THE HEEL OF ACHILLES.
"I shall be compelled to alter my theory at one point," said Shagarach.
"Yet your general conviction remains unchanged?"
"Absolutely. Your cousin is capable of the crime. A powerful motive was
present. We have traced him to the door of the room. What factor is
wanting?"
"I cannot believe it of Harry," said Robert, shaking his head
doubtfully. "But what has occurred to cause you to reconstruct your
theory?"
"My interview with Dr. Whipple, his physician."
"Harry was ill at the time, I believe?"
"He is able to prove an alibi."
"A hard obstacle to get over," said Robert.
"But not insurmountable," replied the lawyer. "Dr. Whipple happens to
be the most methodical of men. 'At 3:48 p. m., on Saturday, June 28, I
took Mr. Harry Arnold's pulse in his own room at Woodlawn,' said he,
consulting his notes. 'It was eighty-three beats to the minute.'"
"Rather high," said Robert.
"'Abnormal,' Dr. Whipple observed, 'something on his mind, I should say.
Overexcitement, worry, the fever of modern life.' His diagnosis was
incorrect; but the time is important. The fire was discovered, you
remember, at 3:30."
"So Harry couldn't have set it and got to Woodlawn," said Robert, as if
sincerely glad.
"Not in his mother's carriage, as I had surmised," said Shagarach. "But
an express train leaves the Southern depot at 3:29. It arrives in
Woodlawn at 3:45. Harry crossed Broad street from the passageway after
setting fire to the study--it is barely a minute's walk--there caught
the train and reached Woodlawn at 3:45. His house is close to the
station. Dr. Whipple found him feverish and with rapid pulse from the
excitement of his crime and the hurried escape."
"His mother stated, however, when she called, earlier in the afternoon,
that she had left him at home ill," said Robert, thoughtfully.
"She is solicitous about his delicate health," said Shagarach, with
almost imperceptible irony. The delicate health of the powerful
canoeist, the victorious steeplechaser, need hardly weigh on the most
tender mother's mind. This was their last consultation before the trial,
and the lawyer shook Robert's hand with a word of encouragement when he
left the young man to his hopes and forebodings.
The lawyer turned into a byway which carried him through the Ghetto.
Solomon and Rachel were sitting on their doorsteps, fanning away the
heat of the August afternoon.
"There goes Shagarach," said someone.
"He who fawns on the gentiles," said another, "that he may obtain places
from them."
"He is ashamed of his father's blood; he will deny his mother," was the
taunt of a third.
"Who is it?" asked the boys, flocking up.
"It is Shagarach, who was called an apostate in the Messenger last
week."
Jewish boys nearly all learn enough of Hebrew to read the characters.
They understood the answer and passed it along to their comrades.
"Here comes Shagarach, who was printed among the apostates," they cried,
edging near the lawyer, while the older folks prudently contented
themselves with passing remarks.
Shagarach only turned a deaf ear and a pitying glance upon his misguided
people. But as he chanced to look into the window of Silberstein's
store, the first page of the Messenger, conspicuously spread out,
attracted his attention, and he saw, under a black heading, among a list
of "apostates" his own name, with the description "Gentile Judge." The
malevolent features of Simon Rabofsky scowled at him from within, but
were instantly withdrawn. Shagarach, however, stopped and rung the bell,
while the circle around him stared in wonder. Was the pervert going into
Nathan Silberstein's house?
There was a long pause before any one answered. The maid who finally
came was wiping her hands on her apron.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Silberstein," said the lawyer. "I am Meyer
Shagarach, of whom you have doubtless heard. I desire to see Simon
Rabofsky, who, I perceive, is within."
A great flurry of moving chairs could be heard, as though the
convocation was breaking up.
"Bid him not depart." Shagarach was already in the narrow entry, with
the door closed behind him, and the stupefied woman in front. "Simon
Rabofsky," he cried, after the form which was disappearing through a
rear door. It stopped reluctantly.
"I wish to confer with you and with Moses Cohen. He is there. I saw him
through the window. The others may go or stay, as they please."
Cohen and Rabofsky stood before Shagarach in the store.
"Sit down. Draw down the curtain," said the lawyer to Mrs. Silberstein,
who with her husband and the others stood on the threshold listening.
"'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. As an interpreter of the
scriptures, you have met that text, Simon Rabofsky?"
"It is graven on my heart," said the money-lender, with unction.
"Liar, thief and hypocrite!" cried Shagarach, "you are as vindictive as
the viper, who stings the hand of his benefactor. Our conference shall
be short. I spare your white hairs before these people who respect you.
See to it that I walk through this street unmolested and I may forbear
for a time to punish you for the perjury you committed and the receipt
of stolen articles."
"I had not known the people of Israel so far forgot their good
teachings," said Rabofsky, "as to insult a peaceful passer-by, like the
gentile ruffians."
"Go forth without excuses," said Shagarach sternly.
"I will gladly remind them," said the cowed usurer, leaving the room.
"Moses Cohen, you will retract and apologize in your next issue, or I
shall prosecute the Messenger for slander."
"I have only told the truth," answered the young editor, doggedly. "You
are no longer a Jew."
"I am always a Jew," said Shagarach. "Though I worship not with the
ancient rites and forms, adapted for simple minds, my God is the God of
my fathers and my heart is with my people. I value them, I love them,
better than some who prey on their prejudices and wring ducats by
pretended piety."
"But----" urged Cohen, stiff-necked and arrogant.
"I have spoken," said Shagarach. "You have slandered me. Retract."
When he left Silberstein's house the Ghetto was deserted. The people had
fled within, and he saw Rabofsky far up the street, warning them with
uplifted hands. Only two or three children, with eyes like jewels,
played on the curbstone, innocent of the guile that comes with years.
Shagarach lifted one of these in his arms and kissed her. "Good-by,"
lisped the baby, as he continued his walk.
Bitter tears came into the strong man's eyes.
That night he wrote late in his chamber; and though he was usually the
earliest of risers, the next morning his mother knocked on his door
repeatedly in vain.
"It is the trial day, my son," she said, loudly. Slowly he arose and
rubbed his eyes. His clothing was dusty with the bedding lint. And when
he came down to the breakfast table his look was mournful and
abstracted.