. But it
ended in a row; and Rankin, seeing trouble ahead, rolled his pile in a
newspaper and laid it beside the sleeping child in the stateroom. The
boat was then a half hour from the landing. 'Ready' got into a fight
with the man he beat at the table, and was badly shot. His last words
were confused. He said something about:
"'Stateroom six—little one—Low Water Landing—money.'
"The boat made the landing. They woke the child up, put all the bundles
into her arms, and turned her over to her ma.
"Sis's mother soon discovered the package of money, and met the boat
at the landing on her down trip next night, to make inquiries of the
captain. But he knew nothing. Rankin had been buried that day up river.
Nobody knew anything about any money. So Sis's mother kept it, trying
all the time to get some knowledge of Rankin's family. That she could
not do. They had disowned him.
"About three years ago a party of young men came up the river hunting.
They stopped off at Low Water Landing and boarded with Sis's ma. One of
the young fellows was teller in a bank down in Natchez. He fell head
over ears in love with Sis. You can't much blame him, can you? She's
awfully handsome. Naturally enough, they got to comparing notes; and
the story of the money came out. Do you know, sir, it turned out that
the young bank teller was Rankin's son? Fact! He and his mother and
step-father lived together, and all they'd ever heard was that 'Ready'
had been killed in a fight on the river. They didn't mourn overmuch,
although 'Ready' wasn't the worst chap that ever lived.
"There! We're just blowing for Low Water now. Let's go on deck and see
Sis land. Up to visit her ma, I reckon."
"Rankin's son is going to marry her, I suppose?"
"Married, man! Year ago, last Christmas. They live as cozy as you
please down in Natchez. He's cashier of that bank now."
We stood by the rail as the boat made fast. The young lady tripped
lightly ashore and greeted a white-haired old lady.
The Hester Hale resumed her way.
"Step this way. I'll show you where 'Ready' was killed."
We strolled to the gangway. He pointed to a little bullet hole in the
casement.
"There were three shots fired. 'Ready' fired one and I—"
I looked up quickly into his patriarchal face. He paled, and fixed his
eyes on me.
"I didn't mean to say so much, friend; but I believe you are a square
man. This spot has a fascination for me. And it is twenty years ago,
twenty—years—ago."
His head drooped. He seemed to be thinking of something beside what he
uttered.
"I understand you," I said.
I pressed his hand, and went to bed.
[Illustration]
Her Eyes, Your Honor.
BY H. D. UMBSTAETTER.
THE witness is yours."
As the prosecuting attorney sat down, the spectators craned their
necks and eagerly leaned forward. Every one expected a merciless
cross-examination, as the reputation of the young lawyer, who had been
brought two hundred miles to defend the prisoner, had preceded him. And
though Delos McWhorter had thus far taken no part in the proceedings,
he was the most conspicuous figure in the great trial. One person alone
rivaled him,—the mysterious woman who stood at the bar, charged with
murder. The hush that fell upon the packed courtroom as the man slowly
rose to his feet resembled the awful silence with which the death
sentence is awaited. As he stood silent and irresolute for a moment,
the color rising to his plain, youthful face, his fingers nervously
fumbling with a pencil, the spectators were conscious of a feeling of
disappointment.
With almost boyish embarrassment, his eye sought that of the presiding
judge; next he scanned the faces of the jury, and then, turning to the
witness, in a voice at once gentle, sarcastic, and magnetic, he began:
"Mr. Slade, I will trouble you to look once more very carefully at the
prisoner. Perhaps she will rise that you may see her better. You have
testified that shortly before eight on the night of the murder you saw
this woman enter the apartment house of which you are the janitor, and
in which the body of Charlotte Ames was found. Now, I would like to
have you tell the jury just what it was in the appearance of the woman
you say you then saw that enables you to swear to-day that she and the
prisoner are one and the same person."
The witness, fearing a trap, hesitated, and nervously eyed the lawyer.
"I would like you to tell us," calmly continued the questioner,
"whether you took such particular notice of her height, her face, her
complexion, her hair, her nose, and her teeth during the few moments
that you say you saw her in the dimly lighted hallway, four months ago,
as to enable you to swear to-day that you cannot be mistaken. Was it
her size, her apparent age, perhaps, or the color of her hair, or what?"
"It was her looks," answered the witness, squirming in his seat. "It's
the same woman."
"Yes, her looks; but I must trouble you to answer my question so that
the jury may have the whole truth before they are asked to send any one
to the gallows. Remember, Mr. Slade, you are under oath. Now tell us,
what was it?"
"We object," came from the prosecuting attorney as he sprang to his
feet. "We object, your honor, to this attempt to intimidate the
witness."
Before the court could pass upon the objection, the witness, turning
from his questioner to the court, exclaimed half defiantly:
"It was her eyes, your honor!"
"That is all," came from the lawyer for the defense, as he resumed his
seat; and the spectators relaxed into a condition of restlessness that
clearly showed their further disappointment.
Each of the succeeding witnesses declared without hesitation that the
prisoner was the woman they had seen near the scene of the murder,
either just before or shortly after the deed was discovered. As one
after the other was dismissed by the defense, upon insisting under
cross-examination that he could not possibly be mistaken, the faces
of the government counsel beamed with satisfaction, while those of
the spectators assumed the blankness of mystification. What was the
strange lawyer there for? they whispered among themselves, and many
turned toward the prisoner as though to ascertain whether she realized
how surely her life was being sworn away. In his opening address the
prosecuting attorney had said:
"On the second day of last November, a woman residing in this town,
young, rich, and notorious for her gay and reckless career, was found
murdered in her bed at half past eight at night. Everything about
the room was in perfect order. There had been no robbery, and the
instrument used was found in her breast, where it had been driven to
the heart. It was a gold ornament, such as a woman wears in her hair.
"We shall not attempt to defend the character of the dead woman, but we
shall ask that justice be done.
"It is true that many a woman in this town had good reason to wish the
murdered woman ill. It is true that there are men in the community who
might have been driven by desperate hate, desperate love, or desperate
jealousy, to do the deed, but, fortunately, before cruel suspicion
made any blunder of that sort the police discovered the criminal.
Almost simultaneously with the rumors of the murder came the reports
of a mysterious woman found leaving the city. Within twelve hours this
woman, who now stands at the bar, had been identified by no less than
four people, who saw her in the vicinity of the scene of the crime
either before or after it was committed.
"No one knew her. She refused to give any account of herself. She
appeared to be in a state of great nervous excitement. The government
will show that she entered the house shortly before the murder was
committed; that she left it a few minutes after the deed was done; that
on the very day of the murder she had high words with the dead woman,
and that the instrument with which the deed was done was such an one as
the prisoner was known to possess. Gentlemen of the jury," he concluded
dramatically, "Fate plays no tricks of that sort. Fate fashions no such
chain of circumstantial evidence as that which establishes the guilt of
this woman and upon which we ask her conviction."
These were his words, and now that the janitor had testified that he
saw the prisoner enter the building, a patrolman had declared that
he saw her leaving it within fifteen minutes before the crime was
discovered, and the dead woman's coachman had sworn to having overheard
the prisoner using threatening language to his mistress,—after this and
other circumstantial evidence had gone before the jury and remained
unshaken by cross-examination, the prosecution announced that the case
for the government was in.
In spite of the disappointment with which the spectators regarded
Lawyer McWhorter, a nervous dread of the man possessed the minds of
the opposing counsel, as he rose slowly and deliberately clasped his
hands behind him. He was so calm. His methods were so unfathomable that
they began to feel a vague conviction that he mastered them and their
methods, while to them he was a closed book.
A moment he stood silent, and when he spoke, utter consternation fell
upon the court. The words were the last they had expected.
"Your honor, the defense has no evidence to offer."
Even the court could scarce control its amazement. Inch by inch the
ground upon which the prisoner stood had been carried away, until now
nothing but the personal appeal of her counsel could save her life.
Was this possible? Did this young stranger really possess that rare
eloquence, that fatal magnetism, that sometimes blind strong men to
all sense of reason and right? Did even he hope to save his client?
His looks betrayed nothing. As he took his seat his face was that of a
sphinx.
The attorney for the government lost no time in beginning his closing
speech. "We commend the judgment of the distinguished counsel for the
defense," he began, "which deterred him from attacking the overwhelming
proofs we have submitted of the prisoner's guilt. We commend the keen
judgment which prompts him to rely upon the famed magic of his own
voice rather than to seek hope for his client in the uncertain words
of unreliable witnesses. The defense, too clever to attack such proof
as we have presented, will now rely upon silvery tongued oratory and
superb rhetorical appeals to secure from these twelve men a verdict of
acquittal. But, may it please the court," he concluded, "our learned
brother mistakes the intelligence of these gentlemen of the jury, if he
supposes, for one moment, that fervent appeals to their sympathies can
make them forget their duty to themselves, to civilized society, and
to womankind." So well satisfied, however, had the spectators become
of the prisoner's guilt, and so completely did all interest now center
in McWhorter's anticipated speech, that the remarks of the prosecuting
attorney were listened to with indifferent attention.
Now, surely, the brilliant advocate would demonstrate his ability, even
though he could not save his client.
"The woman," he began, amid oppressive silence, "who was arrested
on the second day of November last, stands charged with murder. As
no testimony has been offered to show that she committed murder,
the defense will not waste your time or insult your common sense by
unnecessary argument. You have been told with great clearness by the
witnesses for the prosecution that the prisoner was seen to enter and
leave a certain house at certain hours; also that on a certain day she
had high words with a certain woman. But, gentlemen of the jury, under
the laws of your State that doesn't constitute murder. A woman may
pay a visit to an apartment house at eight o'clock at night, she may
have high words with another woman in the public highway, she may even
wear a gold ornament in her hair,—she may do all this without becoming
a murderess. The evidence adduced is purely circumstantial. No proof
whatever has been offered that the accused woman killed Charlotte Ames.
In the absence of such testimony, it is your duty to yourselves, to
civilized society, and to womankind, to acquit the prisoner." Before
the last word was spoken he sat down.
The entire courtroom was again taken by surprise. While the brief
speech had the ring of cleverness, it fell far short of the general
expectations.
After hearing the judge's charge to the jury not one person in that
vast assembly doubted the result. Few felt any sympathy for the woman,
and those few were men. The members of her own sex were as a unit
arrayed against her. The pride of her pale beauty antagonized them. The
very women who in their hearts had wished the dead girl ill and who
would have committed the crime themselves, except that they lacked the
courage, had no pity for the accused. There was something in her beauty
above and beyond them, and, womanlike, they hated her for it.
Not a soul left the courtroom as the jury filed out, for all expected a
prompt verdict. In this they were not disappointed. Ten minutes later
the twelve men filed solemnly back. Not an eye sought the face of the
prisoner, who, like her counsel, sat entirely unmoved.
As the clerk rose the silence became deathlike. "Prisoner, look upon
the jury. Jury, look upon the prisoner. Have you agreed upon a verdict?"
"We have."
"Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the crime charged
against her?"
"Guilty."
With difficulty the demonstrations of approval that broke out in every
part of the room were checked by the court officers.
Moved by that inevitable heart-stopping vision of "hanged by the neck,"
every spectator turned to the handsome woman in the dock.
The calmness with which she received the stares of a thousand eyes was
marvelous. No one expected that she would now break her mysterious
silence. When, therefore, she rose and turned her eyes towards the
court the spectators sat fairly spellbound with surprise.
"May it please your honor," she began in a firm, clear voice; then,
lifting one slender white hand, she pointed to the door at the back of
the witness stand.
Every eye followed her gesture. A tall female figure, heavily veiled,
accompanied by one of the associate counsel of the defense, stood in
the doorway. The next moment she raised her veil, advanced rapidly, and
took her place beside the prisoner.
The scene that followed resembled a street riot, rather than the solemn
proceedings of a courtroom. Men, wild with excitement, mounted their
chairs, women rose in their seats, pushing, jostling, and crowding
each other in their frantic efforts to get a better view of the highly
sensational proceedings. The confusion was indescribable, the noise
deafening. Not until McWhorter was seen to spring to his feet did the
court officers' vigorous rapping and loud cries for order produce any
effect. Instantly all was silence. Rigid suspense held the spectators
breathless. With the light they had missed in his eye and the fire they
had longed for in his voice the young lawyer spoke, addressing the
judge:
"May it please the court,—nice customs must bow to desperate needs.
When a man is called upon to face in defense of a woman's life such
odds as I found in this case, when he sees justice outwitted by the
devil's trick,—circumstantial evidence,—he must resort to the devil's
weapon,—cunning. Such evidence as has been here given has hanged many
a man, and I believe that when a man of any heart, any soul, any
chivalry, sees that it is likely to hang a woman it becomes his duty to
combat fate as the defense has done in this case.
"I ask your honor, I ask the jury, I ask the witnesses, to look upon
these two women. As they stand there side by side, there is a marked
difference in their heights, a decided difference in the color of
their hair, a striking difference in the color of their eyes, a very
perceptible difference, even at this distance, in the tone of their
skin; and, I may add, a difference of eight years in their ages. The
woman who has just been pronounced guilty of murder is the wife of a
gentleman who throughout this trial has sat within the shadow of the
jury. She is innocent, as God is my judge. Every moment of her life
up to this very instant can be accounted for. In substituting her
to-day for the real prisoner, the defense had no desire to circumvent
justice. We merely wished to save this court, this community, from the
everlasting shame of hanging a woman whose guilt has not been proved.
We wished to show to your honor and to these gentlemen of the jury that
it is monstrous to accept as conclusive such evidence as has been given
in this case. May it please your honor, this jury has just pronounced a
verdict of 'guilty' against my own wife. I move that here and now this
verdict be set aside."
The request was granted, and, although McWhorter was charged with
unprofessional conduct and threatened with disbarment, his client was
promptly acquitted on the new trial which the court ordered.
[Illustration]
ADVERTISEMENTS.
[Illustration]
Hair Cloth Crinoline,