"We've got certainty now, because he's confessed--but he's mixed as to
the place of the shooting. He thinks it was in your place--that you were
present, that's all."
Murgatroyd seemed satisfied. He sat down at his desk and from a drawer
he drew a box of cigars. Now he leaned toward Pemmican and said
confidentially:--
"Pemmican, I want your testimony in this case--I want it _right_. Have a
cigar?"
Pemmican accepted, and finding a ready match in his pocket, struck it on
the heel of his boot and lighted the cigar before the slow-moving
Murgatroyd could pass him his matchbox.
"Thank you, counsellor, I have one," he said, and blew a cloud of smoke
to the ceiling. "You can depend on me; I'll tell the truth--the whole
truth and nothing but the truth, so help me--" His gaze returned again
to the pigskin wallet on the desk. "But say, I never saw that thing
before."
Murgatroyd picked it up and spoke in a still lower tone now.
"Pemmican, suppose I were to fill this with, well, say ten thousand
dollars and give it to you; how would you testify in this case, eh?"
"But," protested Pemmican, "I never saw ten thousand dollars in
it--No...."
"No," repeated Murgatroyd; "but if you should right now have it filled
with ten thousand dollars, how would you testify for me?"
Pemmican stolidly shook his head and answered:
"To the truth, counsellor--I'm an honest man."
Murgatroyd still persisted.
"How much would you take, Pemmican," he went on, "to swear that
Challoner did not commit this crime?"
Pemmican started back in alarm, and once more shook his head.
"Counsellor, I'm an honest man," he answered doggedly.
Murgatroyd gave it up as a bad job.
"You're honest, all right, Pemmican," he said. "You can go back now; but
I'll have you down again before the trial, and together we'll go over
the testimony carefully." He placed his hand upon the other's arm. "You
see, I'm most particular about this case." The next moment Mixley and
McGrath entered and took Pemmican away.
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Challoner arrived. She was accompanied by
Stevens, the butler, carrying a large parcel, which he deposited on the
prosecutor's table as directed. He was then dismissed; and when the door
had closed on him, the man and the woman stood for a few minutes
listening in silence to his retreating footsteps. Then in low, rapid
tones Mrs. Challoner assured the prosecutor that she had accomplished
her purpose without arousing the suspicions of any one--not even the
servant. Murgatroyd noiselessly locked the door, and putting his hand
upon the parcel on the table, looked at her interrogatively.
"Yes--the securities--they're all there," she hastened to assure him.
"Shall I----"
Mrs. Challoner's hand waved her permission. The big, heavy parcel had
been clumsily tied up with brown paper. This, Murgatroyd tore off, and
there stood revealed two long, sheet-iron boxes, old and somewhat
battered. They were heavily sealed, and across each on a pasted piece of
paper appeared in big letters the name "Miriam Challoner."
"I brought them just as they were," she went on to explain. "You may
break the seals, scratch off my name, and then they will be yours to do
with as you please."
"For the present," Murgatroyd told himself, as his eyes fell on the
vault door, "that will be their resting place." And turning to her, he
said aloud:--
"The deal is closed. You understand the terms? Everything is left to
me--I am to free your husband--I am to keep your money?"
"Yes," she breathed, as if some heavy burden had rolled from her young
shoulders.
And now for the first time Murgatroyd looked Miriam Challoner full in
the face, and said solemnly:--
"One thing more: absolutely no one must know of this. Not Challoner, nor
Thorne, and above all, not Miss Bloodgood. Everything depends on your
silence--your silence is the essence of this contract. You agree?"
Mrs. Challoner bowed.
"I do." And she might have been taking an oath from the way she said it.
"Remember you will say nothing to Miss Bloodgood...."
"Shirley will never know of it."
"Most decidedly not Shirley." But the prosecutor remarked this to
himself when once more he was alone.
X
The trial of James Lawrence Challoner had progressed with uncommon
haste, the fourth day finding all the witnesses heard and the case ready
to sum up to the jury. The court-room was crowded: the newspapers were
there; the people were there; public opinion was there. Brief and to the
point had been the State's case--made up out of Pemmican's evidence and
the confession of the prisoner. But in the prosecutor's presentment of
his evidence there had been an undercurrent as unusual as it was
unexpected: every question that he hurled at Pemmican had a hidden
meaning; every interrogation point had a sting hidden in its tail. Not
that he made any attempt to switch the issue or to side-track the facts,
but it was clearly apparent that from start to finish he was making a
supreme effort to include within his facts, to embrace within the issue
and to place on trial, together with the prisoner, one other culprit in
this celebrated case--Cradlebaugh's.
However, if such were the prosecutor's chief purpose, it failed. Thorne,
the counsel for the defence--who represented more than one client in
this case--met him at every turn, parried his every thrust.
"Objection sustained," the Court had ruled wearily many times during the
trial, "the prosecutor will proceed."
And upon such occasions Graham Thorne, from the counsel's table in the
front, had flashed a triumphant glance at Peter Broderick; and Peter
Broderick, in turn, from his seat in the rear of the court-room, would
return the gaze with a smile, the brilliancy of which was outshone only
by the big diamond that blazed from where it rested comfortably on his
highly coloured shirt-front. To these two--not in the least interested
in the outcome of the trial, so far as Challoner was concerned--the case
was highly satisfactory. There was no crevice in the mystery of
Cradlebaugh's in which Murgatroyd could insert the thin edge of a wedge;
its foundation still remained unshaken after the impact of his battering
ram; the Challoner case was to be the Challoner case, and nothing more.
"... That's all, Mr. Pemmican," were the words with which the prosecutor
had concluded the examination of his principal witness.
On Pemmican of the low brow leaving the witness stand, he had glanced
expectantly toward the counsel for the defence. Throughout the trial
there was in his manner a peculiar deference toward Thorne which had
been there from the first day. Under Murgatroyd's sharp interrogation he
had seemed quite at ease; but his attitude toward Thorne had always
appeared to be that of a man whose hand was constantly kept raised to
ward off blows. However, notwithstanding that he had been recalled at
least five times, Pemmican, on the whole, apparently was well satisfied
with his performance. Unquestionably he had been loyal and wary, and had
confined his testimony as to motive to the woman in the case--a row over
a lady--keeping that portentous game of cards well into the
background--out of sight.
"Surely you're not going to detain me any longer?" whispered Pemmican to
the officers who had placed themselves on either side of him. "What!
You're not going to let me go?"
"Not on your life!" remarked one of them genially; and showing to the
prisoner a slip of paper which he drew from his pocket: "There's a
warrant for your arrest."