A HALF-WON VICTORY
Deprived of its promised dramatic sensation scene, the trial which came
on in the next week was, being mere repetition of what had been heard
before, to all but the interested parties, a comparatively tame affair.
By tacit consent the case was not mentioned again between Gastineau and
Herriard. There were one or two points on which Geoffrey would have
liked his mentor’s advice, but he forbore to ask it; and, on the whole,
was well content, save for the responsibility of Alexia’s reputation
which was in his hands, to take for once the whole burden of a big case
on his shoulders.
He was nervous, more nervous than he had ever been before, but that
was to be accounted for by other than professional reasons. Victory,
he felt, would mean everything to him: yet there were moments when he
could almost wish for defeat. It was something, however, to think that
if he won, it would be by his own unaided conduct of the case, and
somehow he felt that he would not care for Gastineau to have a hand in
the victory.
Countess Alexia repeated her denial of all knowledge of how
Captain Martindale came by his death with unswerving, convincing
straightforwardness: the Duke of Lancashire had his uncomfortable
quarter of an hour in the witness-box, but got off with less ridicule
than might have been expected, although with a by no means modified
conviction that persons of his class should be by law exempt from such
appearances, or at least from cross-examination. The truculent and
uncompromising Macvee made a fiercely argumentative appeal to common
sense on behalf of his clients; Herriard an equally logical and more
chivalrously passionate speech for the Countess, who was the real
defendant, and at the end of a two days’ trial, after an ominously
long deliberation, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty against the
peccant editors who were duly mulcted in heavy fines, and one, the
worst offender, to a short term of imprisonment.
So the victory was gained; the popular appetite, which was getting
rather tired of the food, was satisfied; yet, somehow, there seemed,
after all, to be a cloud over it in place of the glorious sunshine
there should have been. This feeling was borne uncomfortably in upon
Geoffrey Herriard as he went back to his chambers in the Temple.
There was joy in his heart: he could still feel in his own the
grateful--might he not now think loving?--pressure of Alexia’s hand
when he had congratulated her and received for a reward a look that
told him his happiness was assured. Yet, underneath all this elation,
there lurked the thought that it was an unsatisfactory victory.
Doubt, that terrible doubt, that hateful bugbear, had not been, as he
had hoped, utterly and finally annihilated. The verdict had seemed
half-hearted, as though gained by sympathy against men’s harder
judgment. Campion’s testimony was, so to speak, in the air; but it had
not been admitted, for there had been no time between his wounding and
his death to find a magistrate to take his depositions.
Macvee had rather curled his lip at the lagging verdict. “What you
people had better do now,” he had said gruffly to Herriard as they
gathered up their briefs, “is to move heaven and earth to find out who
did kill Martindale. A pity for all parties Campion came to an untimely
end; I should dearly like to have had him in that box.”
“It is just as well for your client’s liberty and pockets you hadn’t,”
Herriard had retorted, with a laugh. “The man and his evidence were
absolutely genuine.”
“They all are--in the solicitor’s office,” came the cynical reply.
“Anyhow, I should have liked to try a touch of the acid--the _lingua
fortis_--eh?”
There are men with whom it is as futile to argue as to reason with
a drunkard; men whose logic is a sneer or a shout, whose axioms are
adaptable to their line of argument, whose postulates are taken for
granted, and whose conclusions consist, fittingly, in having the last
word.
Mr. Macvee went off with a self-satisfied nod, strong in the assumption
that Campion’s death was a piece of bad luck for him, and, indeed, had
lost him his case. Herriard, when he had congratulated and taken leave
of Countess Alexia and her brother, left the Courts with his mind full
of the situation’s perplexity.
“We must not rest till Martindale’s murderer is found,” he said
seriously to Mr. Bowyer, the solicitor, who, with his dapper managing
clerk, was waiting for him in the corridor.
Old John Bowyer pursed his lips. He was eminent and highly respectable
in his line, and his line was not the hunting down of criminals.
“You think the result inconclusive, Mr. Herriard?” asked Mr.
Lee-Barker, the managing clerk, in a tone wherein professional
deference to counsel’s opinion hardly suggested that he had not one of
his own.
“It must be inconclusive,” Herriard replied emphatically. “We have won
our case; so far Countess Alexia’s reputation is cleared--legally. But
she can hardly be quite satisfied with that.”
“Quite so,” observed Mr. Bowyer, in his habitual tone of non-committal.
“The villain of the piece must be unmasked,” chimed in Mr. Lee-Barker
pleasantly. He had had the working-up of the case, and was duly pleased
with himself, without being in any violent hurry to pursue it farther.
Sufficient unto the day, he told himself, is the verdict thereof; at
least, when that verdict is favourable.
“Yes,” pursued Herriard earnestly, “he must be found, and without loss
of time.”
Mr. Lee-Barker wondered why in the world a counsel of Herriard’s
standing and ability should be so keen outside his brief. A smart
little man was Mr. Lee-Barker, with an enviable reputation in certain
circles in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Surbiton, where he lived; and he
believed in smartness as a paying quality, but not in Quixotism or
works of supererogation. So he merely smiled, as deprecating zeal
without instructions, and glanced at his chief with a suggestion of
getting back to the office.
“Quite so,” old Bowyer assented to Herriard’s urgency: “but it is
rather a matter for Scotland Yard, is it not, Mr. Herriard?”
“No doubt,” Geoffrey answered. “But they ought to be kept up to the
mark.”
“We can scarcely move in the matter in the absence of instructions,”
put in Mr. Lee-Barker, tempering his impatience with the deference due
to an eminent verdict-gaining counsel.
“No, I suppose not,” Herriard returned, with a touch of impatience. “I
will speak to Count von Rohnburg.”
In his chambers Herriard threw off his wig and gown, and sat down to
review the position; Alexia’s position, which was now, he told himself
with joy, his own. He was impatient to claim his reward; not, indeed,
reward, since his victory was its own recompense, but the fulfilment
of Alexia’s implied promise, now that the dark cloud was driven away,
that she would accept his love. But he could scarcely present himself
before her just then; justifiable as his eagerness might be, it would
not be decent. So that evening he must not go to Green Street; he must
nurse his impatience: there was a busy night in the House of Commons,
he would spend the hours there.
And Gastineau? The thought of his friend rose, for the first time
during their acquaintance, uncomfortably to his mind. In the ordinary
course he would have called at the hidden-away house in Mayfair first
of all to report his victory. But to-day he could not bring himself to
do it. He was conscious of a feeling, the extent of which he could not
measure, which seemed to hold him back. There would be no pleasure,
but distaste rather, in going to Gastineau’s that afternoon. Why?
His friend was unsympathetic, they were at issue about the case: he
had won it practically without Gastineau’s assistance, and he might
feel a little awkwardly conscious on that score. The subject had been
dropped between them; still, Herriard could hardly ignore the result,
and had no wish to proclaim it. Gastineau’s was the acuter mind, the
stronger will; he had taught Herriard almost everything by which he
had profited, and had imparted--that by force of genius--the knack of
success. To the younger man their relations were, and probably would
always be, those of master and pupil: the stronger will, the greater
determination would always stand over the weaker. It was, perhaps,
the sign of a certain weakness in Herriard’s character that he shrank
from meeting Gastineau that afternoon. A stronger man would have gone;
Herriard kept telling himself that he ought not to make an exception
on that of all days; and then he objected that he would not go because
Gastineau had practically declared his belief in Alexia’s guilt. It
would have been better for him, perhaps, had he gone; however, a
certain self-consciousness and resentment kept him away, and thereby he
forged a weapon against himself.
In an unsettled state of mind he set himself to gather up and put
away the papers connected with the case. Among them was a note he had
taken of Campion’s last words, his description of the man he had seen
in the hansom. “I could swear,” it ran, “that he was the same man I
saw jumping from the window at Vaux House when Captain Martindale was
killed. A dark man, with a pale face and piercing eyes, clean-shaven,
and with straight black hair worn rather long. He looked like a
foreigner.”
So much Campion had told.
That was all. And the great question now remained, who was the man?
The description was definite enough; nevertheless the police had come
across no such person; they were completely at a loss now, for the
suspect, so fully described, had absolutely vanished. Herriard feared
that Scotland Yard might, when baffled, relax its efforts; to clear
Countess Alexia, rather than to bring the unknown to justice, it was
all-important to him that they should not.
He folded the note of Campion’s statement into his pocket-book, and, on
his way to the House, called upon the Chief Commissioner, whom he knew,
and urged him to keep his men up to the mark in the hunt, and this, the
official readily assured him, should be done.
Next day Herriard received an invitation to dine that evening at Green
Street; he accepted it with elation, in happy anticipation of the
sealing of his betrothal. On his way he called at Gastineau’s.
Luckily there were several other matters to speak of before the awkward
subject was touched upon. Herriard could not help noticing that his
friend seemed strangely indifferent, giving points of advice and
direction almost mechanically; over the whole consultation there was an
air of unreality, of insincerity. This Herriard was inclined, somewhat,
perhaps, against his acuter judgment, to put down to the other’s state
of health. Presently he asked Gastineau if he were suffering.
“Oh, no; not particularly,” was the answer, given with an enigmatical
smile, “I am as well as I can ever expect to be.” Then, with a swift
change, “Where are you dining to-night?”
“At Green Street, with the von Rohnburgs,” Herriard answered, as
casually as he could.
“Ah! So you won your case yesterday.” The penetrating eyes were upon
him with their snake-like glitter. Herriard saw, but did not meet them.
“Yes; as you predicted.”
“Did I? Ah, yes. You see you did not lose much by Campion’s
disappearance from the scene.”
“I am inclined to think we did,” Herriard replied. “We just got our
verdict, and I fancy that was all.”
“H’m!” Gastineau shut his thin lips significantly. “Perhaps it is not
to be wondered at. You did not bring me the news after Court yesterday.”
Herriard turned now and faced the question which lay beneath the
reproach. “For two reasons,” he replied boldly. “One, I had to hurry
off to the House, and was kept there. The Government were in a bad way,
and the opportunity had to be made the most of.”
“Quite right,” Gastineau agreed. “And reason number two? Forgive my
curiosity, but you mentioned a second.”
“Reason number two,” Herriard answered, with a short laugh, “was that I
did not think you took a very devouring interest in the case.”
“Why, my dear fellow? Why should you think that? On the contrary, I
have taken great interest in it.”
“I am afraid,” said Herriard, “our interests were not the same.” For an
instant Gastineau looked at him searchingly, almost defiantly; then he
laughed, as he rejoined, “My dear Geof, interest is an equivocal word.
Beyond a professional attraction my only interest is your success and
advancement. In this case I happen to hold a different opinion from
yours, but surely that need not lessen my interest.”
Herriard put back the thought, still it had risen to his mind that
Gastineau’s speech was not quite genuine. The words, graceful enough in
themselves, relating to his interest in his pupil’s advancement were
glibly and perfunctorily spoken; an insincere formula, like a doctor’s
expression of sorrow at a patient’s ill-health.
“Anyhow,” he said, “I was not particularly elated at what might be
considered a grudging verdict, and as I had no other news it did not
seem very vital to hurry to bring you that.”
“I see,” Gastineau responded coldly, his manner plainly showing he
hardly accepted the excuse as valid. “So you are going to dine with the
Countess. I hope, my dear boy, you are not really becoming _épris_ in
that quarter.”
“I dare say I am,” Herriard replied quietly. “But then I hold a
different opinion of her from yours.”
Gastineau lay very still, and his face was white, deadly white. “You
will regret it,” he said, just moving his lips, in the absence or
repression of all feeling; Herriard could not be sure which.
“I think not; I am sure I shall never regret it,” he returned, with
conviction.
“And I,” Gastineau rejoined, in a stronger but still hard, passionless
tone, “am as absolutely convinced that you will.”
Herriard took a step toward him, holding out his hand. “I had better
say good-night. We do not seem likely to agree on this, and we must not
quarrel.”
Gastineau raised a listless hand. “Good-night,” he responded, with a
brooding significance. “You will go on your own way, then; but I have
warned you.”
A light of vague, horrible suspicion came into Herriard’s eyes.
“Gastineau,” he exclaimed, “do you know any real reason why I--I should
take your warning?”
Gastineau had drawn his hand away sharply. “Nothing in the past,” he
answered, “nothing for certain, at any rate. My only reason is my
absolute certainty that you will repent this step if you take it.”
“Why should I?” Herriard demanded.
“That I cannot tell you. It will appear soon enough.” There seemed
almost a threat behind the words.
“I will take my chance of that,” Herriard said, turning to go.
Gastineau’s voice, sharp to peremptoriness, stayed him. “You are going
to marry the Countess Alexia?”
“I think so.”
“Think so? You are engaged?”
“Hardly. But I hope to be to-night.” Then to soften the tone of their
leave-taking he added, “I am sorry I cannot expect your good wishes.”
Gastineau’s face seemed set hard as a dead man’s. “They could not be
genuine,” he replied in a cold, incisive tone. “The best wish would be
that this folly may come to nothing. And I think it will.”
Herriard saw the futility of saying more, so, with just a glance at the
grey face, cruel in its rigidity, he left him.