TWO STEPS FORWARD AND ONE TO THE REAR.
At the afternoon session Mrs. Arnold was found at her place, still
unaccompanied by her son. Five lawyers had already outlined their
standpoints to the judge, but still there were new complications in
store. Lawyer Howell was Shagarach's earliest opponent, the Goliath of
his first great duel. He contented himself with stating his intention to
attach Floyd's share of the property in behalf of the insurance
companies and proprietors who had suffered loss through the crime with
which he was charged. He was of opinion that the evidence offered to
uphold the will lacked particularity and was insufficient----
"Brother Howell is not here as associate justice." Shagarach was on his
feet in a flash. "His opinions are impertinences, too manifestly
dictated by his interests. Naturally the insurance companies and
burned-out proprietors desire to break this will, in order that Robert
Floyd may take the $5,000,000 which he does not want and they may join
the hue and cry of the other conspirators against an innocent man."
Howell was protesting against such a suggestion, when he was interrupted
by a roar from one of the learned brethren who had been impatiently
waiting his turn.
"I speak for the murdered girls," he cried, "whose pure young blood
stains the hands of that guilty monster, and in the name of their
bleeding corpses and young lives, ruthlessly done to death, I utter my
protest against the imputation of innocence to their slayer."
The auditors, who had begun to drowse over the technical details of the
case, were stirred to attention at once by this declamatory opening.
Even Saul Aronson, sleepy from his restless night, checked a yawn midway
with his fingers and turned around. The new speaker was a middle-sized,
burly man, whose most conspicuous feature was a projection of the flesh
beneath the outer corners of his eyebrows, so as to bury the eyes and
give his whole face an expression almost Mongolian in its cunning. His
clothes were seedy, and his remarks punctuated by amber-colored shots at
the cuspidor. Altogether it was a decidedly rakish craft and the look on
Judge Dunder's face was by no means propitious.
"It is an axiom of law," said the orator, waving his hand and executing
a demi-volt toward the spectators, "that no man can take advantage of
his own tort. I hereby accuse Robert Floyd of the murder of my
clients----"
"Who are your clients?" interrupted the judge.
"Mary and Florence Lacy, two virtuous maidens, the sunshine of a happy
home, the pride of a loving and admiring circle of friends"--just here
came one of the orator's punctuation points, which produced a sadly
antithetical effect--"the comforts of a bereaved mother's heart----"
An old lady in the audience burst into tears. Presumably it was Mrs.
Lacy. This tribute to his eloquence warmed the orator to a mighty
outburst.
"Woe, I say, to that ruthless hand! Perdition gripe that marble
heart----"
"Will you kindly make your statements relevant?" The judge's manner was
arctic. "We are considering the disposition of Benjamin Arnold's
estate."
"I beg to interpose." Hodgkins had seen a ray of hope in the utterances
of the last two speakers. Slack, the grandiloquent, was a bibulous
shyster, who made a precarious livelihood by imposing on just such
victims as Mrs. Lacy, but at this juncture he might prove a useful ally.
"Brother Slack is not unnaturally, I may say most creditably, carried
away by his feelings on behalf of his clients; and I, for one, heartily
join him in opposing the efforts which have been made here today to put
the means of redress for those--er--unhappy victims beyond their
reach--or, rather, to reduce them to a paltry $20,000."
"Twenty thousand dollars!" shrieked Slack. "Who dares insult the
sanctity of human life by estimating its value at such a bagatelle. I
say not $20,000,000 would recompense that weeping mother for the loss of
the children of her bosom."
With pointed finger he held up the grief of the now blushing and
embarrassed woman to the curious gaze of the crowd. Then, wearied of his
vulgarity, and confident of a case already complete, Shagarach rose and
immediately drew all eyes and ears.
"Brother Slack has unwittingly uttered the strongest argument of the day
in favor of the request which I make--a request, be it understood, for
postponement only, until sufficient time elapses to permit the contents
of this will to be demonstrated. Brother Slack assumes the guilt of my
client in a criminal cause now pending. Brother Howell assumes it;
Brother Hodgkins, in asking you to exclude him from the
administratorship, also assumes it. This is a new doctrine of law, to
adjudge a man guilty without according him an opportunity for defense. I
ask your honor to consider the stigma which the choice of Harry Arnold
as sole administrator would cast upon Robert Floyd, and the prejudice it
would work him in the cause I have mentioned.
"But, aside from this, I ask you to consider the chain of evidence
presented as to the will itself. Let us keep in mind that will is only
legalized wish. I am aware that great particularity is required in such
cases as ours. But when your honor reviews the statements of Martha
Greeley, of Mrs. Christenson, of the six superintendents of institutions
of charity, and of Dr. Silsby--yes, and I will add the letter to Brother
Hodgkins, who, it now appears, was to stand as executor only of that
small residue of the estate which did not go to the founding of the
Arnold academia--when your honor reviews these I am convinced that you
will agree that the disposition of this vast property is not a matter to
be hastily determined.
"My brother has referred to the supposed advantage reaped by Floyd from
the destruction of the will. Floyd is not here to speak for himself, but
he has contended consistently that the reduction of his legacy to
$20,000 was made at his own request, and that even that small sum was in
excess of his wishes. Read as I read them, the expressions of endearment
in the letter to Dr. Silsby support this statement. They are not the
language of an irate testator, used in reference to a disinherited heir.
Allow me, moreover," Shagarach was now looking straight at Mrs. Arnold,
"to point out that Robert Floyd was not the only gainer by the
destruction of Prof. Arnold's will. What atom of evidence has been
adduced to show that the testator remembered Harry Arnold?"
Mrs. Arnold started and reddened at the mention of her son's name. Then
she put her handkerchief to her lips and coughed nervously. Shagarach's
glance was just long enough to avoid attracting general attention toward
her.
"For these reasons I ask that your honor schedule a second hearing of
this important cause, to take place after a complete survey of the
evidence shall have demonstrated that not Robert Floyd but another is
responsible for the death of Mary and Florence Lacy."
Mrs. Arnold's trembling was painfully apparent, and there was nothing in
Hodgkins' feeble and desultory reply to give her hope.
"I will take the matter under consideration," said Judge Dunder, when he
had closed, and Shagarach knew that a severe blow at Robert's
reputation, as well as a timely relief to the Arnold purse, had been
prevented by that morning's work.
There were fewer clients than usual in the office when he returned. One
of them, a large man, immediately arose.
"I am Patrolman Chandler," said he.
"What can we do for each other?"
"Not much, perhaps." The policeman drew an envelope from his pocket and
showed a lemon-colored glove inside. "Will that help you any?"
"Perhaps. It has a story?"
"A short one. That glove's been in my pocket ever since I was taken to
the hospital when the girl fell on me. Never thought of it; hardly knew
it was there. Had broken bones to think of, you know."
"I read of your bravery at the fire."
"Pshaw! Well, here's the history of that article. I know Floyd; have
known him ever since I took that route. Things look blue for the boy,
but I never heard harm of him before, and says I to myself, yesterday
when I found the glove, perhaps Mr. Shagarach can turn this to good
account, and perhaps he can't. It's worth trying, and if it saves
Floyd's neck, why, it's no more'n I'd like to have him do for me if our
positions were just right about."
"That's the golden rule, stated in the vernacular. Where did you find
this?"
"On the stairs in the Arnold house."
"After the fire?"
"When I went into the house at the beginning."
"How was it lying?"
"About the middle of the staircase, I believe."
"A little to the left, with the fingers pointing to the door?"
"Exactly--close to the wall."
"It is a right-hand glove. He was carrying it in his left hand and
dropped it when running downstairs." Shagarach said this sotto voce, as
if to himself.
"Who? Floyd?"
"The incendiary."
"I don't know that I ever saw young Floyd with gloves on except in
winter. Seems too loud for him anyway--more like some swell's."
"You will leave this with me?"
"Glad to, glad if it helps you," said the officer, rising to go.
Shagarach took his hand and thanked him, then tried on the glove and
studied it for fully five minutes before admitting his regular clients.
If it were Floyd's the case had neither gained nor lost. But he felt
that the kid was too fine, the make too fashionable, for the eccentric
young radical, who, as Chandler had noticed, never wore gloves except
for protection against the cold. There was no hint of identity about it.
Had it belonged to Harry Arnold? If so, how did it happen to lie on the
stairs of his uncle's house immediately after the fire?
* * * * *
The island fort was a many-angled specimen of ancient masonry, following
the shore line of an islet in the harbor. It was useless now. No flag
streamed from its pole. Passing vessels no longer saluted it, only a
lame old sergeant being about to protect the property. By an arrangement
with the local authorities it had been converted into a pleasure-ground
and connected with an adjacent peninsular of the city by a pier or
bridge of half a mile's length. This was the rendezvous mentioned by the
anonymous correspondent.
When Shagarach stepped from the car on his way to meet Mr.
Skull-and-Crossbones he found that he was early. It still wanted twenty
minutes to the appointed hour. The humanity of the district was just
rising from its supper tables in teeming tenements to enjoy the cool
liberty of the twilight air, and Shagarach listened to the sayings of
the multitude whose current he found himself stemming. They were flowing
to an open-air concert at some point behind him. The correspondent had
timed his evening well for a lonely conference.
As he approached the pier the crowd thinned and at last he found himself
walking near the water alone. Ships were putting into port, with red and
green caution lights hung aloft. The sea, now violet, melted into the
sky and a gathering dimness subdued everything to one tone. Only the
black tree-masses and the outlines of the houses stood out somberly
distinct.
"We violate nature," said Shagarach to himself, "with our angular,
unsightly houses, but she puts her own fairer version on all at
last--mosses the manse, curves the beach, litters the ruin, bathes the
hard carpentry and mason work of the city with soft twilight balm." He
looked back upon the sad accumulation of misery, amid whose foulest reek
he was doomed to live. A greenish tint hung over it where the sunset had
sunk. It was a rare hue for the heavens to wear--something bizarre yet
beautiful, like yellow roses.
Thus far Shagarach had walked alone. Leaning over the railing on the
right, he saw three boys fishing in a dory below. One of them was just
lighting a lantern, for the thick dusk had begun to gather. The
penetrating silence favored their occupation and he paused a moment to
watch the silver-bellied mackerel slapping their bodies in the basket. A
little farther on an oafish monster stood against the railing on the
left. Shagarach thought he leered mirthlessly when their eyes met.
Then at the middle of the pier he came to a closed gate, shutting off
access to the island.
"No admission to the fort after 7 p. m.----" He had started to read the
placard, when suddenly he felt himself seized from behind. A hand over
his mouth throttled the outcry he launched. It was too late to reach
for the revolver. A brief, fierce trial of strength and he found
himself forced over the railing into the water. The shock, to one who
had never entered the ocean before, was icy as death.
His senses did not depart from him. He made an effort to lie still on
the surface and to hold his breath. A hideous face projected over the
railing, printed itself on his memory, and then disappeared. He knew
that he clutched his assailant's cap in his right hand, and that the
lights of the city were dancing before him as he rose and sunk. Then the
only thing he felt was the gurgling of the deep, dark water nearer,
nearer, nearer. How to fight it off? His hands wildly strove to push it
away. All the sweetness of the world he was leaving flashed through him
in one pregnant second, whereupon his resolution yielded. He opened his
lips to utter the fatal "Help!" of the drowning man, and the element
rushed in and made him its own.