“OH, Sandy, what luck that you took that picture!” Eve cried. “Shall we
take it to Michael right away or shall we wait till tomorrow and
present it as evidence when the case comes up in court?” She looked
doubtfully at Aunt Cal.
As I had expected Aunt Cal said she couldn’t have us poking around a
police court and it was finally decided that we should all take the
noon bus to Millport and see the lawyer whom Aunt Cal had visited on
Saturday.
“Gracious, I haven’t been so excited in my whole life before!” Eve
said. “Oh, Sandy, if we can only save Michael, won’t it be wonderful! I
can’t decide what dress I’d better put on—what do you think?” She
stood contemplating the row in her closet.
“Well, I don’t think it’ll matter a whole lot,” I returned, “as long as
it’s clean and whole.” I had seldom seen Eve so excited as she was that
morning.
“Oh, but we want to make a good impression, you never can tell when a
little thing like clothes will turn the balance!”
At last we were ready; Aunt Cal in her second best silk, Eve and I in
something far less impressive, but feeling frightfully important just
the same. We gulped down a glassful of milk each before we started, too
excited to eat anything. Aunt Cal locked Adam in the kitchen, more from
long habit, I think, than because she any longer feared he would be
enticed away.
The ride to Millport seemed interminable. It was a quarter to two when
we rolled into the dusty, car-lined main street of the town.
But luck was with us. Mr. Templeton, the lawyer, was in, a portly man
in shiny black who greeted Aunt Cal cordially and motioned us to
chairs. Aunt Cal inquired whether there was any news of the man Bangs.
“Nothing yet I’m afraid,” the lawyer said. “But we may get hold of the
fellow yet.”
“The girls have another matter they wish to discuss with you if you can
spare them a moment,” Aunt Cal then said in her precise manner.
“Spare the time!” I thought. “He’d jolly well better!”
“Certainly,” Mr. Templeton beamed kindly upon us. “Anything I can
do——”
It was Eve who told the story, of course. I would surely have made a
botch of it. When she had finished she took out the photograph and laid
it on the desk.
He examined it, nodding once or twice, while I fumed and twisted
inwardly. “Well,” he said at last, “I think perhaps the best thing we
can do is to go over and have a talk with the officer who has charge of
the case. Perhaps the young ladies will accompany me?” He looked
inquiringly at Aunt Cal.
She nodded her assent. “I will wait here,” she said. “The girls can go.”
“What about young Gilpatrick?” the lawyer inquired as we set forth.
“Any way of getting hold of him if we should want him?”
“Oh, Michael would be at the farm where he works until five o’clock,”
Eve told him. “It’s at Old Beecham, Seaman is the name, I think.”
The rest of the events of that perfectly thrilling afternoon will
always be slightly confused in my memory. What actually did happen is
so mixed with my doubts and fears of what might. Would the august
authority which was the Law stoop to consider our plea at all and, if
it did, would it admit anything so trifling as a snapshot taken by
myself as evidence?
I shall never forget the moment when the red-faced policeman bent
scowling over the picture; then handed it to one of his colleagues to
examine. Nor the moment when Mr. Templeton, tiptoeing in in order not
to interrupt the conference that was going on, whispered that he’d got
hold of Michael by telephone and that he’d be here in a short while.
Most of all I shall never forget the moment when Michael himself
entered the room. He was breathing fast after his hurried bicycle ride.
He did not know what he was wanted for of course but his mouth had that
same set look it had had when he had told us he’d never go to his
family for help. When he caught sight of Eve and me, his astonishment
for a moment wiped out every other expression. But in answer to Eve’s
encouraging smile, he gave only a curt nod and turned toward the desk.
“You sent for me, sir?” he said.
“Yeah,” drawled the officer. “Wanted to have another talk with you
’bout what you did last Saturday afternoon.”
Michael’s lips closed harder; he didn’t answer.
“Let’s see, you told us yesterday, that you didn’t come to Millport
that day.”
“Yes.”
“Where were you, then, Saturday afternoon?”
Michael scowled. “Just where I told you—on Fishers Haven Beach.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“From a little bit after four till just about seven.”
“Are you in this picture?”
Michael started as the policeman tossed the print across the desk. He
picked it up and looked at it. “Yes,” he said, “there on the end.”
“When was this picture taken?”
Michael stared for a second; then in a flash he got it! “Why you can
see for yourself,” he said, a new note in his voice. “It was taken the
day these yachts came in—last Saturday afternoon. They come into the
harbor the second Saturday in July every year. Here, you can see where
the last of them is just coming inside the breakwater!”
The other nodded. But the man beside the desk spoke suddenly: “How do
we know this here picture wasn’t taken Sunday morning when the boats
went out?” he inquired.
Michael laughed at him; it was his old light-hearted, ringing laugh.
“Well, you ought to know, sir,” he said, “that you can’t face inland
and have the sun in your face on Fishers Haven Beach in the morning!
The yachts leave early; the sun would have been behind us instead of in
our faces. Besides the position of the sails in the picture shows which
way the boats were moving. If they’d been going out——”
“All right,” the officer interrupted. “That’s all. Charge dismissed.”
“Oh,” Eve cried, “and he won’t have to go to court tomorrow!”
“That’s right,” the officer said with something that approached a
smile. He turned to Mr. Templeton and the two conferred together. I
caught the name of Bangs.
Michael came toward us; he was actually embarrassed. But the familiar
quirky smile played about his lately solemn countenance. He had come
from the farm just as he was and didn’t even wear a coat over his
turned-in blue shirt. “I thought I told you,” he said with the pretense
of a scowl, “that I didn’t want you mixed up in this!”
“Are you angry with us?” Eve asked demurely.
“Furious! And besides, I never am any good at saying thank you!”
“Then don’t,” retorted Eve. “Anyway it was all Aunt Cal’s doing. She
was the one who first saw what the picture might do for you.”
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