A SENSATIONAL APPEARANCE
One night, during the interval which fell between the magisterial
proceedings and the trial proper, when the judgment of the law was
yet suspended, while that of public opinion was clamorously divided,
Herriard came hurrying to the house in Mayfair with a startling piece
of news.
It was no less than the unexpected acquisition of evidence which seemed
as though it must at a stroke establish Countess Alexia’s innocence of
the death of Captain Martindale.
“A man has suddenly appeared,” Herriard related, “turned up to-day
at Bowyer’s office, who declares that at about 12.30 on the night in
question he was walking down Verney Street, and as he passed under
the wall of Vaux House he stopped at the west gates to listen to the
music which, with the windows open, could be plainly heard. That, as
he waited there, his attention was attracted by the sight of a man,
evidently one of the guests, who came out upon a low balcony, and,
having looked about as though to make sure he was not observed, climbed
over the railing and jumped down into the garden. Campion says he then
lost sight of the man for a few minutes, but as he stayed on there
thinking little of the matter, the man suddenly reappeared, hurried
past the gate and came out by the wall door, and then made off quickly
towards Piccadilly. Acting upon that evidence young Bowyer immediately
set off with Campion to Vaux House. The fellow described exactly where
he had stood and pointed out the window through which the man appeared.
It was----”
“Of course,” Gastineau interrupted, with his enigmatic smile, “the very
window of the room in which Martindale was found dead.”
“Exactly. What do you think of that, my dear friend?”
He was looking eagerly at Gastineau for evidence of his story’s effect;
but from the depths of those inscrutable eyes he could draw no certain
conclusion. There had been the alert, piercing glitter fastened on him
as he told the news, but, beyond a certain almost fierce interest and
enquiry, nothing was betrayed.
“A grand piece of evidence,” Gastineau now answered quietly. “Almost
too good, too conclusive, to be true.”
“The man is positive,” Herriard urged.
Gastineau nodded, as accepting the statement for what it was worth.
“Why,” he asked, “has he not come forward before?”
“He has been abroad, in South America,” Herriard explained, “and
returned only a few days ago. The possible connection of what he saw
with Martindale’s death occurred to him last night only, and he went
round to Bowyer’s the first thing this morning.”
“Ah!” Gastineau’s lips were curled in a cynically incredulous smile.
“What is the position in life of this Mr. Campion?”
“Oh, he is a respectable fellow enough,” Herriard answered, a little
dampened and set back by the other’s questioning attitude. “A clerk.
I should say a man of the middle class, ready to turn his hand to
anything decent.”
Gastineau’s smile broadened. “Including perjury?”
“My dear Gastineau,” Herriard protested, “I don’t think he is the man
for that. I have just seen him at my chambers, and did my best to test
his story. He seemed straightforward enough.”
“Let’s hope so,” Gastineau returned dryly. “So he went out to South
America. To better his fortunes, presumably. Has he done so?”
“I don’t fancy he has,” Herriard was forced to admit.
“You did not question him on that subject?”
“No. We were too full of the more important one of his evidence.”
Gastineau gave a little impatient head-shake. “My dear Geof, I
sometimes think I shall never teach you to look at a case and a witness
from the other side’s point of view. Now, which do you suppose Macvee,
or any counsel with a head on his shoulders, would go for in this case,
the evidence or the man?”
“The man, no doubt, seeing that his evidence, as we take it, can
scarcely be shaken. It does not, however, necessarily follow that
poverty and perjury go together.”
“There is a certain bond of union between them, though, especially in
a case like this, where such evidence as this fellow proposes to give
would, if unshaken, clear the reputation of a wealthy woman.”
“He has asked for nothing.”
“No,” Gastineau rejoined cynically, “that will, in the order of things,
come afterwards. He would at least have a strong claim on the lady’s
gratitude. No, my dear Geoffrey, we must walk warily in this new
development, and not jump at the conclusion that our case is already
won. I have seen too many of these dramatic surprises not to mistrust
them.”
Herriard laughed, a little uncomfortably. “You are inclined to be
pessimistic, Gastineau.”
“Pessimism is just experience’s drag-chain on man’s natural
sanguineness,” Gastineau returned with his knowing shrug. “An habitual
optimist makes a fine explorer but a poor lawyer. Certainly the
practice of our profession does not conduce to optimism. But here I am
only counselling caution and warning you to look all round this new
evidence.”
“Old John Bowyer is long-headed enough; he has sifted it pretty finely,
and relies upon it,” Herriard urged, somewhat vexed at the douche of
cold water which his friend seemed so unaccountably inclined to play
upon the important discovery.
“John Bowyer is shrewd enough,” Gastineau agreed, “but he is at his
wits’ end as to how he is going to win this case. I wonder, my dear
boy, that you have not yet discovered how widely the two branches of
the profession are apt to differ in their estimates of the value of any
given piece of evidence. A solicitor somehow never seems to get outside
the law, beyond the purely legal aspect of a question or a deposition:
he seems to lack the counsel’s faculty of forecasting the effect upon
the judge, the jury, and, above all, on the other side.”
“So you think,” Herriard suggested, almost in disgust, “that we ought
to set no value on this man’s evidence?”
“I don’t say that, Geof; but I can’t help seeing several weak spots
in it. Properly handled by the other side, and it is the kind of nut
Macvee loves to crack, it might very easily break down and go for
nothing.”
“I should be sorry if it did miss fire,” Herriard said gravely. “It
would be a heavy blow for the Countess Alexia. She thinks her case is
won now; and, of course, it means everything to her.”
A peculiar light shot through Gastineau’s eyes, the gleam in those of
a lazy beast of prey roused by the sign of a prowling rival. “You have
seen the Countess--already?” he enquired, with the suggestion of a
sneer.
“Naturally. Young Bowyer and I went to Green Street as soon as we had
satisfied ourselves about the depositions.”
With Gastineau’s smile the sneer was more apparent. “A personal
interest in one’s client,” he remarked, “is charming, but hardly
business-like. It is apt to warp the judgment, my dear Geoffrey. I
fancy there is more than professional _kudos_ at stake here. You want
this new evidence to be conclusive and overwhelming, consequently you
fancy it is all you desire. I fear that, for the first time in our
partnership, my dry precepts and unprejudiced advice will be unheeded.”
“I don’t know why you should say that,” Herriard protested, flushing
slightly.
Gastineau laughed. “My dear fellow, if I could not see what is so
fairly obvious, I should not be of much use as your guide, philosopher
and friend. I don’t blame you. Countess Alexia is, no doubt, a very
handsome and fascinating woman, and even lawyers have hearts, although
they don’t often get credit for them.”
Herriard laughed, perhaps to cover his discomposure. It is in the early
stages of affairs of the heart that intrusiveness is strongly resented.
“Your vision is keen enough, my dear Gastineau; so keen that it seems
superfluous to eke it out with imagination.”
“Is it imagination?” The question was put sharply, searchingly, and
Herriard rather winced under it.
“I’m afraid it is,” he answered. “Nevertheless it might not be a bad
thing for me if there were to be some truth in it; don’t you think so?”
The inscrutable light was in Gastineau’s eyes; an expression which gave
no clue as to the man’s intentions or feelings. A very mask it was to
the working of the busy brain.
“That is a question which I must confess my utter inability to answer
off-hand,” he replied, as the eyes half closed, veiling the enigmatical
light within. “It might be a good thing; it might be a very bad thing.”
“How do you mean?”
“The case, the lady’s character, is _sub judice_,” Gastineau laughed.
“You had better pause in any step you may be contemplating till the
verdict has been given.”
Herriard rose. “My dear Gastineau, I don’t know whether you are joking,
but surely you must know that Countess Alexia is absolutely innocent of
this monstrous charge.”
Gastineau, however, looked anything but convinced. He shook his
head half-humourously albeit there was no humour in the sharp eyes.
“Beware, my son, of allowing your judgment to be warped by personal
considerations.”
“Personal considerations?” Herriard burst out. “I hope I am not such a
fool. But I would stake my reputation, my very existence, on the fact
that the Countess had no more to do with Martindale’s death than you or
I.”
“You would most likely be right; possibly be wrong,” Gastineau
returned, in the drily sententious tone he could assume when direct
argument seemed inexpedient.
“Do you mean to say,” Herriard demanded warmly, “that you really
believe her guilty?”
“I mean to say,” Gastineau rejoined, stretching out his hand with
a smile, “that I am not going to quarrel with you about it; so
good-night.”
Herriard took his hand. “Gastineau,” he said, almost imploringly, “do,
for pity’s sake, look at this affair with a more charitable eye.”
“Of course I will, my dear fellow,” the other responded, with an almost
affectionate touch and tighter clasp of the hand. “Of course I will.
Only you must remember, if I am to be of any service to you in this
business, that the charitable is not necessarily the legal or the
correct view of the possibilities of the case.”
The manner in which he spoke was so winning that all Herriard’s
soreness left him. But he judged it wise to discuss the case no further
that evening. When, after a few words more, he turned to go, Gastineau
called him back.
“By the way, Geof, for we must not let my scepticism burke this
evidence altogether, what sort of a man was this that Campion saw? He
described him?”
“A dark, thin man.”
“H’m! A trifle vague. Anything more?”
“Bowyers have the full description. Naturally--always supposing his
evidence to be genuine--he would have noticed him particularly.”
“No doubt,” Gastineau agreed, with a recurring touch of scepticism. “He
is sure he would recognize the man again?”
“Oh, absolutely confident. I heard him say so.”
“Well, it is a comparatively narrow circle,” Gastineau remarked, still
with the incredulous smile. “The man must, in all probability, have
been either a guest or a waiter.”
“Campion says he looked like a gentleman.”
“Ah! Then Bowyer had better get a list of the guests and set about
identifying him. Good-night.”