Lawyer McWhorter, a nervous dread of the man possessed the minds of
the opposing counsel, as he rose slowly and deliberately clasped his
hands behind him. He was so calm. His methods were so unfathomable that
they began to feel a vague conviction that he mastered them and their
methods, while to them he was a closed book.
A moment he stood silent, and, when he spoke, utter consternation fell
upon the court. The words were the last they had expected.
"Your honor, the defence has no evidence to offer."
Even the court could scarce control its amazement. Inch by inch the
ground upon which the prisoner stood had been carried away, until now
nothing but the personal appeal of her counsel could save her life.
Was this possible? Did this young stranger really possess that rare
eloquence, that fatal magnetism, that sometimes blind strong men to
all sense of reason and right? Did even he hope to save his client?
His looks betrayed nothing. As he took his seat his face was that of a
sphinx.
The attorney for the government lost no time in beginning his closing
speech. "We commend the judgment of the distinguished counsel for the
defence," he began, "which deterred him from attacking the overwhelming
proofs we have submitted of the prisoner's guilt. We commend the keen
judgment which prompts him to rely upon the famed magic of his own
voice rather than to seek hope for his client in the uncertain words
of unreliable witnesses. The defence, too clever to attack such proof
as we have presented, will now rely upon silvery tongued oratory and
superb rhetorical appeals to secure from these twelve men a verdict of
acquittal. But, may it please the court," he concluded, "our learned
brother mistakes the intelligence of these gentlemen of the jury, if he
supposes, for one moment, that fervent appeals to their sympathies can
make them forget their duty to themselves, to civilized society, and
to womankind." So well satisfied, however, had the spectators become
of the prisoner's guilt, and so completely did all interest now center
in McWhorter's anticipated speech, that the remarks of the prosecuting
attorney were listened to with indifferent attention.
Now, surely, the brilliant advocate would demonstrate his ability, even
though he could not save his client.
"The woman," he began, amid oppressive silence, "who was arrested
on the second day of November last, stands charged with murder. As
no testimony has been offered to show that she committed murder,
the defence will not waste your time or insult your common sense by
unnecessary argument. You have been told with great clearness by the
witnesses for the prosecution that the prisoner was seen to enter and
leave a certain house at certain hours; also that on a certain day
she had high words with a certain woman. But, gentlemen of the jury,
under the laws of your State that doesn't constitute murder. A woman
may pay a visit to an apartment house at eight o'clock at night, she
may have high words with another woman in the public highway, she may
even wear a gold ornament in her hair,--she may do all this without
becoming a murderess. The evidence adduced is purely circumstantial. No
proof whatever has been offered that the accused woman killed Charlotte
Ames. In the absence of such testimony, it is your duty to yourselves,
to civilized society, and to womankind, to acquit the prisoner." Before
the last word was spoken he sat down.
The entire court room was again taken by surprise. While the brief
speech had the ring of cleverness, it fell far short of the general
expectations.
After hearing the judge's charge to the jury not one person in that
vast assembly doubted the result. Few felt any sympathy for the woman,
and those few were men. The members of her own sex were as a unit
arrayed against her. The pride of her pale beauty antagonized them. The
very women who in their hearts had wished the dead girl ill and who
would have committed the crime themselves, except that they lacked the
courage, had no pity for the accused. There was something in her beauty
above and beyond them, and, womanlike, they hated her for it.
Not a soul left the court room as the jury filed out, for all expected
a prompt verdict. In this they were not disappointed. Ten minutes later
the twelve men filed solemnly back. Not an eye sought the face of the
prisoner, who, like her counsel, sat entirely unmoved.
As the clerk rose the silence became deathlike. "Prisoner, look upon
the jury. Jury, look upon the prisoner. Have you agreed upon a verdict?"
"We have."
"Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the crime charged
against her?"
"Guilty."
With difficulty the demonstrations of approval that broke out in every
part of the room were checked by the court officers.
Moved by that inevitable heart-stopping vision of "hanged by the neck,"
every spectator turned to the handsome woman in the dock.
The calmness with which she received the stares of a thousand eyes was
marvelous. No one expected that she would now break her mysterious
silence. When, therefore, she rose and turned her eyes towards the
court the spectators sat fairly spellbound with surprise.
"May it please your honor," she began in a firm, clear voice; then,
lifting one slender white hand, she pointed to the door at the back of
the witness stand.
Every eye followed her gesture. A tall female figure, heavily veiled,
accompanied by one of the associate counsel of the defence, stood in
the doorway. The next moment she raised her veil, advanced rapidly, and
took her place beside the prisoner.
The scene that followed resembled a street riot, rather than the solemn
proceedings of a court room. Men, wild with excitement, mounted their
chairs, women rose in their seats, pushing, jostling, and crowding each
other in their frantic efforts to get a better view of the highly
sensational proceedings. The confusion was indescribable, the noise
deafening. Not until McWhorter was seen to spring to his feet did the
court officers' vigorous rapping and loud cries for order produce any
effect. Instantly all was silence. Rigid suspense held the spectators
breathless. With the light they had missed in his eye and the fire they
had longed for in his voice the young lawyer spoke, addressing the
judge:
"May it please the court,--nice customs must bow to desperate needs.
When a man is called upon to face in defence of a woman's life such
odds as I found in this case, when he sees justice outwitted by the
devil's trick,--circumstantial evidence,--he must resort to the devil's
weapon,--cunning. Such evidence as has been here given has hanged many
a man, and I believe that when a man of any heart, any soul, any
chivalry, sees that it is likely to hang a woman it becomes his duty to
combat fate as the defence has done in this case.
"I ask your honor, I ask the jury, I ask the witnesses, to look upon
these two women. As they stand there side by side, there is a marked
difference in their heights, a decided difference in the color of
their hair, a striking difference in the color of their eyes, a very
perceptible difference, even at this distance, in the tone of their
skin; and, I may add, a difference of eight years in their ages. The
woman who has just been pronounced guilty of murder is the wife of a
gentleman who throughout this trial has sat within the shadow of the
jury. She is innocent, as God is my judge. Every moment of her life
up to this very instant can be accounted for. In substituting her
to-day for the real prisoner, the defence had no desire to circumvent
justice. We merely wished to save this court, this community, from the
everlasting shame of hanging a woman whose guilt has not been proved.
We wished to show to your honor and to these gentlemen of the jury that
it is monstrous to accept as conclusive such evidence as has been given
in this case. May it please your honor, this jury has just pronounced a
verdict of 'guilty' against my own wife. I move that here and now this
verdict be set aside."
The request was granted, and, although McWhorter was charged with
unprofessional conduct and threatened with disbarment, his client was
promptly acquitted on the new trial which the court ordered.
FOR THE SAKE OF TOODLEUMS
"Now, Bert, listen," said Mrs. Rodney, taking her brother into full
confidence. "I want to talk to you. Tom is really the best husband that
ever was. Of course I've never had another husband, but just think how
he adores our baby--our Toodleums!"
Bert Loring glanced at his sister's face to gather that the last remark
was as a gold seal on her husband's virtues. She was young, pretty, and
winsome. She was also Loring's only sister. Nevertheless he rubbed his
chin a trifle doubtfully, for Rodney was a sad failure in a business
sense.
"Oh, well," he returned at last. "Since you say so, I presume that
settles the matter. You ought to know, Mary. Personally, I've nothing
against Tom."
"No," she affirmed decisively. "No one could help liking Tom. He's just
the most lovable fellow imaginable, so generous and kind-hearted toward
every one."
"Um--er--Oh yes!" nodded the brother. "There's no question about Tom's
generosity."
He was thinking of the last occasion when he chanced upon Tom downtown.
With great cordiality Tom invited him to lunch. It was a capital lunch,
too, nothing wanting, only--somehow Tom found it was unfortunately
necessary to borrow five dollars to pay for it. He had forgotten to
drop in at his bankers, By Golly! That was a joke on Tom, at which he
laughed in the utmost good nature. His wife was quite right when she
spoke of his kindly disposition toward every one. The waiter's smile
bore witness to it, when helping to adjust Tom's overcoat. Loring went
out with his overcoat collar bracing his ears. So much for the waiter's
discernment.
"But, you see, Bert," explained Mrs. Rodney, "Tom's only drawback is
that he has never been given a chance to prove what he is really worth.
He's wonderfully bright."
"As bright as a new five-dollar gold piece," subconsciously acquiesced
the brother. He was still thinking of the lunch.
"And ambitious for bigger things," added Mrs. Rodney.
"I don't doubt it," nodded her brother. It occurred to him that Tom was
capable of _ordering_ a mighty fine dinner.
"Then, Bert, why don't you get him a good position in your insurance
office?"
"What!" he cried. "Pardon me, Mary, I didn't quite--"
"Hush!" she laid a finger on her lips. "Don't be so noisy, Bert. You'll
wake Toodleums. Yes," she went on in an undertone, "a good position
in your insurance office. One in which Tom could shine and Toodleums
feel proud of his Dada. You know how attached you are to Toodleums--the
precious!"
"Yes, but you see, Mary," her brother began to protest, "the shining
positions in our office are pretty well all occupied. I don't glitter
much yet, and I've been years climbing up from the bottom."
"But Tom is so brilliant--such a fine talker," declared Mrs. Rodney
enthusiastically. "If he were once given the chance he would jump right
up to the top. Everybody likes him."
"Well, our president has been pretty good to me," he remarked. "I'd
really hate to see him lose his job--I mean within the next few
weeks--even on Tom's account."
"Bert, don't be ridiculous and sarcastic. Toodleums--the love--does not
like people who are sarcastic."
"No, probably not. But honestly, Mary, you must see what I mean. If I
got Tom a position in our office, he would have to take his chance with
the rest. But, as you say, he is a good talker, and might do pretty
well in outside work."
"Then you will introduce him to your president?"
Her face lit up with pride at the success of her plan to obtain a
position for her husband.
"I'll put him in line to show what he's made of. That's all I can
promise at present."
"Then you may kiss Toodleums," she added by way of great reward.
She rose and moved softly toward a lace ruffled and beribboned shrine.
"And be careful, Bert," she enjoined, "you don't stumble over something
and wake the sweetest. You are so clumsy in comparison with Tom."
Loring faithfully kept the promise to his sister. He first spoke with
Tom, pointing out the excellent chances for a good talker in the
insurance business, and the agreeable nature of outside work. For the
right man it might lead to the confidence of millionaires, and the
friendship of United States Senators. Tom was quite enthusiastic.
"Just the thing," he cried, slapping Loring on the shoulder. "The very
position I've been looking for. Don't worry about the beginning at the
bottom of the ladder idea. I'll climb up hand over fist. You watch me."
So Loring introduced his brother-in-law to the chief of the proper
department, and with him Tom talked with much enthusiasm of purpose.
He was finally told to report the next morning, when full instructions
would be given. He was in such high feather on the way home that he
bought a silver rattle for Toodleums--on credit.
His conference with the chief of his department the next morning was
satisfactory in all respects. He appeared to grasp quickly the details
of the various insurance policies, and spoke confidently of what he
intended to do with the list of prominent citizens he was instructed to
call upon.
"Mr. Vandermorgan. Sure! I'll touch him for a one hundred thousand
dollar policy right away. If I clean him up before lunch, I guess that
would be doing something."
"I guess it would," agreed the chief, who knew how for many months
they had fished unsuccessfully for Mr. Vandermorgan.
So Tom gathered up his papers and strode briskly out of the office.
He took the elevator with the air of a man who talked in nothing less
than six figures. Then he went out and walked around the block. When he
came back to the majestic portals of the Long Life Building he paused
to reflect. An idea seemed to occur to him. That it was a corking
idea, the pleased expression on his face indicated. He again took the
elevator, and was shot up to the floor on which his brother-in-law's
office was located.
"Hello, Bert!" he greeted, looking in at the door.
"Hello, Tom! How's business? How are you getting along?"
"Fine! Just going out to tackle Vandermorgan."
"Good! Hope you'll land him."
"Yes," Tom proceeded, drawing a chair up to his brother-in-law's desk,
and spreading out his papers. "But I thought I'd have a talk with you
first."
"Well, go ahead. Glad to help out in any way possible."
"Yes, that's just what I thought. Now, see here, Bert, how about your
taking out one of our ten-thousand-dollar policies?"
"What!" cried Loring, falling back in his chair. "Man alive! What on
earth do I want with a ten-thousand-dollar policy?"
"That's the point. That's just what I want to talk to you about,"
argued Tom complacently. "Every man ought to provide for the comfort
and happiness of his wife after his death. That's about how the chief
said I might begin."
"But you know I haven't got a wife," protested Loring.
"Well, that doesn't alter the case. Those near and dear to you will do
as well," went on Tom sympathetically. "Those attached to you by the
strongest ties."
"By the strongest ties?" questioned Loring.
"Sure! There are Mary and little Toodleums. As you are going to be
Toodleums' godfather do it for the sake of Toodleums. I'll just fill
out an application in his favor. Of course we'd hate for anything
unfortunate to happen to you, but every man should make a suitable
provision for those who are dear to him. The chief said that phrase
usually catches on."
"Well, I'll be hanged!" ejaculated Loring.
"I sincerely hope not," fervently added Tom, as he prepared to fill
out an application blank. "Shall we make it twenty or thirty thousand
dollars?" he asked, looking up calmly.
"Make it five and then go and chase Vandermorgan," retorted Loring,
fearful that worse might happen.
"All right. Five thousand dollars in favor of Toodleums. See you later,
Bert," and with a smile Tom strolled out of Loring's office to deposit
the signed application with the proper clerk. Suddenly he stopped, drew
a pad and pencil from his pocket, and began figuring.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "not a bad beginning! My commission on that
policy is just forty-one dollars and I landed it in less than an hour.
That's three hundred and twenty-eight dollars a day, one thousand nine
hundred and sixty-eight dollars a week, and--"
His calculations were interrupted by Dick Willman, who grasped his
hand and inquired: "How're you getting on, Tom, and where are you
bound for? Bert tells me you've taken up life insurance."
"Congratulate me, old fellow. This very morning I dropped into a berth
that pays me a hundred thousand a year. I'm through for to-day and am
off for home to tell my wife. So long"--and Tom was gone.
He had not yet reached the elevator when he turned, called back to
his friend, and going up to him, his face still wreathed in smiles,
confided: "Dick, in my hurry to get down to business this morning I
came away without even car fare. Loan me a five. Ah, thank you. And
come have a bird and a bottle with me at the club to-morrow. Bye-bye,"
and once more Tom was on his way to carry the news to Mary.
"I knew it and always told people you would make good if you only had
half a chance," interrupted his wife, as Tom triumphantly related his
morning's success to her.
"Oh, yes," agreed the husband. "I know how to get there all right. By
the way, how's Toodleums and how does he like his new rattle?"
IN HELL'S CAÑON
Adventurous prospectors who have followed the perilous trails over the
Cabinet Mountains have, as a matter of course, heard of the Lost Lead,
but only he who is a total stranger to fear has penetrated the chaotic
wilderness of Hell's Cañon, and thus come suddenly upon the Grave of
Gold. Four rude granite posts, connected by heavy log chains, enclose
the spot. On the face of the giant bowlder that stands guard over the
few square feet of sacred earth is carved:
THE LOST LEAD.
LOUIS GILBERT.
1860-1891.
This inscription marks the loneliest, yet richest, grave in the world.
Late in the spring of 1889, Louis Gilbert left his home in Kentucky for
a visit to his uncle's mine in the Northwest. He had lung trouble, and
the doctor had ordered an outdoor life. While his health improved, he
became infected with another ailment, perhaps the only one to be caught
at that altitude--the gold fever. Miners were his only associates, the
talk was all of lodes, leads and drifts, and the only communication
with the outside world was by the train of pack mules that carried
the heavy ore sacks down the winding trail. So it was not surprising
that his walks took the character of prospecting tours, and carried
him farther and farther from camp. Late in October, when his visit was
nearly over, he started with three days' food for a last trip, into
new territory. From a conical mountain top about ten miles west of the
mine, he had looked over a lower range of summits to a great expanse
of wild and broken country that he had never explored.
The weather was like summer when he started, but thirty-six hours
later, on the evening of the second day, a fierce snowstorm set in.
By midnight, the first blizzard of the season was raging through the
mountains. On the third day the storm still howled furiously, but
searching parties were sent out with a faint hope of finding the young
prospector before the trails became entirely impassable. In the dim
twilight of the afternoon they returned one by one, almost worn out,
convinced that the body of the missing man would not be found till the
warm winds of spring should melt away the drifts. Yet, as a humane
precaution, lights were kept burning all night in cabin windows, and,
guided by one of them, Louis Gilbert staggered into camp and fell
like a dead man before the messroom door. He was taken from the snow,
wrapped in blankets and laid before a blazing fire. When he showed
signs of life he was given hot drinks and put to bed. His prospector's
belt dropped to the floor like lead, and when opened was found to be
stuffed with nuggets of virgin gold.
In the fever that followed, Gilbert talked deliriously of his long
struggle through the blinding drifts, hungry, cold and aching for the
sleep which would mean death, yet forcing himself onward with the
blizzard at his back as his only guide. The amazing richness of his
find had given him the strength that saved his life.
Finally he opened his eyes with the old look and told in detail the
story of his wonderful discovery. On the east side of a stream, in a
cañon so terribly wild and broken that it was almost impassable, he
had found the gold on the very surface of a ledge.
Filling his belt, he had started to blaze his way back, when the storm
came down with frightful violence. The rest of the journey was simply a
horrible nightmare.
As nothing could be done while the snow lasted, Gilbert returned to
Kentucky for the winter, yet could think of nothing but his discovery.
He had found a fortune, had even put his hands upon it, and knew it was
his whenever he could stake off his claim and take possession. He spent
his time in making a chart of the stream he had followed on which he
set down every detail he could recall of the eastern bank, along which
he had travelled.
Early the following spring he was back at his uncle's mine, waiting
impatiently for the snow to melt and be carried away by the swollen
streams. Finally, after a tedious delay, he set out with a small party
of miners all eager to have a hand in locating the rich prospect.
"Hell's Cañon!" exclaimed the foreman, as, skirting Cone Top Mountain,
Gilbert pointed out the way. One of the men, a Mexican, declined to go
any farther with the party, and the foreman explained to the wondering
Gilbert:
"The Mexicans give Hell's Cañon a wide berth. They say that one of
them found a big treasure there, and then lost it and his life in some
uncanny way. They found his bones though, next summer. Knew 'em by his
divining rod, that he clung to even in death."
On the second day Gilbert and his companions found the stream, which
fought its way among the upturned rocks, cavernous gorges and fallen
logs. At the sight of it Gilbert eagerly led the search along the
east bank, and every spot was carefully searched. But the bowlder,
the two dead trees--every other characteristic landmark on Gilbert's
chart--could not be found. All search was vain. The map was not that of
the locality they were in--as Gilbert himself was obliged to admit.
During that summer Gilbert led out four other searching parties, but
never got any nearer the lost lead. Then he again went South for
the winter. When he next returned it was with a flushed cheek that
contrasted horribly with his pale, pinched look and steadily failing
strength. In spite of all disappointments, he was still hopeful, and to
humor him his uncle's miners occasionally made excursions into the maze
of peaks and gulches.
One morning, late in the season, Gilbert asked for one more chance
to solve the mystery of Hell's Cañon. He had had a dream, he said
enthusiastically, that this time he would be successful. The miners
did not put much faith in dreams, but, for his uncle's sake, and
because it was recalled that this was the second anniversary of the
great discovery, they made up a party and started out in the usual
direction. Although they moved slowly, the young man's feebleness
increased until it became necessary to carry him on a litter made of
boughs. This delayed them even more, and it was late on the third day
before they reached the stream. At the sight of the dashing water,
Gilbert's strength appeared to rally, and, sitting up, he directed them
to cross to the west bank. At this strange order the bearers exchanged
significant glances and called the rest of the party. They all believed
that with a brief return of physical strength the young man's mind
had broken down. The one point on which he had always been most
positive--that the vein was on the eastern bank of the stream--he had
now abandoned. It was evident to them that the lost lead would never be
found.