"It certainly does," said Mr. Fenton. "Thank you, doctor. I have no
more questions to ask." And he sat down with the air of one who has
scored a point.
Thereupon the prosecution, as if to prove the strength of the evidence
which he had anticipated, placed upon the stand Bridget O'Flaherty,
formerly maid-servant to the Misses Van Vorst, who swore upon her
solemn oath that the prisoner had in her hearing declared herself
guilty of the murder of Paul Halleck. Yes, those were her very words,
the maid declared--"that she had killed him," and she had added that
"it had come at last--just as she despaired of it" or something of the
kind, referring no doubt to the fact that Halleck had kept the poison
some time before taking it. The woman's testimony was full and
circumstantial, and she gave the impression of telling the truth.
Mr. Fenton, on cross-examination, proved that she had been dismissed
without a character from the services of the Misses Van Vorst, also
that she had been paid for her evidence by a yellow journal. Its
effect was distinctly undermined when he permitted her to leave the
stand. And with that the prosecution called upon Miss Cornelia to
corroborate the maid's statement.
Miss Cornelia was deathly white; her head shook, her thin, silvery
curls fluttered, as if they had caught the infection of her own
nervousness. In one hand she grasped her smelling-salts desperately,
with the other she revolved in an agitated way a small black fan. A
murmur of sympathy ran through the court-room as she took her place.
Even the District Attorney seemed sorry for her and put his opening
questions with unwonted gentleness. His tone was still bland when he
came to the important point--had she noticed anything peculiar in her
niece's manner on the morning after the murder?
Miss Cornelia's answer was low, but it was quite audible. "She
was--shocked, naturally."
"Naturally. But did she seem surprised?"
Miss Cornelia's answer was this time still lower, and given with more
hesitation. "I--I think so."
"You mean you are not sure?"
"I--I was so upset myself"--began Miss Cornelia.
"That you did not notice?"
"No, I--I did not notice," said Miss Cornelia, relieved.
"You thought that her manner was unremarkable, and simply what you
might have expected under the circumstances?"
"Yes, I--I thought so," said Miss Cornelia. She added to herself the
mental reservation that she had no idea what sort of manner under the
circumstances, she should have expected.
The District Attorney assumed a more impressive manner. "Miss Van
Vorst," he said, "do you believe in the sacredness of an oath?"
"Yes, I--I certainly."
"You would not speak anything but the truth?"
"No," said Miss Cornelia, this time more firmly.
"Then I ask you," said the District Attorney, suddenly drawing himself
up to his full height, and fixing his eyes upon her, "I ask you, on
your sacred oath, did your niece, or did she not, on the morning after
the murder of Paul Halleck, say to you that she had killed him, or
words to that effect?"
There was a long silence. Miss Cornelia looked desperately about her;
at the Judge, whose face showed more than ever a touch of human
sympathy; at Mr. Fenton, white with anxiety, trying to telegraph a
hundred things which she could not understand; at the jury, bending
eagerly forward; then back at those most interested,--her sister in an
agony of suspense, Mrs. Van Antwerp flushed and trembling in her vain
desire to intervene. Lastly, Miss Cornelia's haggard eyes sought
Elizabeth herself; the girl was sitting white and rigid, motionless as
a statue, her hands clenched, her eyes resolutely bent upon the floor.
If it was a terrible moment for her; how much worse was it for the
aunt who had brought her up, who was now called upon by a refinement
of cruelty to destroy what seemed to be her only chance. Oh, for the
courage--it seemed to her almost noble!--to utter one good lie! But
there were the lynx-like eyes of the District Attorney fixed upon her,
there was the oath she had taken, weighing upon her conscientious
soul.... Suddenly she felt, with a sense of despair, that her silence
had already spoken louder than speech. And, even as the thought passed
through her mind, her answer framed itself on her lips and seemed to
be uttered without her own volition; one word, barely audible, but
caught at once and registered by twenty reporters, while a suppressed
sigh went the round of the court-room.
"Yes."
"Thank you," said the District Attorney. "That is all I wished to
know."
_Chapter XXXVI_
There was still cross-examination.
Mr. Fenton, too, began with unimportant questions. He gave Miss
Cornelia, who looked ready to faint, time to recover herself a little.
The questions he asked were easy to answer. Had her niece, in the
course of her education, given them much trouble, had she ever
deceived them, kept anything from them before this fatal secret? Ah,
no, no! Miss Cornelia gave her answers tremulously, yet with a fervent
relief, an eager desire to make herself heard throughout the
court-room.
"Then with your knowledge of your niece's character," Mr. Fenton
asked, speaking almost carelessly, "you didn't think of her as the
sort of person likely to commit a crime?"
Miss Cornelia drew herself up with sudden dignity and her voice was
plainly audible, and without a tremor. "Most certainly not," she said.
"Then how," inquired Mr. Fenton calmly, "did you account for her
extraordinary assertion that she had committed this murder?"
Miss Cornelia hardly hesitated. "I thought she was out of her mind,"
she said. "I couldn't account for it in any other way."
"It never occurred to you for a moment that it was true?"
"Not for a moment." The words came out indignantly.
"You naturally did not suppose that were she really guilty, she would
proclaim it quite so readily as that?"
Miss Cornelia stared. "I never," she said, simply, "thought of such a
thing as her being guilty."
"But you asked her, did you not, for some explanation of her words?"
"I asked her," faltered Miss Cornelia, "what she meant by saying such
a dreadful thing. And she said--she said"----
"Yes," said Mr. Fenton, encouragingly. "Take your time and tell us the
exact truth. What did she say?"
"She seemed to be rather dazed--She said that she had wished so much
for it to happen that when it did, it seemed almost like an answer to
her wishes--as if she were accountable for it."
"And you accepted her explanation?" said Mr. Fenton. "It seemed to you
plausible?"
"I knew what she meant--yes. But I could see that she was over-wrought
and excited, or she wouldn't have thought of it."
"Did she seem distressed over Halleck's death?"
Miss Cornelia hesitated. "N--not at first," she said. "She couldn't
seem to realize it."
"And afterwards?"----
"Yes, she seemed distressed then. I thought," said Miss Cornelia
firmly "that she felt very badly indeed when she realized it."
"And there was nothing in her manner that could induce you to believe
that she expected it, or knew a thing about it beyond what she read in
the papers?"
"Nothing."
With this word, firmly pronounced, Miss Cornelia's ordeal came to an
end; she descended white and dazed. Elizabeth leaned over as she
returned to her place and pressed her hand with a faint little smile.
"It's all right, auntie, I'm glad you spoke the truth." And so the
episode passed.
"She really has done no more harm than we expected," Bobby Van Antwerp
observed to his wife. "It is one of those things which sound much
worse than they really are. After all, what does it amount to? The
hysterical assertion of an excited girl! A guilty woman is more
careful what she says."
"I will tell Elizabeth," said his wife, in relief, "what you say." But
though she found an opportunity after the day's session, to whisper
this encouragement into the girl's ear, Elizabeth listened vacantly
and did not seem fully to grasp it. The maid's evidence, her aunt's
corroboration, had brought up vividly to her mind the danger that
existed all the time behind these slow, technical deliberations. That
night the horrible waking dream, from which for awhile she had been
free, returned more startlingly real than ever, and the face of the
Judge who sentenced her was the same face in which, during the long
days in the court-room, she had thought she detected some involuntary
gleams of sympathy. It had seemed a kind face in the day-time, but in
her dream it was inexorably stern.
The next morning, at the trial, her mind did not wander; she kept it
resolutely fixed on the evidence. Mr. D'Hauteville was on the stand,
and she wondered what more fatal revelations were to be made of her
words and actions on that unfortunate morning, when she hardly knew
what she said or did. But no new developments were brought out. There
was no trace in Mr. D'Hauteville's evidence or his easy, unembarrassed
manner of the suspicions which he had been perhaps the first person in
town to entertain.
Yes, he had seen Miss Van Vorst on the morning after the murder, and
had himself taken her into the studio. Was there anything peculiar in
her manner? Certainly; she seemed much distressed, as was natural, he
thought, under the circumstances. Had she tried to possess herself of
the fatal flask, or of any other incriminating objects, as for
instance her own letters? No, most emphatically no. Was it true, as
the elevator man had already stated, that she had defended herself
against his accusations? He could not remember anything of the kind;
certainly he had not accused her, as he had no reason to suspect her.
Mr. Fenton on cross-examination, drew from him a description of her
tears, of the fearless way in which she had entered, her apparent
indifference to being observed. Was it, Mr. Fenton demanded, the
manner of a guilty woman? The witness fully agreed that it was not.
And then he left the stand, saying to himself philosophically that all
was fair in the cause of a beautiful and unfortunate girl, whom he had
admired extremely, and with whom his friend Gerard had been, and might
be still, desperately in love.
The next witness was the Brooklyn tradesman, whose evidence had been
already so much exploited by the yellow journals that it lacked the
force of novelty. He deposed to having sold the flask on the morning
of the twenty-third of December, to a woman in black, thickly veiled,
slight and tall, and with reddish hair. The witness was quite sure
about the date, and as to the time he was less explicit, but convinced
that it was somewhere between the hours of ten and twelve. He was a
middle-aged man with a plain, honest face, and evidently anxious to
tell what he knew and no more. When the District Attorney, in a
dramatic manner, desired him to look at the defendant, and declare if
she were the woman to whom he sold the flask, he seemed to shrink in
distress from the terrible responsibility thus placed upon him.
"I--it is so long ago," he protested, "and--you--must remember that
she wore a veil."
"Which entirely obscured her face?"----
"No, not entirely," the witness reluctantly admitted.
"Look at the defendant," the District Attorney insisted, "and tell the
court if her general appearance recalls that of the woman to whom you
sold the flask."
He turned to Elizabeth and requested her to rise. She grew a shade
paler and stared at him for a moment as if startled; then slowly, she
obeyed him, and stood facing the witness, who brought reluctantly his
anxious gaze to bear upon her. She was ashy-white, but she held her
head erect, her eyes met his without flinching. Thus they stood for
fully a minute, and the silence in the court-room was tense with
nervous excitement. Then the witness spoke.
"I--there is a certain resemblance," he said.
"Then you identify her?" said the District Attorney.
The witness was silent. He looked again at Elizabeth. She was
trembling now, and caught hold of a chair as if for support. The
witness cleared his throat. He was thinking that he had a daughter of
about Elizabeth's age.
"I--I really could not tell," he began.
"Take your time," said the District Attorney, impressively. "This is a
very important point."
And then there was again a long silence. In the midst of it the sun,
bursting through a gray mass of clouds, touched Elizabeth's hair with
a wave of light. It stood out, a shining halo, against the rim of her
black hat. The witness stared at it as if fascinated. Then he uttered
a sound--it might almost have been a sob--of relief.
"That is not the same woman," he said. "The hair is quite different!
That other woman's hair was a much deeper red--it didn't shine and
glisten. And her whole air, the way she held herself was different. I
am sure it is not the same."
And this opinion, once announced, he clung to tenaciously--nothing the
District Attorney said could shake it. Mr. Fenton would not even
cross-examine, and there was great rejoicing in the ranks of the
defense.
But the next day the prosecution placed upon the stand a druggist's
clerk, who remembered having sold a bottle of arsenic to a woman
dressed in black on the morning of the twenty-third of December. The
occurrence was impressed on his mind because he had demurred as to
selling poison, and she had presented a physician's certificate. She
was handsomely dressed and seemed like a lady; he had noticed
particularly that her hair was reddish. And when asked to identify
Elizabeth, he swore unhesitatingly that she was the same woman.
Upon Mr. Fenton's cross-examination, it became evident what important
questions may hang on the color of a woman's hair.
_Mr. Fenton_: "You said, did you not, that the woman's hair was red?"
_Witness_, cautiously: "I said, reddish. That's not quite the same
thing."
_Mr. Fenton_: "Explain the difference."
_Witness_, confused: "Well, I--I don't know. I meant to say it was
sort of--sort of light"----
"You meant to say, in other words, that it was not black?"
_Witness_, recovering himself and speaking stubbornly: "No, I meant to
say that it was reddish--sort of sandy"----
"Ah--like the District Attorney's moustache, for instance?"
There was laughter in the court-room. The District Attorney's
moustache was a brilliant carrot color, which at the opposing
counsel's words, was emulated by his face.
"I object to these personalities," he said.
Mr. Fenton was instructed by the Judge to be more serious, but held to
his point.
"Your Honor, it is necessary to find out what the witness means by the
vague word 'reddish.' If he thinks it applies to the District
Attorney's moustache"----
"But I don't," objected the aggrieved witness, to the renewed
amusement of the court-room. "I call that carroty."
"Then point out, among people present, what hair you consider
reddish."
The witness's eyes wandered till they alighted upon the distinctly
sandy locks of one of the experts for the prosecution. "I call that
hair reddish," he announced, with some satisfaction at finding a way
out of his dilemma.
"Ah--now oblige me, by looking at the defendant's hair and tell us if
you think it is like that of this gentleman."
The witness glanced helplessly at Elizabeth. "It--isn't much like it,"
he admitted.
"And yet you describe both as 'reddish?'"
The witness was desperate. "Well, I--I don't exactly know"--he said.
"What you mean by 'reddish?'" said Mr. Fenton.
"Well--no," said the witness.
"I see that you don't. It's not necessary for you to tell us that. You
are color blind evidently, and by 'reddish' you simply mean anything
between black and tow-color. But you can't swear away a woman's life
with such vague descriptions as this. You can go now. I have no more
questions to ask."
The crestfallen witness gladly retreated. But in spite of his
discomfiture, his evidence had been a serious blow to the defense, and
when, a few days later, the prosecution closed its case, it was
admitted on every side to be a strong one.
The defense opened quietly enough. Mr. Fenton, too, brought out his
handwriting experts, who were prepared with an equally startling array
of technical details, to swear to the exact opposite of what had been
solemnly declared by the experts for the prosecution. The court
settled down into a dreamy mood, and the spectators for the most part
went to sleep.
There was a break in the monotony, and one which created much
excitement, when Elizabeth took the stand on her own behalf. She had
been very anxious to do this, and Mr. Fenton had reluctantly
consented, with many misgivings and elaborate instructions, to which
he saw, to his alarm, that she listened almost vacantly. But when she
began to testify his doubts disappeared. She gave her evidence very
simply and directly, and there was something in the soft, low tones of
her voice, an indefinable ring of girlishness, of youth and
inexperience, which carried with it an illogical thrill of conviction.
She had never, she said, bought the flask which contained the poison,
nor had she ever seen one exactly like it. She had not gone to
Brooklyn on the twenty-third of December--she had never gone there in
her life. She had spent the morning of the twenty-third of December at
the Metropolitan Museum. She had not bought the bottle of arsenic, and
knew nothing of it. She had no reason to expect Paul Halleck's death.
She had read of it in the papers. No, she had not meant the assertion
literally when she said that she had killed him; she had been startled
because his death had seemed to come in direct answer to her wishes,
and she had somehow felt accountable for it. Yes, it was a morbid
idea--she realized it now, but she had not been at all well at the
time. That was the reason she had gone up to the studio; she had been
in a state of nervous excitement and hardly knew what she did. No, she
had not thought of the police suspecting her in consequence; such an
idea had never entered her mind.
On the whole, Mr. Fenton was satisfied with the effect that she was
producing. He had made the agreeable discovery that he was beginning
to believe in her himself; and if this conviction was impressing
itself more and more upon his own suspicious mind, it must, he
thought, be all-powerful with the jury, whom he had already mentally
appraised as kindly men, anxious to escape from an unpleasant duty,
and willing to give the prisoner the full benefit of every doubt.
But when Mr. Fenton at last sat down and the District Attorney took
his place, then, indeed, began a very bad quarter of an hour for
Elizabeth. Question by question, the lawyer drew out of her her
reasons for keeping her marriage secret and for wishing Halleck dead,
her engagement to Gerard and the manner in which she had deceived him.
Her color changed from white to red and back again to ghastly pallor,
her voice faltered and broke piteously, but still the terrible inquiry
proceeded. Behind her, her aunts were biting their lips in agony and
Mrs. Bobby was beside herself with indignation. "I'd give anything in
the world," she said to her husband, "to get even with that man."
Elizabeth's counsel was keeping up a running fire of objections, but
in vain. The District Attorney got in his questions somehow or
another, and Elizabeth answered them as best she could.
"Why," she was asked among other things, "was your engagement to Mr.
Gerard broken off?"
"Because," she faltered, "I--I told him of my marriage."
"Why did you suddenly tell him, when you had kept it concealed so
long?"
Elizabeth looked up with a piteous appeal in her eyes, which was
answered by an objection on the part of her counsel, and she was told
by the Judge that she need answer no question unless she wished. But
by this time she had recovered herself.
"I am quite willing to answer," she said. "I told him because I was
sorry I had deceived him. I had no other reason."
"You are quite sure that you _did_ tell him, and that he did not--find
out for himself?"
There was an insulting tone to the question, but she answered it
steadily, without anger. "I am quite sure," she said.
"Who was with you on the day that you say you went to the Metropolitan
Museum?" This was the next question, put with disconcerting
suddenness.
She turned still whiter, if that were possible, than before, and her
answer was barely audible. "Mr. Gerard."
"Was any one else with you?"
"No one."
"Is he the only person who can corroborate your statement?"
"Yes."
"Then it is a pity he is not here."
She was silent.
"Mr. Gerard," observed Mr. Fenton, "when he went abroad left no
address. We made efforts to communicate with him, but so far, we have
not succeeded. It is most unfortunate."
"Most unfortunate, certainly," echoed the District Attorney, "for the
defendant. But perhaps he was not anxious to be summoned. We have
heard of witnesses who went to the ends of the earth to avoid it."
He turned to Elizabeth. "Do you know of any reason," he asked, "why he
should not wish to come?"