FOUND GUILTY.
Mr. Val Blake sat in his office, in that inner room sacred to his
privacy. He sat at that littered table, writing and scissoring, for they
went to press that day, and the editor of the Speckport Spouter was over
head-and-ears in work. He had just completed an item and was slowly
reperusing it. It begins in a startling manner enough:
"Mysterious murder! The night before last a most shocking tragedy
occurred at Redmon House, being no less than the robbery and murder
of a lady well known in our town, Mrs. Leroy. The deceased owned
and occupied the house, together with her ward, Miss Nathalie
Marsh, and one female servant. About eleven o'clock on the night of
the 15th, this servant was alarmed by the sound of footsteps on the
stairs, and aroused a young man, Robert Nettleby, who chanced to be
staying in the house, and they proceeded together to discover the
cause. On entering the chamber occupied by Mrs. Leroy, they found
her dead; the protruding tongue and eyeballs, and purple visage,
telling plainly her death had been caused by strangulation. A box,
containing a large sum of money, eight thousand pounds, we believe,
was found broken open and rifled. The assassin escaped, and no
clue to him has as yet been discovered, but we trust the inquest
which is to be held on the premises this morning will throw some
light on the subject. It is a most inhuman affair, and, we are
sure, no effort will be wanting on the part of the officials
concerned to root out the heart of the matter, and punish the
barbarous perpetrator as he deserves!"
Mr. Blake read this last neatly-rounded period with a complacent face,
and then pulled out his watch.
"Ten o'clock!" he muttered, "and the inquest commences in half an hour.
Busy or not busy, I must be present."
Speckport was in a state of unprecedented excitement. A murder--and
people did murder one another sometimes, even in Speckport--always set
the town wild for a week. Even the civic elections were nothing to it;
and there having been a dearth of bloodshed lately, the tragedy at
Redmon was greedily devoured in all its details. Like a rolling
snowball, small enough at first, but increasing as it goes along, the
story of the robbery and murder had grown, until, had Midge heard the
recital, as correctly received in the town, she would have stared
aghast. Crowds had flocked up Redmon Road the whole of that livelong day
following the murder, and gazed with open-mouthed awe on the gloomy and
lonely old house--gloomier and lonelier than ever now. Crowds were
pouring up still. One would think from their morbid curiosity they
expected the old house to have undergone some wonderful transformation.
The Speckport picnics were nothing to it.
Mr. Blake, going along at his customary swinging pace, speedily reached
No. 14 Great St. Peter Street, and letting himself in with his
latch-key, went up-stairs to his sleeping-apartment, to make some
alteration in his toilet before proceeding to Redmon. There was no one
in the house; for Miss Blake had been absent on a visit to some friend
out of town for the past few days, and Val took his meals at a
restaurant. Thinking himself alone, therefore, Mr. Blake, standing
before the glass, adjusting an obstinate and painfully stiff collar,
was not a little surprised to hear the street-door open and shut with a
slam, then a rapid rush up-stairs, a strong rustling of silk in the
passage, and his own door flung violently open. Mr. Blake turned round
and beheld his sister, in a state of perspiration, her face red with
heat and haste, anger in her eyes and in every rustle of her silk gown.
"It's not true, Val!" she burst out, before that gentleman could speak;
"it can't be true! They never can have been such a pack of fools!"
"What can't be true? Who's a pack of fools?"
"All Speckport! Do you mean to say they've really gone and taken up
Charley Marsh?"
"Oh, is that it?" said Mr. Blake, returning to his toilet. "They haven't
taken him up that I know of. What brings you home? I thought you weren't
coming until Saturday."
"And do you mean to say you thought I could stop one moment after I
heard that poor old thing was dead, and Charley Marsh taken up for it.
If you can be unfeeling and cold-blooded," said Miss Jo, turning from
deep pink to brightest scarlet, "I can't."
"My dear Jo, don't make such a howling! Charley Marsh isn't taken up, I
tell you."
"But he's suspected, isn't he? Doesn't all Speckport point at him as the
murderer? Isn't he held to appear at the inquest? Tell me that."
"Yes," said Mr. Blake, looking critically at his cravat, "he is. Is that
collar straight, Jo?"
Miss Jo's only answer was a withering look.
"And he can talk of collars at such a time! And he pretended he used to
be a friend of that poor boy!"
"Don't be a fool, Jo," said Val, testily. "What can I do? I don't accuse
him!"
"You don't accuse him!" retorted Miss Jo, with sneering emphasis.
"That's very good of you, indeed, Mr. Blake! Oh no, you don't accuse,
but you stand up there, like--like a cold-blooded kangaroo" (Miss Blake
could think of no better simile in the heat of the moment) "fixing your
collar, while all Speckport's down on him, and no one to take his part!
You won't accuse him, indeed! Hadn't you better run up and do it now?
Where's Natty? Answer me that."
Miss Jo turned so fiercely upon her brother with this query that Mr.
Blake wilted at once.
"At home with her mother!"
"Poor dear girl!" and here Miss Jo softened into tears; "poor dear
child! What a shock for her! How does she bear it?"
"She has been ill and hysterical ever since. They don't suppose she will
be able to give evidence at the inquest."
"Poor dear Natty! And how does Mrs. Marsh take it?"
"Very hard. Betsy Ann had to run to the nearest druggist's for
fourpence-worth of smelling-salts, and she has been rocking, and
reading, and smelling at it ever since."
"Ah, poor dear!" said sympathetic Miss Jo, whose first fury had
subsided. "Does she know they suspect Charley?"
"Of course not. Who would tell her that? Oh, I say, Joanna, you haven't
heard that about Miss Rose, have you?"
"What about Miss Rose? Nobody suspects her of the murder, do they?"
"Not exactly! She is going away."
"Going where?"
"To England!--hand me that vest, Jo--with Mrs. Major Wheatly."
Miss Jo sat agape at the tidings.
"It is very sudden," said Val, getting into his Sunday waistcoat. "Miss
Rose had notice of it day before yesterday--it was that night, the night
of that terrible affair at Redmon, you know, that it was proposed to
her. She declined then, although the terms were double what she gets
now, and the work very much less; but yesterday afternoon she accepted."
"She did! What made her change her mind?"
"Well, Mrs. Marsh told her, I believe, that now Lady Leroy was gone, and
Nathalie come into her fortune, there would no longer be any need to
keep the school, and that, in point of fact, it would break up. Of
course, Miss Rose at once accepted the other offer, and leaves in a very
few days."
"Direct for England?"
"Yes, that is to say, by way of Quebec. Mrs. Major Wheatly is a very
great lady, and must have a companion for herself, and a governess for
her little girl, and Miss Rose suits to a T. It's a very good thing for
the little school-mistress, but she will be missed here. The poor looked
upon her as an angel sent direct from heaven, to make their clothes and
buy their blankets, and look after them when sick, and teach their young
ones for nothing."
"Well, I am sure! I declare, Val, I'm sorry! She was the nicest little
thing!"
"So she was," said Val, "and now I'm off! Don't you go howling about the
town, Jo, and making a fuss about Marsh; if he is innocent, he will come
out all square--don't you be afraid."
"If!" screamed Miss Blake; but her brother was clattering down-stairs
half a dozen steps at a time, and already out of hearing.
Droves of people were still flocking out the Redmon road, raising
blinding clouds of dust, and discussing the only subject proper to be
discussed then in Speckport. Val's long strides outstripped all
competitors; and arriving at the red brick house, presently ran the
blockade of a group of some two hundred idlers, and strode into the
house as one having authority. As Mr. Blake entered, Dr. Leach stepped
forward and joined him, with a very grave face.
"How are they getting on?" Val asked.
"They are getting on fast enough," the doctor answered, in a
dissatisfied tone. "They've been examining me. I had to describe that
last interview with her," jerking his thumb toward the ceiling, "and
prove to their satisfaction she came to her death by strangling, and in
no other way. They had Natty up there, too."
"Oh, she is better, then."
"Not much! but she had very little to tell, and Laura Blair has driven
her off again. They have detained Mrs. Marsh--she does not know for
what, though--and will examine her presently."
"To find out the cause of Charley's absence from home that night! Do you
know, doctor, I begin to think things look black for Charley."
"Ah! you might say so?" said Dr. Leach, with a significant nod, "if you
knew what I do."
Val looked at him.
"What you do! Do you mean or pretend to say----"
"There! there! there! Don't speak so loud. I may tell you, Blake--you're
a friend of his and would do nothing against him. Read that."
He handed him a note. Val read it with a blank face. It was the note
sent by Cherrie to Charley, which Ann had told him of, and a verbatim
copy of that given Cherrie by Captain Cavendish.
"How did you get this?" Val asked, with a still whiter face.
"It was sent by that gadfly, Cherrie, to the shop, the evening of the
murder. Her sister brought it, and, Marsh being out, gave it to the boy.
Now, what do you think the young rascal did? Why, sir, broke it open the
minute the girl's back was turned, and read it. As luck would have it, I
pounced in and caught him in the act. You ought to have seen his face,
Blake! I took the note from him and read it myself, not knowing it was
for Marsh, and I have it ever since. I meant to give it to him next day,
and tell him what I have told you; but next day came the news of the
murder, and underhand whispers of his guilt. Now, Val, what do you think
of it? Isn't the allusion to Lady Leroy's money plain enough?"
"That bit of paper might hang him," Val emphatically said, handing it
back. "What do you mean to do with it?"
"There is only one thing I can do with it, as a conscientious man--and
that is, hand it over to the coroner. I like the boy, but I like justice
more, and will do my duty. If we only had that Cherrie here, she might
throw some light on the business."
"What can she mean by that allusion to state-rooms?" said Val. "Can they
have meant to run off together in the steamer, and was Greentown only a
ruse? I know Charley has been spooney about her this long time, and
would be capable of marrying her at a moment's notice."
"Blake, do you know I have been thinking she is hiding somewhere not far
off, and has the money. The police should be set on her track at once."
"They will, when that note is produced. But, doctor, you seem to take it
for granted that Charley is guilty."
"How can I help it? Isn't the evidence strong enough?"
"Circumstantial, doctor, circumstantial. It seems hard to believe
Charley Marsh a murderer."
"So it does, but Scripture and history, ever since the times of King
David, are full of parallel cases. Think of the proof--think of this
note, and tell me what you infer candidly yourself."
"The note is a staggerer, but still--Oh, hang it!" cried Mr. Blake,
impatiently, "I won't believe him guilty as long as I can help it. Does
he say nothing in is own defense?"
"Not a syllable, and the coroner and jury are all in his favor, too. He
stands there like a sulky lion, and says nothing. They'll bring him in
guilty without a doubt."
"Who have been examined?"
"All who saw Lady Leroy that day--Miss Marsh, Midge, myself, Lawyer
Darcy, and Tom Oaks, who swore roundly when asked that Marsh knew of his
paying the money that day, for he had told him himself. He also swore
that he knew Charley to be over head and ears in debt--debts of honor,
he called them. Debts of dishonor, I should say."
"I think I'll go in! Can we speak to Charley, I wonder?"
"Of course. He is not held precisely as a prisoner, as yet. They have
Midge up again. I never knew her name was Priscilla Short, until
to-day."
"What do they want with her a second time?"
"She was the first to discover the murder. Her evidence goes clear
against Marsh, though she gives it with the greatest reluctance. Come,
I'll go in with you."
The two gentlemen went in together, and found the assemblage smiling at
some rebut of Midge's. That witness, with a very red and defiant face,
was glaring at the coroner, who, in rather a subdued tone, told her that
would do, and proceeded to call the next witness, Robert Nettleby.
Robert Nettleby took his place, and was sworn. In reply to the questions
put to him, he informed his hearers that he had heard nothing until the
yells of Midge aroused him from sleep, and, following her up-stairs, he
found her in Miss Marsh's room.
"Had Miss Marsh retired?" the coroner wanted to know.
Mr. Nettleby was not sure. If, by retiring, the coroner meant going to
bed, no; but if he meant going asleep, yes. She was sitting by the
window, dressed, but asleep, until Midge aroused her by her screams.
Then she started up, and followed them into the room of Mrs. Leroy, whom
they found dead, and black in the face, as if she had been choked. Midge
had run down stairs, and he had run after her, and they saw some one
running under the trees, when they got out. Midge had flown out and
collared him, and it proved to be Mr. Charley Marsh.
Here the coroner struck in.
"He was running, you say: in what direction?"
Mr. Nettleby couldn't say positively--was inclined to think he was
running toward, not from them. Couldn't swear either way, for it was a
queer, shadowy kind of a night, half moonlight, half darkness. They had
all three gone back to the house, Mr. Marsh appearing very much shocked
at hearing of the murder; and on returning to the room of the deceased,
had found Miss Marsh in a fainting-fit. They brought her to with water,
and then her brother had taken her to her mother's house in Speckport,
in a gig. He and Midge had gone to his father's cottage, where they had
remained all night. Further than that Mr. Nettleby knew nothing,
except--and here he hesitated.
"Except what, sir?" the coroner sharply inquired. "Remember you are upon
oath."
"Well, sir," said Bob, "it isn't much, except that when we came back to
the room, I picked this up close to the bed. It looked as if it belonged
to a man, and I put it in my pocket. Here it is."
He produced from his coat-pocket, as he spoke, a glove. A gentleman's
kid glove, pale-brown in color, and considerably soiled with wear. Val
started as he saw it, for those were the kind of gloves Charley Marsh
always wore--he had them made to order in one of the stores of the town.
The coroner examined it with a very grave face--there were two letters
inside, "C. M."
"Do you know to whom this glove belongs?" the coroner asked.
"I know I found it," said Nettleby, not looking at it, and speaking
sulkily, "that's all I know about it."
"Does any one you know wear such gloves?"
"Plenty of gentlemen I've seen wear brown kid gloves."
"Have you seen the initials, 'C. M.,' inside this glove?"
"I have."
"And--on your oath, recollect--are you not morally certain you know its
owner?"
Nettleby was silent.
"Speak, witness," the coroner cried; "answer the question put to you.
Who do you suspect is the owner of this glove?"
"Mr. Marsh! Them letters stands for his name, and he always wears them
kind of gloves."
"Had Mr. Marsh been near the bed, after your return to the room
together, before you found this glove?"
"No; I found it lying close by the bedside, and he had never been nearer
than the middle of the room, where he was trying to fetch his sister
to."
Robert Nettleby was told he might stand down, and Mr. Marsh was called
upon to identify his property. Charley, who had been standing at one of
the windows listening, in gloomy silence, and closely watched by two
policemen, stepped forward, took the glove, examined it, handed it back,
and coldly owned it was his.
How was he going to account for its being found by the bedside of the
murdered woman?
Mr. Marsh was not going to account for it at all--he knew nothing about
it. He always had two or three such pairs of gloves at once, and had
never missed this. Amid an ominous silence, he resumed his place at the
window, staring out at the broad green fields and waving trees, bathed
in the golden August sunshine, and seeing them no more than if he had
been stone-blind.
Mrs. Marsh was the next witness called, and came from an adjoining room,
dressed in black, and simpering at finding herself the cynosure of so
many eyes. Mrs. Marsh folded one black-kid-gloved hand over the other
after being sworn, with a mild sigh, and prepared to answer the
catechism about to be propounded. The coroner began wide of the mark,
and asked her a good many questions, that seemed to have little bearing
on the matter in hand, all of which the lady answered very minutely, and
at length. Presently, in a somewhat roundabout fashion, he inquired if
her son had been at home on the night of the murder.
"No; he not been at home, at least not until he had come driving home
with Natty, both of them as pale as ghosts, and no wonder, though they
quite made her scream to look at them; but when she had heard the news,
she had such a turn, it was a mercy she hadn't fainted herself, and she
hadn't half got over it yet."
Here Mrs. Marsh took a sniff at a smelling-bottle she carried, and the
ammonia being strong, brought a tear into each eye, which she wiped
away with a great show of pocket-handkerchief.
"What time had her son left the house before returning with his sister?"
"After tea. He had been home to tea, which in itself was so unusual a
circumstance, that she, Mrs. Marsh, felt sure something was going to
happen. She had had a feeling on her all day, and Charley's conduct had
increased that feeling until she was perfectly convinced something
dreadful was going to happen."
"In what manner had her son's conduct augmented her presentiments?"
"Well, she did not know exactly, but Charley had behaved odd. He had
come over and talked to her before going out, telling her he had been
bad, but meant to be good, and turn over a new leaf for the future; and,
bidding her take his part if ever she heard him run down, which she
meant to do, for Charley was a good boy as ever lived, in the main, only
he had been foolish lately; but mothers, it is well known, can forgive
anything, and she meant to do it; and if he, the coroner, was a mother,
she would do it herself."
"Was her son in the habit of stopping out nights?"
"Not until lately; that is, within the last two weeks, since when he
used to come home in a dreadful state of drink, worrying her nearly to
death, and letting all her advice go in one ear and out of the other."
Mrs. Marsh was shown the glove, and asked if she knew it. Yes, of course
she did; it was one of Charley's; he always wore those kind, and his
initials were inside. The coroner examined her further, but only got
wordy repetitions of what she had already said. Everything was telling
terribly against Charley, who stood, like a dark ghost, still moodily
staring out of the window. Val Blake crossed over and laid his hand
heavily on his shoulder as Mrs. Marsh left the room.
"Charley, old boy! have you nothing at all to say for yourself?"
Charley lifted his gloomy eyes, but turned away again in sullen
silence.
"You know they will charge you with this crime, and you know you are not
guilty. Can you not prove yourself innocent?"
"How? Will they take my word for it?"
"Explain why you were found in the grounds at that hour of the night."
"They have already asked me to do so, and I have already declined."
"But this is folly--this is madness! What motive could you possibly have
for being there at such an hour?"
Charley was silent. Val laid his hand on his shoulder with a kindly
look.
"Charley, will you not tell me?"
"No."
"You know I am your friend."
"You will not be so long. Those fellows over there will settle the
matter shortly to their own satisfaction, and I am not going to spoil
their sport."
"Charley," said Val, looking him steadily in the face, "where is
Cherrie?"
Charley Marsh's face, white and haggard an instant previously, turned
scarlet, and from scarlet whiter than before. But he lifted his eyes
fearlessly to Val's face, roused to eagerness at last.
"Where is she?" he repeated. "Do you know?"
"No; but I think you do."
"Why do you think so?"
"That's not the question! Where is she?"
"I don't know."
"What!"
"I don't know. I tell you I don't! She is a false-hearted, lying,
treacherous----"
His face was white with fury. His name, called by the coroner, restored
him to himself. Turning round, he saw that gentleman holding out to him
a letter. It was Charley's fatal note, given to him by Dr. Leach, while
Val and Charley had been speaking.
"Do you know this, Mr. Marsh?" the coroner asked.
Charley glanced over the note, the coroner still holding it. It was all
written on the first page, in a pothook-and-hanger fist; and Charley
turned crimson for the second time, as he finished it and read the name
at the bottom.
"Do you know anything of this, Mr. Marsh?" the coroner repeated.
"No," Charley coldly and briefly said.
"You recognize the writing and the name?"
"Yes."
"The writer of this, Cherrie Nettleby, alludes to money which she says
will do you and her more good than it ever did Lady Leroy. To what money
does she refer?"
Charley thought of the bank-note he had taken from her through sheer
necessity, and once more the blood rushed in a scarlet tide to his face,
ebbing again, and leaving him white as ashes.
Coroner, jury, and spectators saw his changing face, and set it down to
conscious guilt.
"To what money does she refer?" reiterated the coroner.
"Sir, I decline answering that question."
"Indeed! Are you aware, Mr. Marsh, such a refusal tells very much
against you?"
Charley smiled coldly, contemptuously.
"I am quite aware, sir, every circumstance tells very much against me.
Nevertheless, I refuse to answer that and any other question I choose."
"The boy is either mad," thought Val Blake, "or else guilty. In either
case, his doom is sealed!"
The coroner now explained to his court how the letter came into the
hands of Doctor Leach, and read it aloud, handing it over to the jury
for their inspection when he had finished. The allusion to his taking
state-rooms for them both puzzled all who knew of the girl's departure
for Greentown; but was set down by them, as it had been by Val, as a
blind to deceive her friends.
Ann Nettleby was next called, and, in a state of great trepidation,
related Charley's call at the cottage and inquiry for Cherrie. Informed
the coroner, in reply to his question, that Mr. Marsh was "after"
Cherrie, a constant visitor at their house, and had asked Cherrie not
long before to run away with him to the States. Had not heard from her
sister since her departure, but supposed she was up in Greentown.
One or two other witnesses were called, who had nothing to relate
concerning the murder, but a good deal about Mr. Marsh's late dissipated
habits and gambling-debts. When these witnesses were gone, Mr. Marsh was
called upon, and requested, if he had anything to say in his own behalf,
to say it.
Mr. Marsh had but little to say, and said that little with a
recklessness that quite shocked the assemblage. The secret of his bitter
tone and fiercely-scornful indifference they had no clue to, and they
set it down to the desperation of discovered guilt. He informed them, in
that reckless manner, flinging his words at them like a defiance, that
Ann Nettleby's testimony was correct, that he had called at the cottage
between eight and nine on the night of the murder, and on leaving her
had gone straight to the old house, and remained in the grounds until
discovered by Midge and Rob Nettleby. What had taken him there, what his
motive in lingering, was what Cherrie meant in her note, and all else
concerning his motives and actions he refused to answer. He was a
drunkard, he was a gambler, he was in debt--"his friends" with sneering
emphasis, "have given his character with perfect correctness. But for
all that, strange as it might seem, incredible as he knew they would
think it, he had neither robbed nor murdered his sister's benefactress.
Further than that he had nothing to say."
He returned to the window again, flashing fierce defiance on every hand,
and the coroner summed up the evidence. He was an old man, and had known
Charley Marsh since he was a pretty little fair-haired, frolicsome boy,
and he would have given a good round sum in hard cash to be able to find
him innocent. But he could not, and justice must be done. He
recapitulated his irregular conduct on the evening of the murder, as
related by his own mother, his lingering in the grounds from dark until
discovered by Priscilla Short and Robert Nettleby, confessed by himself;
his glove found at the bedside, as if dropped in his haste and alarm;
his knowledge of the large sum of money paid the deceased that afternoon
by Mr. Oaks; his knowledge, also, of the house, as proved by his
entering the back-window, found open, and of its lonely and unprotected
state; and lastly, this note of Cherrie Nettleby's, with its distinct
allusion to the money of Mrs. Leroy, to benefit him. It was a pity this
girl was not here--but she soon would be found; meantime, the case was
perfectly clear without her. It was evident robbery, not murder, had
been the primary instigation; but the unfortunate woman awakening,
probably, had frightened him, and in the impulse of the moment he had
endeavored to stifle her cries, and so--strangled her. Perhaps, too, his
sister being her heiress, and inheritrix of all she possessed, he had
persuaded himself, with the sophistry of guilt, that he had some right
to this money, and that he was only defrauding his own sister, after
all. His debts were heavy and pressing, no way of paying them open, and
desperation had goaded him on. He (the coroner) trusted that the sad
case of this young man, once so promising, until he had fallen into evil
habits, would be a warning to others, and an inducement not to stray
away from the path of rectitude into that broad road whose end was
disgrace and ruin. The money stolen had not been found, but there had
been ample time given him to conceal it. He begged the jury to reflect
on the evidence they had heard, consult together, and return a verdict
according to their conscience.
The jury retired from the room, and in the awful silence which followed,
you might have heard a pin drop. Charles Marsh, in this supreme crisis
of his life, still stood looking out of the window. He neither moved nor
spoke, nor looked at any one, nor betrayed the slightest sign of
agitation; but his teeth were rigidly locked, and the palm of his strong
right hand was bleeding where he had clenched it, in that silent agony,
until the nails had sunk deep into the flesh. He had been reckless and
defiant, and braved it out with a high hand; but Charles Marsh had had
the misfortune to be born with a keenly sensitive heart, and a pride
that had lain latent under all his careless life; and what he felt in
that hour of disgrace and degradation, branded as a thief and a murderer
before the friends who knew him all his life, was known only to Heaven
and himself.
The jury were not long away. Evidently, his case had been settled in
their minds before they had left their seats. And in that dread silence
the foreman, Mr. Blair, with a grave, sad face, stood up to announce
their verdict. It was only one word--the terrible word, "Guilty."
There was a swaying sound among the crowd, as if they had drawn breath
for the first time. That dismal word fled from lip to lip like wildfire,
until it passed from the room to the crowd in the hall, and from them to
the swaying mob without. It was quite a lively scene, in fact, out
there, where that big crowd of men stood broiling under the meridian
sun, when the verdict was announced, and the inquiries as to how "young
Marsh" behaved and looked were many and eager. The question was not very
easily answered. Young Marsh, standing by that sunny window, was so
screened by the towering figure of Mr. Valentine Blake, that the gaping
and exasperated throng craned their throats and stood on tip-toe for
nothing. They would see him, however, when he came out to enter the cab,
already in waiting, that was to convey him in the custody of the
constables into town, and it was worth while waiting even for that
fleeting glimpse.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The expectant crowd were
getting angry and impatient; it was shameful, this dallying. But two or
three policemen are out now with their red batons and brass buttons of
authority, clearing a way for the gentlemen who are coming out, and for
the cab which is to draw up close to the front door. Still, the mob
press forward, the coroner and jury are departing; and now the
prisoner's coming. But a new disappointment is in store for them; for
when he comes, he has his hat pulled so far over his eyes, and springs
in so quickly, that they don't even get that fleeting glimpse of him
they are crushing each other to death to obtain. The constables follow;
it is pleasant even to see them; the blinds are pulled down; the cab
drives off rapidly, and the crowd go home, ravenous for their dinner.
And Charles Marsh is on his way to Speckport jail, to await his trial
for the willful murder of Jane Leroy!