HELD WITHOUT BAIL
The theories and clues in the now celebrated case Orr related to
Sylvia one after another as they reached him through different
channels. To the story of Marie Leroy she listened, her face averted,
without a word. The footpad theory she dismissed. It was absurd. But
the suicide theory impressed her. Even to her mind it was not logical.
Loftus was too cavalier, too supremely indifferent, to make it
plausible. On the other hand, it disposed of the whole matter.
Moreover, as she put it to Orr, what is suicide but the sinful end of
a sinful life? "Who knows," she asked, "what sudden remorse he may
have experienced that last night when he was alone there in the park?"
"Suicide," Orr had replied, "is assassination driven in. It is the
crisis of a pre-existing condition, a condition wholly pathological,
one which remorse may complicate but which it cannot directly induce.
There was nothing whatever the matter with Loftus. He may have been
sinful, as you express it, but he was sound. Besides, the man had no
more conscience than a tom cat."
Nevertheless Sylvia clung to the theory. She had no other. Hopelessly
she hoped that time would verify it. But she suffered acutely. Orr's
account of Fanny's attitude frightened her. What frightened her most
was the tale that Harris told. The latter she learned from the press.
Meanwhile she had gone to Mrs. Loftus. The old lady had not recognized
her, or, rather, had mistaken her for someone else. "My boy is away,
Fanny," she said, her head shaking as she spoke. "He is away. I don't
know where." She began to whimper.
Sylvia, too, had wept. It was pitiful. The proud, arrogant woman Fate
had reduced to a cowering crone.
Meanwhile also Sylvia had tried to see Fanny. But at the hotel where
Mrs. Price had been stopping she was informed that both were away. An
address was given her to which she wrote. For a time no answer came.
Finally from a different address Mrs. Price replied saying that Fanny
was ill and asking that their whereabouts be a secret. In spite of the
little threat Fanny was not anxious to be subpoenaed.
But that was much later, long after Harris had told the story which
Mr. Digby declared to be very good.
This opinion, editorial and offhand though it was, was immediately and
officially indorsed. For the story had a double merit. It supplied not
merely a clue but a case. A very clear case, too. There was the
antecedent threat, the opportunity, the instrument, everything even to
the motive which was reasonable enough. The inevitable ensued.
Annandale, arrested, was held without bail.
At the news of that Sylvia shuddered. Time touched her. Her eyes
ringed themselves with sudden circles. The shuddering passed, but the
rings remained. She became whiter, harder, more resolute, divining
dimly that somewhere, somehow, there was a duty to be performed. What
the duty was to be the press disclosed. Against Annandale was public
opinion. There he was convicted instanter. At the injustice, or what
seemed to her the injustice, of that she revolted.
But Orr, whom Annandale had immediately retained, dosed her with a
platitude. "Public opinion be hanged," he said. "What is it but the
stupidity of one multiplied by the stupidity of all. _Vox populi, vox
stulti._ The majority is always cocksure and dead wrong."
In spite, though, of general stupidity there were people sufficiently
indulgent to accord Annandale the benefit of extenuating
circumstances. The reputation of Loftus, which left rather a little to
be desired; the coupling of his name with that of Annandale's wife;
the report that for his sake the latter had been preparing to leave
her husband; the further report that for the convenience of both Marie
Leroy had been shipped abroad; these things reduced the case in the
minds of the indulgent to what the French call a _crime passionnel_,
and which, as such, is psychologically and even legally defensible.
But French views are not our views. Besides, admitting their validity,
that validity was impaired by the attitude which Annandale assumed. He
omitted to admit, and thereby for the time being waived the right to
plead, the circumstances advanced in his justification. When charged
had he said, "Oh, yes, I did it, and so would you or any other man,"
there, don't you see, might have been an excuse. But not a bit of it.
Up and down he denied that he was the culprit.
A denial such as that has, though, its merits. It puts on the
prosecution the burden of proof. Moreover, if you have done anything
you should not have it is only common sense to say that you have not
done it, to say it in spite of facts, in spite of evidence, in spite
of everything and everybody. For if you own up, there you are, while
if you don't then no matter what is advanced you may succeed in
raising a doubt and in planting it among the jury. But in this case
the denial was more serviceable than ordinarily it might have been for
the reason that thus far no one had been produced who could say they
had been about while Annandale was at it.
These points Orr set before Sylvia. The sophistry of them displeased
her. She did not like it, and said so.
"It will get him off, though," Orr confidently replied. "Unless," he
hastened to add, "a witness to the act itself should pop up. Then,
barring a miracle, he is a goner. But otherwise I will get him off. It
may take a year or two, but I'll do it."
"I don't want you to get him off," Sylvia scornfully retorted. "I want
him vindicated."
"You see, though," Orr with unruffleable calm continued, "if a witness
should pop up, a witness, let us say, whom I cannot discredit,
vindication will be difficult. It will be difficult to make twelve
imbeciles in a pen believe that when Annandale shot Loftus----"
"He never shot him," Sylvia cried.
"My dear cousin," Orr with the same unruffleable calm pursued, "the
beauty of your faith is wonderful. You must come to court and inject
it among the jury. Faith that used to move mountains may yet move men.
But I doubt it. I doubt that it could make them credit the incredible,
the fact patent to me as it should be to you, that though Annandale
shot Loftus he was, and for that matter still is, totally unconscious
of it."
"He never shot him."
"My dear Sylvia, forgive me. He did. Though what I can say for him
and, if needful, I shall say, is that he did not mean to. The intent
is the essence of crime. There was no intent here. Of his own free
will the man would not hurt a fly. But that night he was not a free
agent. He was not even a conscious agent. Of all the cells of his
brain but one was awake. In that cell was an incitement inciting him
to kill. When the other cells awoke that one cell fell asleep. It has
been dormant since then. Only through hypnosis could it awaken. In the
interim he knew no more than a somnambulist what he was about. His
condition, though, was not somnambulistic, it was a case of psychical
epilepsy, a malady superinducible in certain natures by various
poisons, of which anger is one and alcohol another."
Orr paused. He looked at his cousin. Incredulity, something else
besides, was in her face. He affected not to notice it. "Now," he ran
on, "go with a story like that to the average jury. Of course, if need
be, I shall have experts, the very best experts, to substantiate it.
But the prosecution will have other experts, experts who will be just
as good, to deny the possibility of any such thing. In that event it
will be only a pleasure to mix them up a bit and to show by their own
testimony that they know no more than the law--I don't say allows
but--pays them for. Do you mind if I smoke?"
They were seated in the sombre parlor in Irving Place. Meditatively
Orr lit a cigarette. Meditatively Sylvia contemplated him.
"Would it not be better," she presently asked, "to show that Loftus
committed suicide?"
"Yes, in the event that the pistol is found. It is rather late,
though, for that."
Sylvia bent forward. "Melanchthon," she said, "I have heard you
say--have I not--that everything is possible?"
"Indeed you have and you will hear me again."
"Then why not ask Miranda?"
Orr looked about for a _cendrier_; finding one he put his cigarette in
it. "You mean the medium. Do you know, I would in a minute, were it
not that it will be a long time, perhaps years, before she or any
other spook could call Loftus up. When a man is snuffed out as
abruptly as he was, he is so stunned and confused that it is quite a
while before he can sufficiently collect his wits to reply to any
communications from these latitudes. It is tedious that it should be
so. The spirit world needs remodeling. But there you are. By the way,
where are you to be this summer?"
Sylvia made a gesture. She did not know. It was then June. Fashion had
fled. Fifth avenue was empty. The town was an oven. In that oven the
girl would have preferred to remain. But at the preference her mother
had rebelled. Against Newport Sylvia had rebelled also. She was in no
mood for its gaiety. Finally a little place on Long Island suggested
itself. Ultimately there they went.
It was in this place that Sylvia heard from Mrs. Price of Fanny's
illness. Fanny had disappointed her exceedingly. That she could have
so much as contemplated the step which she had in view seemed to
Sylvia unspeakable. Her threat, too, in regard to testifying against
her husband was in the circumstances but a flagrant avowal of love for
the other man. Yet, for that love, how had she been punished! Perhaps
now she repented of it. Perhaps now in her illness she needed someone
to whom she could unburden her heart. At the thought of that Sylvia
wrote at once to Mrs. Price asking might she not come to her. But to
this Mrs. Price replied that Fanny after an attack of nervous
prostration was now down with typhoid, though with every prospect and
assurance of recovery. When she was up again, then, if Sylvia would
come, it would, Mrs. Price added, be nice of her.
There is a saying trite yet true that we should hasten to cherish
those whom we love lest they leave us forever before we have loved
them enough. There is another saying less true and more trite that of
those that do leave only good should be said. To Sylvia presently
these sayings recurred. Two days after the receipt of the letter from
Mrs. Price she read in the papers that Fanny was dead.
The paper fell from her. For an hour, which passed as only such hours
do pass, incomprehensibly, without consciousness of time, she sat,
still and stricken.
Through raveled skeins of thought of which the tangled threads refused
to wholly straighten, she blamed herself for all that had occurred.
Not indeed for Loftus. The man, his life, his death, everything
concerning him was abhorrent to her. Of him, other than that pity
which can mingle with disgust, she had no concern whatever. But when
she should have stood most steadfastly by Annandale she had turned
from him. Had he not implored her forgiveness, and did she not know
that all that God requires is that forgiveness be asked? But no. She
had been too proud and that pride she had nursed until it was too
late, until Annandale had married, with this double tragedy for
climax.
It was all her fault, Sylvia told herself. All her own. Had she not
abandoned Annandale he would have had no cause to threaten, Fanny
would have lived, there would have been no shock to debilitate her and
leave her a prey to disease. Fanny's death was at her door.
Companioned by these thoughts for an hour she sat, still and stricken.
When she aroused herself it seemed as though before her two figures
stood. One said "I am Duty," the other, "I am Grief."
A message from the latter she imparted to Mrs. Price. Many messages
not similar but cognate that lady received. Fanny had been very
popular. Her popularity the rumor connecting her with Loftus had
necessarily impaired. The arrest of her husband for shooting the man,
and for shooting him, as it was generally understood, on her account,
impaired it still more. In the upper circles the scandalous may be
relished, but it is not indorsed. Had Fanny lived, those circles would
have visited their displeasure in not visiting her at all. But death
is a peacemaker. It comes and where there was war is a truce. By the
worldly Fanny was immediately forgiven and by them as quickly forgot.
It was in July that she died. In September Sylvia returned to town. At
once she asked Orr to arrange for her a visit to Annandale in the
Tombs.
To that he objected. "You know," he said, "that you will have to
testify against him."
"Against him!" Sylvia repeated with an air of utter surprise.
"Why, yes. He was here that night. He has admitted it. You will be
asked to tell what he said."
In Sylvia's eyes both disdain and acquiescence surged. "And what of
it?"
"But," Orr exclaimed, "there is the threat. He made it in the presence
of Harris and repeated it in yours."
"He did nothing of the kind."
"But you told me so."
"You are mistaken. I know nothing of any threat whatever."
"Oh," said Orr with a bow, "this is magnificent."
But he meant heroic. In view of the girl's nature it was certainly
that. What is more, it was helpful. With Fanny out of the way, the
only one left that could testify to any threat was Harris, and
Annandale's word was quite as good as his, better even, for the value
of the servant's testimony would be weighed in scales in one of which
would be the _Chronicle's_ dollars.
Orr said as much to Sylvia, but apparently his views did not seem to
her very novel. It became obvious to him that she had thought it all
out for herself.
"Besides," she presently and irrelevantly continued, "I am to blame.
If I had not been stupid with him, there would have been nothing to
threaten about."
That, Orr thought, was rather putting the dots on the i's. But he did
not mind. He was pleased with her. His respect for her had increased.
Had she been the kind of a cousin to permit such a thing there and
then he would have kissed her.
Yet some reward he felt was her due. As a result the interview which
she asked he presently arranged. Under conditions which to her were as
tragic as they were humiliating she saw Annandale in the visitors'
room at the Tombs. The room itself was not absolutely appalling, and
though there was a keeper present, he was quite out of earshot, very
oblivious, extremely civil and, parenthetically, handsomely paid.
Orr awaited her at the door. When she rejoined him her eyes were wet.
Orr looked at her. A little tune occurred to him. "Sylvia, Sylvia, I'm
a-thinking--" But after all, he reflected, Fanny is dead.
Instantly the girl reddened and very distantly, her head in the air,
announced, "We are betrothed."
"Ah," said Orr, "ah, indeed! The engagement will be rather long, I
fear."
"Oh, Melanchthon, don't say that. Arthur is as innocent as you are. I
know you don't believe it, but----"
Orr interrupted her. "It is not a question of what I believe.
Independent of your interest in the man he is my client. I owe him a
duty. That duty is to get him off, or to do my best to."
"I know you will," Sylvia fervently replied; "I feel it. So does
Arthur. Besides, the only one we have to fear is Harris."
Orr smiled grimly. "Harris, I understand, is not very well."
"Not well? What do you mean?" the girl wonderingly inquired.
"I mean," he enigmatically answered, "that next week when I have him
on the stand I propose to give him a little medicine."
Then he smiled again, grimly as before, with an air of personal
satisfaction.