THE ARREST.
How he got back to his rooms Henry Cross could not tell. He was in a
fever of excitement--and despair. Never before in his life had he felt
so utterly dejected, so broken in spirit and hopes. He had confronted
her, accused her, made her flee from him to hide her tell-tale face,
and awakened to the knowledge that, in spite of all, he loved her.
He paced the front room like a caged animal that longs for the
trackless forest where no sign of man or civilization is yet visible.
He wanted to be alone, and he also wanted to throw off the weight that
depressed his heart.
“I’ll do it!” he muttered savagely. “I don’t care what becomes of the
railroad. Pardue and the rest can take care of it. I’ll leave Lakeview
and go to--to Alaska, South America--or somewhere.”
He continued to walk restlessly for a few minutes more. He wondered
what Maud would say and think when he was gone. Would she be sorry, or
would she feel relieved?
Half an hour later he was hard at work packing a trunk, having fully
determined to go away. In another half hour the task was completed, and
he looked at his watch.
“Just forty minutes before the boat arrives that will take me to
Mackanack Junction,” he said. “That will give me time to write to the
other fellows, draw some money out of the bank, and--drop her a line.”
The last was an afterthought which he felt bound to heed. Yes, he would
write to her, telling her that, no matter what had come between them,
no matter how far, henceforth, their lives might drift apart, he would
always continue to love her.
The letters were dashed off quickly, one to Pardue, another to the
constructing superintendent, a third to his office boy, and the last to
Maud, over which he lingered the longest. He stamped them all and gave
them to Jackson to mail.
“I am going away for a while,” he said. “Lock up my rooms and guard
them well during my absence.”
He fancied the janitor stared at him curiously when he announced his
intention, but he thought this only natural, for he had never gone away
for any length of time before. Little did he know of what was passing
in the man’s mind.
“Yes, sir, I’ll look out for them, sir. May I ask are you going far?”
“I’m off on a vacation, first to New York, and thence to any place that
pleases me. Go and get an expressman to take my trunk and bag to the
dock at once. I want to catch the afternoon boat.”
It was past the regular banking hours, but the clerks had not yet left
the big stone building, and Henry Cross had no difficulty in getting
the cashier to pay him several hundred dollars on his personal check.
He placed the bills in his breast pocket, looked at the long clock on
the wall, and found he had just eight minutes in which to reach the
water front ere the boat should cast off on her way down the lake.
It was growing colder, and in the air there were signs of an early fall
of snow. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, pulled his hat over
his eyes, and hurried down the street.
He was not aware that he was shadowed--that Jack Hull had been watching
him, and had been informed by Jackson of his intention to leave the
vicinity. All unconscious, he made his way to the dock, and, entering
the little office, called for a through ticket to New York City, at the
same time laying down a ten-dollar bill for payment.
The bit of pasteboard was handed over, along with the change, and Cross
turned to go outside, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“Come with me, please; I wish to speak to you.”
Henry Cross turned to look at the person who had addressed him. He
remembered the face of the detective, now without his beard, whom he
had met at the inquest.
“You wish to speak to me?” he repeated.
“Yes. Come outside.”
The young man breathed quickly. There was that in Jack Hull’s manner
that made him scent danger. He went out on the dock, with Hull still
close beside him.
“Come with me, Cross.”
“With you? What do you want?”
“I want you to come with me up to the town jail.”
“But I haven’t time. I wish to take the boat. See? I have just bought a
ticket for New York.”
“Can’t help that. You must come with me,” and now Jack Hull’s voice was
cold and determined.
“Why, confound it, what’s up?”
“Well, if you must know, I arrest you for the murder of Allen
Chesterbrook.”
Henry Cross staggered back--what man would have not?--and his face
became pale as ashes.
“Arrest me? Surely you are joking.”
“Not a bit of it, Cross. Come, I tell you; I have found you out at
last.”
“This is absurd--nonsensical in the extreme.”
“Come on--you can do your talking at the jail--unless you want to cause
a scene here.”
Henry Cross’ eyes flashed defiantly. Then a change came over him. A
crowd was collecting, for a few had overheard what Hull had said.
“All right, I’ll go along. But you will find that you have made a great
mistake. Will you be kind enough to have my baggage detained, too?
There is no use of their going on without me.”
The sarcasm was completely lost on Jack Hull.
“I’ve attended to that already; the bag and trunk are in the hands of
the police.”
“Ah, then you have been watching me--spying on my movements.”
“I’ve been watching you practically since the day of the murder. Now,
Cross, don’t ask any more questions, but come along.”
Once more the detective placed his hand on the young man’s arm. Cross
did not shake off the grasp, and together they left the dock and
marched along the street leading to the Lakeview County and town jail.
A crowd followed--a crowd that grew larger at every corner. The news
spread like wild fire. Henry Cross had been arrested for the murder of
Allen Chesterbrook! How the tongues of the gossips wagged! Oh, he was
guilty. They had always suspected him. He might as well confess at once.
Some ran ahead of the detective and his prisoner, and when the two
arrived at the room in which the police court was held they found it
crowded.
But the room was soon cleared, and then a formal charge of murder
was made against Henry Cross. He pleaded not guilty and was held to
await the action of the grand jury, which had begun its sittings for
that term the day previous. As it was a capital crime of which he was
charged, no bail was set, and he was taken to a cell.
During the brief hearing the young man had remained strangely silent,
saving to state that he was innocent and would try to prove it later
on. When the jailer asked him if he wished to send any messages, he
said no, not for the present.
Feeling sure he could prove his man guilty, Jack Hull did not hesitate
to speak of the case, and late in the evening the local paper came
out with an extra, giving the details of the murder, as previously
published, and with the present news, so far as it was made public.
This special edition sold rapidly, and it was the Willowby chauffeur
who bought one and took it to the astonished colonel.
“No, no, never! It’s scandalous!” Such were the colonel’s comments. He
was on the point of rushing off to tell Maud the news, but suddenly
stopped, remembering that she had gone to bed early, complaining that
she felt quite ill. “It will be time enough for her to hear the sad
news, poor thing, in the morning.”
The colonel could not remain at home, so he went down to the jail. He
would call on Cross and show the young man that he was willing to stand
by him in this hour of darkness.
But at the jail he met with a setback.
“Mr. Cross wishes to see no one. He sent out word to that effect.”
The colonel would not believe it.
“He will see me, surely. Tell him I am here,” he said.
The jailer took in the message. He was gone fully five minutes. On
returning he shook his head.
“Just as I said, sir. He thanks you for your kindness in coming, but he
prefers to be left alone at present. He says he may see you later on.”
“And is that all? He sent no other message?” Colonel Willowby was
thinking of his daughter.
“No, sir, not a word.”
The old man turned, and without another word left the building. Several
who saw him come and go shook their heads.
“This is a big blow to him, for Cross was sweet on his daughter,” they
said to one another.
The next day was a busy one for Jack Hull. He was closeted with the
prosecuting attorney for many hours, and then the two appeared before
the grand jury. They were also before that august body on the morning
following, and then Henry Cross was formally charged with murder in
the first degree. As the court was not busy, the trial was set down to
begin on the following Monday at ten o’clock in the morning.
In the meantime, Henry Cross remained in his cell, refusing to see all
who called, with the single exception of Pardue, who came on a purely
business matter, and never once mentioned the trouble on hand. Cross
smiled bitterly as he realized that even this semipartner thought him
guilty.
Yet Cross had one friend who would not be put off. This was a young
lawyer named Andrew Welford. Welford had always drawn up all legal
papers required by Cross, and the two had been confidential in many
matters. The lawyer wrote to Cross, begging him to take some legal
steps to protect himself.
“I know that you are innocent,” he wrote, “and it is the height of
folly for you to sit down calmly and do nothing. You must have a
lawyer--you ought to have two--and if you will only give me permission,
I will arrange the matter for you. I can get Martinham from New York,
who has no equal, and I will assist him to the best of my ability. It
is suicidal not to defend yourself. I think you know me well enough not
to imagine I am snuffing around for a fat fee.”
This straightforward note had the desired effect upon Henry Cross, and
he wrote back to Welford, asking him to call at the jail. Half an hour
later the young lawyer was on the spot.
He was truly astonished at the change in Cross’ appearance. The young
man’s cheeks were sunken and pale, and his eyes had an uneasy,
introspective look that was anything but hopeful. When he arose to
shake hands he appeared old and feeble.
“By Jove, Cross, this trouble is telling on you,” exclaimed Welford,
with honest sympathy expressed in his clear, brown eyes. “You must not
take it so to heart; you’ll go to pieces before the trial comes off.”
“Sit down, Welford,” returned Henry Cross gently. “I’m all right. Only
I’m not used to being cooped up.”
“That’s true. Well, what about it? Shall I engage Martinham? I saw him
yesterday, and he is not overbusy.”
“No, I don’t want Martinham.”
“No? Then supposing I write to Fordike or Innersoll----”
“It’s not necessary, Welford. I have already settled on a lawyer. Your
kind letter settled it. I’ll have you alone.”
The young lawyer smiled and his eyes sparkled. But then he shook his
head.
“You have an immense amount of confidence in me, I must say; but it
won’t do. I’ve had too little practice in such cases.”
“You know the method?”
“Oh, yes; but still----”
“That is enough. If I am to have any one, I’ll have you. I don’t want a
stranger.”
And to this decision Henry Cross adhered, despite all the arguments
Welford could bring to bear. Moreover, he was opposed to having the
trial deferred.
“Delay would be useless,” he said. “To me this solitary confinement is
unendurable. Let the trial go on and be finished as soon as possible.”
“But, Cross, you don’t appear to realize the seriousness of the case.”
“I do, perfectly.”
“That detective may have some damning evidence hidden away--false, of
course--and unless we are well prepared, it may--may knock us out.”
“What if it does? I’ll only be hung, and that will be the end of the
whole miserable business.”
Welford sprang from his seat in amazement. Never before had he heard a
man utter such hopeless words so calmly, so dispassionately, as if he
was dismissing the merest trifle. It flashed over him that Cross must
be becoming demented.
“Don’t talk that way, man. You are not going to hang; and you really
must brace up. Do you suppose I’m going to let that detective get the
best of us? Not much! Come, tell me your story, and we’ll exert our
best efforts to knock his yarn into a cocked hat.”
In this manner he attempted to arouse Cross from his apparent
indifference, and he partly succeeded, for Cross’ face took on a
brighter look, and he began to walk the narrow confines of the cell
nervously.
“I haven’t much to tell outside of what you already know,” he said.
“You heard my story before the coroner, did you not?”
“I did.”
“I told everything there.”
“You knew nothing more?”
Cross hesitated.
“Nothing,” he said, and turned away to continue his walk.
“You said something about a quarrel with Chesterbrook?”
“That did not amount to anything.”
“You refused to go into the particulars.”
“We quarreled at the Charity Ball, over a dance with a young lady.”
Henry Cross mentioned no name, but Welford knew very well whom he
meant. “We exchanged a few hot words, and that ended it. I dare say
both of us were ashamed of the quarrel the next day. I know I was.”
For once Henry Cross spoke as if he meant what he said. Welford
continued to question him, but failed to gain further information that
seemed likely to be of value.
Welford realized that the most damaging testimony against his client
would be the fact that he had been alone at the time the murder was
committed, and that his rooms were directly over those formerly used by
Chesterbrook--this coupled with the fact that both men loved the same
woman, and had quarreled.
Once the young lawyer started to bring in the name of Maud Willowby;
but Henry Cross at once stopped him.
“If you try to bring her into the case I will dismiss you,” he said.
“She must be left alone entirely. If she comes forward of her own free
will----” Here he stopped and would go no further. But he cautioned
Welford again not to seek her assistance.
The conference lasted hardly an hour, and Welford went back to his
office in no easy frame of mind. He believed Cross innocent, and also
believed that his client was holding back evidence that would readily
clear him.