APPEARANCES AND DISAPPEARANCES.
"Now for Sir Galahad in jail!" said Harry, touching the bay with the
point of his whip.
"He was an awfully virtuous cad!" laughed Kennedy. Sunburst had offered
to convey Idler safely home, while Kennedy, the black-eyed, accompanied
Harry, himself none the better for his morning bottle-bout, to the
clubhouse in town. On the way they would make the visit to Robert.
There was evidently a strong dash of the Arnold blood in Harry. He
showed more resemblance to his cousin than to the proud, thin-lipped
woman who had sat through Floyd's preliminary trial. A stranger might
even confuse them at the first glance, though Harry was five years the
older of the two. It could not be gainsaid that he bore his age well.
His movements were leopard-like in their swiftness and ease and his eyes
shone with mesmeric power. The little darkness under their lids might be
a peculiarity of complexion, but occasionally, in moments of repose, a
shadow, no more, seemed to cross the cheek and make it look worn. His
companions had noticed that the cue-point wavered a trifle in his hands
of late and that his masse shots sometimes failed to draw the balls. But
he was still facile princeps among gentlemen boxers of the city; and his
long, brown arms were a delight to watch on the river, crossing and
recrossing in the graceful rhythm of the practiced oarsman.
Arnold's true nature was hard to judge, for circumstances had conspired
to spoil him from the cradle. A comely child, he had been allowed to
carry the knickerbocker period of tossing curls and gratified whims far
into his teens, and the discovery that her darling was a man, and no
longer a painted picture to be gazed at and displayed, had come upon his
mother suddenly, like an unforeseen catastrophe. It had cost her many a
pang to realize that she, who aspired to be sole mistress of his heart,
shared now only a divided affection with a score of alien interests.
Still she continued to indulge and anticipate his desires. They were
rich and social station was her birthright. But it was with a jealous
gnawing in her heart that she would sign the check for his new pleasure
yacht or watch him pat the neck of his steeplechaser Aladdin.
The dislike she bore to Robert Floyd was a natural consequence of his
uncle's partiality. The families were outwardly upon good terms. If
early influence counts, there could not well be much similarity of taste
between the youth whose steps had been guided by the virile head of
Benjamin Arnold and the idol of that indulgent, worldly mother who never
forgot that she belonged to the Brewsters of Lynn.
"Hold her ten minutes," said Harry, giving the reins to Kennedy at the
outer gate of the jail. His name was a sufficient passport to the
officer who guarded the outer turnstile, and he was directed across a
bricked yard to the jail building proper. Here a more detailed
explanation was exacted. Harry answered the questions suavely but not
without some suppressed impatience. A few moments of delay, which he
beguiled with an incessant finger-tattoo, and he was conducted to
murderers' row.
"This isn't much like home, Rob," was his greeting, fortified by a hand
extended through the cell bars. Floyd pressed it somewhat coldly.
"I'm grateful for the visit, Harry," he said.
"I was deucedly down with malaria when uncle died, you know."
"I was sorry to hear that from your mother."
"Yes, might have come around to the trial, I suppose; but mother
wouldn't have it. You understand how she feels. Besides, what good could
I do?"
"You are better now?"
"Awoke this morning as fresh as a new-born babe. Going down to play
with the foils awhile. Can't stop long."
Was it the glow of convalescence or of wine that shone in Harry's face?
He made one or two imaginary passes with his cane, regardless of the
feelings of the prisoner, to whom such a picture of prospective
enjoyment could hardly be soothing.
"But I say, Rob," he cried, apparently remembering himself, "this is
hard on you. What do you think of it all?"
Floyd eyed his cousin, as if the appropriate answer were not easy to
find.
"It is hard," he replied.
"What would Uncle Ben say if he were alive?"
"Uncle Benjamin would be the first to proclaim my innocence," said
Robert, his voice vibrant with emotion.
"To tell the truth, Rob, I don't know whether to be sorry his old
scrawl's canceled or not. I had my doubts how I fared at Uncle Ben's
hands. Mother said my half was hunky, but you know uncle hadn't that
respect for my precious person she has." Harry's laugh showed that he
was well aware of his mother's weakness in that regard. "How was it? Do
you know? Did the old gentleman forget me?"
"I believe we were treated nearly alike," answered Robert.
"Gad, then I owe you $5,000,000----"
"Did you come here to insult me?"
At this outburst of indignation the sheriff's deputy drew near.
"That was nothing, Rob," said Harry, sobering up. "Only my cursed
thoughtlessness. I'm sorry, on my word, you've got into the fix."
"Carry your condolences somewhere else."
"Oh, well----"
"I was always literal and I mean now what I say. Your apology only makes
the matter worse."
There is nothing more subversive of dignity than an unpremeditated
sneeze. Not that Saul Aronson had much dignity to spare. On the
contrary, he was an extremely modest young man, with apparently one
great passion in his life, the service of Shagarach. On this occasion
his resounding ker-choo proclaimed from afar the arrival of that
personage and threw a ridiculous damper on the rising temper of the
cousins. Seeing the two strangers approach, Harry fumbled out a farewell
and withdrew with an air of languid bravado. Shagarach watched him as he
passed.
"Follow that young man for a few hours," he said to Aronson. "I should
like to know his afternoon programme."
Aronson hung on his master's lips and trotted off to obey his command.
"I am Shagarach, come to defend you," he said to the prisoner, still
flushed with the remembrance of the quarrel.
"Who sent you to defend me?" was the curt reply.
"Your friend, Miss Barlow."
"Emily?"
Robert's voice grew softer.
"I have some questions to ask you."
"What have I done to be questioned as if I were a cut-throat? What have
I done to be jailed here like some wild beast, before whom life would
not be safe if he were let at large?"
"I know you are innocent, Floyd."
Only the falsely accused can tell how the first assurance of trust from
another revives hope and faith in their kind. Robert Floyd was no man to
lean on strangers, yet Shagarach's words were as soothing to him as a
gentle hand laid on a feverish forehead.
"Your cousin Harry came here to verify his knowledge of the will, which
disinherited him, did he not?"
"Harry was disinherited, that is true."
"How came you to give up the profession of botanist, in which your uncle
trained you?"
"Men interest me more than vegetables."
"But you refused your uncle's wealth, that would have given you power
among men."
"It was not mine. I had not earned it. I feared the temptation."
"You are a journalist, I believe?"
"Six months ago I happened to report a conference of charities for the
Beacon. Today I am eking out my income by occasional work for that
paper."
Shagarach thought of his own first brief. A youth, imperfectly
acquainted with English, was charged with the larceny of an overcoat
from his fellow-lodger. Something about him enlisted the sympathy of a
kind-hearted lady who drew Shagarach into the case because of his
knowledge of the Hebrew jargon which the prisoner spoke. The youth was
acquitted and was now a student of law, being no other than Shagarach's
assistant and idolater, Aronson. That was years ago. Today hundreds
flocked to hear his pleading of a cause, judges leaned over alertly, as
if learning their duty from him, and the very hangers-on of the
courtroom acquired a larger view of the moral law when Shagarach
expounded it.
"My own beginnings were as humble," he said.
"You are a criminal lawyer by choice, people say."
"The moral alternative of innocence or guilt, of liberty or
imprisonment--sometimes, as now, of life or death--exalts a cause in my
eyes far above any elevation to which mere financial litigation can
attain."
Robert looked his visitor over thoughtfully. The criminal lawyer was not
reputed the highest grade of the guild. But there was a sneer, too, in
many quarters for the journalist. He, too, must mingle in the reek of
cities, share Lazarus' crust and drink from the same cup with the
children of the slums.
"And you have risen to the defense of murderers," he said.
"Men accused of murder," answered Shagarach.
"You are reputed to be uniformly successful."
"That is no miracle. My clients are uniformly innocent. My first step is
to satisfy myself of that."
"When were you first satisfied of my innocence?"
"When I saw you here."
"I am to be removed to the state prison while the jail is repaired,"
said Robert, who had indulged dreams of some powerful intervention which
should procure his release. "How long before a final hearing will be
given me?"
"Two months at most. The evidence against your cousin is growing rapidly
under my hands."
"It was 'evidence' that brought me here. Is your 'evidence' against
Harry no more valuable?"
"I am not prosecuting Harry Arnold, but every item that points to his
guilt guides the finger of suspicion away from you."
Shagarach was satisfied with his interview. He had elicited proof to his
own mind of Robert's innocence and legal evidence of Harry's
disinheritance under the will. To fasten knowledge of the fact upon the
cousin would now be an easier task.
"Miss Barlow will be permitted to see you," was his parting assurance to
the prisoner before he hurriedly returned to his office, to find an
unexpected client awaiting him.
John Davidson, the marshal, had a friendly habit, the legacy of a
country bringing-up, which his acquaintances found both useful and
agreeable. Our tired Emily, trudging to Shagarach's with the heavy
message of a day's failure, must have agreed with them heartily. At
least, she did not decline his invitation when the kindly old gentleman
drove up behind her and urged her to share his seat in the carriage.
"I am bringing him some evidence now," said Emily in answer to the
marshal's first question, after he had settled her according to his
liberal ideas of comfort and clucked his horse to a gentle trot.
"Evidence--no need of evidence, miss. If Shagarach has your case, that
will be prima-facie evidence in itself of your sweetheart's innocence."
"He is a wonderful man. But do people like him?"
"Like him? Well, 'like' is a medium word, you see, used for medium
people. He's a good deal of a sphinx to us all, my dear. But aren't you
a brave girl to be tramping the streets for your sweetheart? Don't mind
being called sweethearts, I hope? That was the old-country word when I
courted Elizabeth. But I believe young folks now call it fiancee,
inamorata--French words and Italian, as though they were ashamed to
speak it out in good old English."
"Oh, we prefer sweethearts a hundred times. But I see Mr. Shagarach's
sign."
The marshal handed her out with old-fashioned gallantry, threw his
horse's head-weight on the curbstone and accompanied her upstairs.
Neither Aronson, nor Jacob, the office boy, answered his knock, but a
throaty falsetto, somewhat the worse for wear, was intoning an
evangelical hymn within. Strange quavers ad libitum and a constant
beating of the foot, occasionally heightened to a break-down stamp,
intermingled with the air. It was only by giving a rap with his whole
clenched hand that the marshal was able to arouse the attention of this
musical inmate.
"Evenin', Mr. Davidson. Keepin' house, you see."
"Good evening, Jupiter." Then to Emily: "This is Pineapple Jupiter."
"Cullud gospel-preacher, missus. Belong to the mission upstairs. Buy a
mission paper, missus?"
His complexion was as black as a coal shovel, but everything artificial
about him made the antithesis of the swan to the raven. His suit was of
bleached linen, his shirt bosom, choker and spotless cravat, all the
color of snow. Even his wool was wintry and the rolling eyes and
brilliant teeth gave his ensemble the effect of a pen-and-ink sketch, or
one of those black-and-white grotesques that recently captured a passing
vogue.
"When will Shagarach return?" asked Davidson, but a light step on the
stairs, which Emily knew to be his, rendered an answer needless. The
lawyer bowed with his usual stateliness and ushered them in.
"Remain outside till Jacob comes, Jupiter," he said. The negro salaamed
deferentially.
"As a result of today's inquiries," Shagarach folded his arms, "two
desirable witnesses are missing. The peddler, as I surmised, is not a
peddler; and the incendiary, who could assist us materially in our
researches, still remains in the Arnold mansion."
Emily's face was puzzled at this enigmatic opening.
"That is to say, he was not seen by any one coming out. I believe,
however, that he succeeded in getting away unobserved, as I think I had
the pleasure of meeting him this afternoon."
"The incendiary?" cried Emily, and the marshal echoed her.
"At the county jail."
Emily's heart fluttered. Had Shagarach become a convert to the belief in
Robert's guilt? And if so?
"You know Harry Arnold?" he asked.
"I have never met him." She colored a little, for she was not descended
from the Brewsters of Lynn. "But it seems to me your argument against
him is inferential, Mr. Shagarach." Twenty times she had gone over it on
her pillow the night before.
"Were the a priori case against Mr. Floyd as strong, you would have more
reason than you have to be apprehensive, Miss Barlow," said Shagarach,
in that ringing tone of his, from which all the sap of emotion seemed
purposely wrung out, leaving only a residuum of dry logic.
Immediately he began writing a letter, as if to terminate the interview,
and John Davidson reached for his hat, casting a glance down at his
carriage in the street. Then with an effort Emily unburdened herself of
the portentous message which she had come to deliver.
"I have done my best," she said. "But Bertha Lund is not to be found."