The next day found the situation unchanged. Rumors of every description
ran wild. Telegrams of condolence from all the sovereigns of the world
were received at Washington by the dazed Department of State. These were
fully given to the omnivorous press. By order of the Vice-President, all
other news was for the present rigorously withheld from publication. To
this censorship the press submitted cordially. Mystery was brooding over
the land, and despair laughed detectives in the face. Men met each other
and asked only this question:
"Have they been found?"
A sad shake of the head always followed.
"No wonder," the Governor of Massachusetts was heard to say, "with
thousands of assassins coming over here every year. Even our President
was not safe. God help our country!"
At the end of a few days the full news, as far as it went, was
published, and the nation then drew its second breath. The facts about
this stupendous abduction, as given to the public by the end of the
week, were briefly these: This is the affidavit of the night sentry, who
was stationed in the vestibule of the White House.
"My name is George Henry. I am thirty-four years old. I was born in this
country. My father was a slave. It was about one-thirty last night when
I was aroused by a double rap at the main entrance. I was not asleep,
but I may have been a little sleepy. I asked who was there, and a voice
answered that the Secretary of State wished to see the President on
business of the greatest importance. I answered that the President was
in bed. He said that he must see the President immediately. Then I
thought I recognized the voice of Mr. Secretary. I opened the door and,
sure enough, Mr. Secretary entered. He had on a silk hat and the gray
overcoat he usually wears. He gave me his card, and told me to take it
right up to the President. The door was left open and I noticed it was
raining. The carriage of the Secretary was standing under the portico. I
did not see the coachman. When I bowed and turned to go upstairs there
was a strange smell in the air, and I remember nothing more."
The cross-examination brought out from the prisoner, who seemed to
answer honestly and intelligently, that he was sure it was the Secretary
of State, but his voice seemed changed by a cold. He felt positive about
the carriage, for he recognized the team, a gray and a black. He heard
no voices outside. When chloroform was produced, he said that was the
same smell, but there was something more that was considerably tarter.
He persisted in the same story, and repeated it over and over without
variation. It looked dubious for his excellency the Secretary of State.
The next witness was the night sentry on the second floor. He was badly
frightened, was a little confused, but told a straight story. His
deposition was as follows:
"Yes, sah, my name is Frank Steven. I have alluz been a colored man. I
was bahn in Ohio when I was twelve years old." [At this juncture a glass
of ice water restored the equilibrium of the witness.] "I moved to Ohio
when I was twelve years old. I was born in Mississipy. I'm forty-two
now, I think. It might have been half after one or two when I heard a
step a-coming up the stairs. I went to the landing and saw Mr. Secretary
of State a-coming up with his hat on; and how he got there the Lawd only
knows. He told me to show him to Mr. President's room. He spoke mighty
sharp, and I thought it was all right, so I led the way. When I was
a-going to knock at Mr. President's door, he told me to stop and have a
cigar first. He never offered me one before, and I was mighty surprised.
There was a strange smell, like an apothecary store and I don't know
anything more about it. That is all I know, sir."
Subsequent examination brought out no new fact, except that the prisoner
remembered that the Secretary coughed behind a handkerchief as he spoke,
and that one hand was concealed under his gray overcoat; this was pulled
over his ears. The thing that struck him most was that the Secretary
kept his hat on during the whole interview. The watchman had never known
him to keep his hat on in the house before. Like the first witness, he
recognized the odor of chloroform, and thought there was something else
besides. He was surprised to find himself gagged and bound when he came
to.
As the two witnesses corroborated each other, and as neither had any
communication with the other, they were substantially believed. The fact
that this testimony was indisputably damaging to the Secretary of State,
and the further circumstantial evidence of his card having been
recovered from the floor of the lower vestibule, caused the
investigating committee, of which Inspector Byrnes was the chairman,
rigorously to exclude all reporters, lest the evidence might make it, to
say the least, uncomfortable for the suspected dignitary. It was natural
that, by ten o'clock on the morning of the drama, a secret guard should
be placed over the head of the Department of State, though no movement
was made as yet toward his arrest.
The next witness of importance was the President's valet, who swore that
the President retired unusually early that night and dismissed him with
the special injunction that the house should be kept quiet, as the
President had a headache and wished perfect rest.
It may be well to state here that the new incumbent of the presidential
chair shared with his wife the traditions of Jeffersonian simplicity of
living, and that they departed so little from their original home habits
that house detectives were abolished, and the distinguished pair lived,
entertained, and slept with as scant formality as the sovereign people
allowed. The doors communicating with their sleeping apartments were
rarely locked. Full dependence for safety was placed upon the two
trusted watchmen whose deposition has been given.
The children and their attendants, who slept in adjacent rooms, heard no
noise during the night. In short, none but the two under strict arrest
were aware of the entrance of any person or persons after twelve
o'clock. In the meanwhile, detectives were stationed unostentatiously
throughout the White House, watching with professional acuteness the
movements of everyone within its doors.
At eleven o'clock precisely on the morning of the ninth of June,
Inspector Byrnes and the chief of the Washington police drove up in a
hack to the door of the Secretary's mansion, and requested a private
interview. Within was feverish commotion. Senators and Representatives,
public officials and men of eminence were sending in their cards and
excitedly discussing the dreadful news. Telegrams were beginning to pour
in. The first impression was confirmed that a political coup or revenge
was at the bottom of the shocking affair, and whispers were mysteriously
exchanged between sombre and stately heads.
When the Secretary saw the cards he immediately withdrew, with an aside
to the Secretary of War: "This visit may clear up some of the mystery."
These words were not calculated to soothe the impatience of the inner
circle.
When the three were alone in the private office, the chief of the
Washington police force tersely opened the subject. He was a blunt
official of adamantine integrity, a veteran of the war.
"Mr. Secretary," he began, "this is the saddest day the country has
known for many a year. You must pardon me if I ask you a few leading
questions."
Inspector Byrnes sat with his back to the light; for, with an inimitable
fashion of his own, he had, upon entering, made a debouch between two
chairs and a table, forcing the Secretary to sit with his face to the
glare of the window. Shaded himself he could with impunity watch the
least expression on the sensitive and noble countenance before him.
"Sir, do you recognize this card?" The question came like a musket shot,
and a card dropped, face upwards, on the Secretary's knee. Kellar could
not have performed this feat more neatly.
The Secretary glanced at the pasteboard for a moment, and said in
evident surprise:
"Why, yes. It is one of my cards."
"Have you any more with you?" asked Inspector Byrnes, speaking for the
first time.
The Secretary seemed puzzled, but good-naturedly opened his wallet, and
produced several of the same description. These he handed to the
Inspector, who took them and bowed profoundly. A moment was spent in
intense examination.
"You must pardon me if I ask you if you use these cards when calling
upon the President?" proceeded the Washington officer. The Inspector's
eyes seemed to be still riveted upon the cards in his hands.
"Why, yes--no--that is, once in a while, if I happen to desire an
audience at an unusual hour," answered the Secretary, exhibiting the
first signs of embarrassment.
"Will you please tell us when you called there last?" asked Inspector
Byrnes, furtively glancing up and speaking in a chatty, assuring tone.
The Secretary's face expressed relief.
"Certainly," he answered; "that is easy enough. I attended an informal
reception in the Blue Room from three to four yesterday and saw the
President alone a minute afterward. That is the last time I saw him."
One might almost have fancied at the last sentence that tears arose to
the eyes of the cabinet officer; at least there were tears in his voice.
"Just as a matter of formality, Mr. Secretary, will you tell us where
you were between twelve and two o'clock this morning?" asked the
Inspector, with the unconscious look of a man who was asking for a glass
of water.
"What does this mean, sir? Do you suspect me in this infernal mystery?"
ejaculated the Secretary. His face was pale from excitement; his eyes
flashed in manly protest.
"Not at all, not at all, sir. Calm yourself. This is only a matter of
curious coincidence and a disagreeable formality," answered the
Inspector, waving his hand as if he were brushing away a fly.
The Secretary stood a moment in thought, and then turned and touched a
button. Immediately a servant appeared to whom the Secretary whispered a
few words. The man in livery bowed and went.
"Now, gentlemen," said the Secretary, standing with much dignity before
his callers, "wait a moment, and so far as I am concerned this mystery
shall be cleared. I happened to be in this room last night from twelve
until half-past two with some gentlemen, whom I am sure you will
recognize. Ah! here they are."
A tap at the door and a "Come in" revealed to the astonished detectives
the Secretaries of War and of the Interior, who entered the room.
"Now, Inspector," continued the Secretary of State in his grandest
manner, "will you kindly ask your question again?"
It then transpired that the three Secretaries had conducted an informal
meeting to confer about the distressing question of war with Canada
which was at that time agitating the country, and that their interview
had been prolonged into the small hours of the morning. The chief of
the Washington police could not refrain from profuse apologies after
this denouement. Inspector Byrnes thought profoundly, and then, after a
pause, burst out with unparalleled frankness:
"Gentlemen, this is the most startling mystery in the annals of American
crime. I must confess that up to this moment I am absolutely foiled." He
then recounted, under seal of secrecy, the whole story as we have seen
it. Ending his exciting narrative, he said:
"And, Mr. Secretary, do you know of any one in Washington or in the
country that resembles you enough to deceive two men, taking into
account a natural drowsiness that each admitted?"
The three gentlemen of the Cabinet thought hard but were soon bound to
answer in the negative. For the Secretary of State was no
ordinary-looking man. Conspicuous on any occasion, though not what might
be strictly called handsome, he always commanded attention by his
distinguished air. His luxuriant side whiskers, which were really
magnificent were the most noticeable feature of his face. He had the
happy consciousness that there were none like them in the United States.
"There is only one more question you can answer, Mr. Secretary," said
Inspector Byrnes, with a deferential look. "The watchman on the first
floor said he recognized your team. Will you please find out whether
your coupe was in or not between twelve and two? Coachmen have queer
tricks at times."
The coachman was immediately sent for. Meanwhile the Secretary stated
that he had come in at twelve from a late call on a personal friend.
"May I ask your friend's name?" interrupted the national sleuth-hound,
swiftly and politely.
"The Patagonian Ambassador," replied the Secretary with hauteur. He
added that he had sent his carriage instructing John, the family
coachman, to be on hand at eleven that morning. The carriage was
evidently not there, and in the excitement of the news the Secretary had
foregone his morning's Department business.
After half an hour of waiting, during which the two police officers had
sent out several messages, the coachman was ushered in among the
impatient quintet. Instead of the prim and stately master of the horse,
who was the despair of even his co-peer the Jehu of the English
Ambassador, and the admiration of the Washington gamin, there skulked in
a battered, bandaged, hastily-dressed man, who shuffled out incoherent
excuses, and burst into moist apologies.
"It wasn't my fault. The divil was in it. The hosses are safe. The
kerridge is well. I woke up in the gutter, the blood sputterin' down me
backbone. They were picked up this morning. Don't discharge me! I've
served you fifteen years and only trained twicst. What'll become of me?
Lord have mercy!" The coachman of the Secretary had a stock of
irreproachable syntax, which had been utterly scattered during the
experience of the last night. At this spontaneous moment his native
grammar got the best of him.
The coachman's testimony amounted to this: The driver was walking his
horses to the stable in the fog when he saw a man beckon him from the
sidewalk. Not a soul was on the street. Beyond was a dark, private lane.
He stopped, and, to his surprise, saw, as he thought, his master
standing and motioning him to come to a halt and get down. The
Secretary's face was turned toward the dark. The voice sounded muffled.
When the coachman alighted his master produced a silver flask and told
him to take a drink as it was so damp. He dared not disobey, though full
of wonder at this unprecedented favor. As soon as he had taken a pull he
felt dizzy. Two or three more black figures appeared like ghosts before
his eyes. He thought he struck out or tried to run to the coach, he
didn't know which. A queer odor mounted to his head. Then he lost
consciousness. He came to, early in the morning, a little after four,
and staggered to the stable. The team was not there. He fell into a
stupor of despair. About an hour after, an acquaintance of his drove the
span up, and said they had been found unchecked, grazing near the
Smithsonian Institute. He supposed that they had run away. The
Secretary's coachman had then given the fellow five dollars for his
services and to hold his tongue. He was afraid of being discharged. He
had just heard of the disappearance of the President and he feared being
implicated in the affair. After the name of the person who found the
horses was taken down, and after a searching cross-examination, the
frightened man was sent away to rest, with assurance of continued favor.
Subsequent examinations failed to find any traces of the catastrophe in
the coupe. It had been carefully cleaned when it came back to the
stable. There was no blood visible.
This completes the whole of the testimony and information that was
received or discovered by the united efforts of all the detectives in
America up to the fourteenth of the month. Clews had been manufactured
and followed with desperate rapidity, but to no avail. Numberless
arrests had been made, but no one could be legally held for high treason
against the Chief Executive. All that was known was this: that some bold
villain had successfully personated the Secretary of State; that he had
gulled three servants by a close resemblance; that he, with others,
probably, had forcibly carried the President and his wife from their
very beds, leaving them but scant time to take the necessary articles of
clothing; that these abductors had audaciously used the State carriage
for their nefarious purpose; that they had left absolutely no trace
behind; and, that moreover, in the darkness of the fog and rain no
further track could be found of the direction they took. They could not
have gone by train; so every house in the city of Washington and in the
suburbs, to the distance of fifteen miles or more, had been searched in
vain. A like systematic investigation was carried on along the river, to
the bay, in search of anything suspicious afloat. The authorities gave
the robbers of the nation no time or opportunity to escape by land or
water. All avenues were watched. Where were they and their noble booty?
In short the foremost couple of the United States had utterly
disappeared, to the horror and despair of the civilized world.
It was just one week from the morning of the shock when the New York
_Herald_ published the following manifesto in its original form. It was
sent as an advertisement with five dollars enclosed. The envelope was
postmarked from division II of the New York Post-office. The document
bore no superscription. It read as follows: