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A MODERN WIZARD
BY
RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI
AUTHOR OF "AN ARTIST IN CRIME," "A CONFLICT OF EVIDENCE," ETC.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND
The Knickerbocker Press
1894
COPYRIGHT, 1894
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
TO
HON. GEORGE P. ANDREWS
JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT OF
THE STATE OF NEW YORK
WHO IS RECOGNIZED, NOT ONLY AS AN EMINENT JURIST
BUT AS A TYPE OF HUMAN JUSTICE
AND LEGAL INTEGRITY
THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
CONTENTS.
BOOK FIRST.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--LAWYER AND CLIENT 1
II.--JACK BARNES INVESTIGATES 17
III.--A WIZARD'S TRICK 32
IV.--DR. MEDJORA SURRENDERS 53
V.--FOR THE PROSECUTION 70
VI.--DAMAGING TESTIMONY 84
VII.--THE PROSECUTION RESTS 101
VIII.--FOR THE DEFENCE 120
IX.--THE DEFENCE CLOSES 137
X.--MR. BLISS MAKES HIS SPEECH 149
XI.--TERMINATION OF THE GREAT CASE 165
BOOK SECOND.
I.--ONE NIGHT 183
II.--A FRIEND IN NEED 205
III.--SELLING A NEW ENGLAND FARM 225
IV.--AN OMINOUS WELCOME 239
V.--A FACE FROM THE PAST 257
VI.--AGNES DUDLEY 272
VII.--A WIZARD'S TEACHING 288
VIII.--THE FAITHFUL DOG 311
IX.--A WIZARD'S KNOWLEDGE 330
X.--THE BETROTHAL 347
XI.--THE GENESIS OF LOVE 362
XII.--THE MARQUIS OF LOSSY 375
XIII.--THE DISCOVERY 392
XIV.--SANATOXINE 407
A MODERN WIZARD.
BOOK FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
LAWYER AND CLIENT.
Early one morning, in the spring of eighteen hundred and
seventy-three, two young lawyers were seated in their private office.
The firm name, painted in gilt letters upon the glass of the door, was
DUDLEY & BLISS. Mortimer Dudley was the senior member, though not over
thirty years old. Robert Bliss was two years younger.
Mr. Dudley was sorting some papers and deftly tying them into bundles
with red tape. Why lawyers will persist in using tape of a sanguine
color is an unsolvable mystery to me, unless it may be that they are
loath to disturb the many old adages in which the significant couplet
of words appears. However that may be, Mr. Dudley paused in his
occupation, attracted by an exclamation from his partner, who had been
reading a morning paper.
"What is it, Robert?" asked Mr. Dudley.
"Oh! Only another sensational murder case, destined, I imagine, to add
more lustre to the name of some lawyer who doesn't need it. Mortimer,
I wonder when our turn will come. Here we have been in these rooms for
three months, and not a criminal case has come to us yet."
"Don't be impatient, Robert. We must not give up hope. Look at Munson.
He was in the same class with us at college, and we all considered him
a dunce. By accident he was engaged to defend that fellow who was
accused of poisoning his landlady. Munson actually studied chemistry
in order to defend the case. His cross-examination of the
prosecution's experts made him famous. Who knows! We may get an
opportunity like that some day."
"Some day! Yes, some day! I believe there is a song that begins that
way. I always detested it. I do not like that word 'some day.' It's so
beastly indefinite. I prefer 'to-day' or even 'to-morrow.' But let me
read to you the account of this case. It is about that young woman who
died so mysteriously, up in the boarding-house on West Twenty-sixth
Street."
"I don't know anything about it, Robert. I haven't read the papers for
three days. Tell me the main facts."
"Well, it is really a very curious story. It seems there was a young
girl, twenty or thereabouts, living in town temporarily, whilst she
studied music. Her name was Mabel Sloane. She is described as pretty,
though that is a detail that the reporters always add. But, pretty or
ugly, she died last Sunday morning, under rather peculiar
circumstances. The doctors differed as to the cause of death."
"Why, there is nothing odd about that, is there?" Mr. Dudley smiled at
his own wit. "Doctors disagree and the patient dies. That is the old
adage. You have only reversed it. Your patient died, and the doctors
then disagreed. Where's the odds?"
"The odds amount to this, Mortimer. One doctor signed a certificate of
death, naming diphtheria as the cause. The other physician reported to
the Board of Health that there were suspicious circumstances which led
him to think that the woman might have died from poison."
"Poison? This is interesting."
"The more you hear, the more you will think so. In yesterday's papers
it was announced that the Coroner had taken up the case, and that an
autopsy would be held."
"Does this morning's paper give the result of the post-mortem?"
"Yes. Listen! 'The autopsy upon the body of Mabel Sloane, the
beautiful young musician'--you see they still harp on the
beautiful--'young musician, whose mysterious death was reported
yesterday, shows conclusively that the girl was poisoned. The doctors
claim to have found morphine enough to kill three men. Thus the
caution of Dr. Meredith, in notifying the Health Board of his
suspicions, is to be commended. It is but just to say, however, that
the doctors who made the post-mortem, entirely exonerate Dr. Fisher,
the physician who certified that the death was caused by diphtheria,
for they claim, curiously enough, that the woman would undoubtedly
have died of that disease even if the morphine had not been
administered. This opens up a most interesting set of complications.
Why should any one poison a person who is about to die a natural
death? It might be claimed that the murderer did not know that a fatal
termination of the disease would ensue. This brings us to the most
interesting fact, that the one who is suspected by the police is no
other than the girl's sweetheart, who is himself a physician. Thus it
is plain that he should have known that the disease would probably
prove fatal, and under these circumstances it is almost inconceivable
that he should have resorted to poison. Nevertheless, the detectives
claim that they have incontestible evidence of his guilt, although
they refuse to reveal what their proofs are. However, some facts
leaked out yesterday which certainly tend to incriminate Dr. Emanuel
Medjora, the suspected man. In the first place, Dr. Medjora has
suddenly and completely disappeared. Inquiry at his office elicited
the statement that he has not been there since the day before
yesterday, which it will be remembered was the time when the Coroner
first came into the case. Dr. Medjora has not been at his residence,
and none of his friends has seen him. In short, if he had been
swallowed by an earthquake he could not have vanished more swiftly. He
was supposed to have been engaged to marry Miss Sloane, and as she was
a beautiful girl, accomplished, and altogether charming, it has
puzzled all who knew her, to understand why he should wish to destroy
her. Some light may be thrown upon this, however, by the discovery at
the autopsy, that she has been a mother. What has become of the child,
or where it was born, is still a part of the mystery. Miss Sloane has
lived at the Twenty-sixth Street house about three months, and as she
has always been cheerful and happy, the boarders cannot reconcile this
report of the doctors with what they knew of the woman. They claim,
with much reason, that if her baby had died she should have had
moments of despondency when her grief would have been noticeable. Or
if the child were alive, then why did she never allude to it? Another
significant fact is, that Dr. Medjora has been seen driving in the
Park, recently, with a handsome woman, stylishly dressed, and
evidently wealthy, as the coachman and footman wore expensive livery.
Did the Doctor tire of his pretty little musician, and wish to marry
his rich friend who owns the carriage and horses? His disappearance
lends color to the theory.' There, what do you think of that?" said
Mr. Bliss, throwing aside the newspaper.
"What do I think?" answered his partner. "I think that this will be a
great case. A chance for young men like us to make fame and fortune.
If we could only be retained by that man----"
The door from the outer office opened and young Jack Barnes, the
assistant, entered and handed Mr. Dudley a visiting card. The lawyer
looked at it, seemed astonished, said "Show the gentleman in," and
when Barnes had left the office, turned to his partner, handing him
the card, and, slightly excited, exclaimed:
"In heaven's name, Robert, look at that!"
Mr. Bliss took the card and read the name:
EMANUEL MEDJORA, M.D.
The two young men looked at each other in silence, startled by the
coincidence, and wondering whether at last Dame Fortune was about to
smile upon them. A moment later Dr. Medjora entered.
Dr. Emanuel Medjora was no ordinary personage. His commanding stature
would attract attention anywhere, and the more he was observed the
more he incited curiosity. First as to his nationality. To what clime
did he owe allegiance by birth? One could scarcely decide. His name
might lead to the conclusion that he was Spanish, but save that his
skin was swarthy there was little to identify him with that type.
Perhaps, more than anything, he looked like the ideals which have been
given to us of Othello, though again his color was at fault, not being
so deep as the Moor's. He wore a black beard, close trimmed, and
pointed beneath the chin. His hair, also jetty, was longer than is
usually seen in New York, and quite straight, combed back from the
forehead without a part. The skull was large, the brain cavity being
remarkably well developed. Any phrenologist would have revelled in the
task of fingering his bumps. The physiognomist, also, would have
delighted to read the character of the man from the expressiveness of
his features, every one of which evidenced refined and cultured
intellectuality. The two, summing up their findings, would probably
have accredited the Doctor with all the virtues and half of the vices
that go to make up the modern man, not to mention many of the talents
commonly allotted to the rare geniuses of the world.
But according these scientists the freest scope in their examinations,
and giving them besides the assistance of the palmist, clairvoyant,
astrologist, chirographist, and all the other modern savants who
advertise to read our inmost thoughts, for sums varying in proportion
to the credulity of the applicant, and when all was told, it could not
be truthfully said that either, or all, had discovered about Dr.
Medjora aught save that which he may have permitted them to learn.
Probably no one thoroughly understood Dr. Medjora, except Dr. Medjora
himself. That he did comprehend himself, appreciating exactly his
abilities and his limitations, there cannot be a shadow of a doubt.
And it was this that made him such a master of men, being as he was so
completely the master of himself. Those who felt bound to admit that
in his presence they dwindled even in their own estimation, attributed
it to various causes, all erroneous, the true secret being what I have
stated. Some said that it was a certain magnetic power which he
exerted through his eyes. The Doctor's eyes certainly were remarkable.
Deep set in the head, and thus hidden by the beautifully arched brows,
they seemed to lurk in the shadow, and from their point of vantage to
look out at, and I may say into, the individual confronting him. I
remember the almost weird attraction of those eyes when I first met
him. Being at the time interested in an investigation of the phenomena
which have been attributed to mesmerism, hypnotism, and other "isms"
which are but different terms for the same thing, I could not resist
the impulse to ask him whether he had ever attempted any such
experiments. Evading my question, without apparently meaning to shirk
a reply, he merely smiled and said, "Do you believe in that sort of
thing?" Then he passed on and spoke to some one else. I relate the
incident merely to show the manner of the man. But on the point,
raised by some, that he controlled men by supernatural means, I think
that we must dismiss that hypothesis as untenable in the main. Of
course those who believed that he possessed some uncanny or mysterious
power of the eyes, might be influenced by his keen scrutiny, and would
probably reveal whatever he were endeavoring to extort from them. But
a true analysis would show that this was but an exhibition of their
weakness, rather than of his strength. Yet, after all, the man was
excessively intellectual, and as the eyes have been aptly called the
"windows of the soul," what more natural than that so self-centred and
wilful a man should find his lustrous orbs a great advantage to him
through life?
At the moment of his entrance into the private office of Messrs.
Dudley & Bliss, those two young men had partly decided that he was a
murderer. At sight of him, they both abandoned the conclusion. Thus it
will be seen that, if brought to the bar of justice, his presence
might equally affect the jury in his behalf. He held his polished silk
hat in his gloved hand, and looked keenly at each of the lawyers in
turn. Then turning towards Mr. Dudley he said:
"You are Mr. Dudley, I believe? The senior member of your firm?"
Mr. Bliss was insensibly annoyed, although very fond of his partner.
Being only two years his junior, he did not relish being so easily
relegated to the secondary status.
"My name is Dudley," replied the elder lawyer, "but unless you have
met me before, I cannot understand how you guessed my identity, as my
partner is scarcely at all younger than I am." Mr. Dudley understood
his partner's character very well, and wished to soothe any irritation
that may have been aroused. Dr. Medjora grasped the situation
instantly. Turning to Mr. Bliss he said with his most fascinating
manner:
"I am sure you are not offended at my ready discrimination as to your
respective ages. It is a habit of mine to observe closely. But youth
is nothing to be ashamed of surely, or if so, then I am the lesser
light here, for I am perhaps even younger than yourself, Mr. Bliss,
being but twenty-seven."
"Oh, not at all!" exclaimed Mr. Bliss, much mollified, and telling the
conventional lie with the easy grace which we all have acquired in
this nineteenth century. "You were quite right to choose between us.
Mr. Dudley is my superior----"
"In the firm name only, I am sure," interjected the Doctor. "Will you
shake hands, as a sign that you forgive my unintentional rudeness? But
stop. I am forgetting. I see that you have just been reading the
announcement"--he pointed to the newspaper lying where Mr. Bliss had
dropped it on a chair, folded so that the glaring head-lines were
easily read--"that I am a murderer!" He paused a moment and both
lawyers colored deeply. Before they could speak, the Doctor again
addressed them. "You have read the particulars, and you have decided
that I am guilty. Am I not right?"
"Really, Dr. Medjora, I should hardly say that. You see----" Mr.
Dudley hesitated, and Dr. Medjora interrupted him, speaking sharply:
"Come! Tell me the truth! I want no polite lying. Stop!" Mr. Dudley
had started up, angry at the word "lying." "I do not intend any
insult; but understand me thoroughly. I have come here to consult you
in your professional capacity. I am prepared to pay you a handsome
retainer. But before I do so, I must be satisfied that you are the
sort of men in whose hands I may place my life. It is no light thing
for a man in my position to intrust such an important case to young
men who have their reputations to earn."
"If you do not think we are capable, why have you come to us?" asked
Mr. Bliss, hotly.
"You are mistaken. I do think you capable. But think is a very
indefinite word. I must know before I go further. That is why I asked,
and why I ask again, have you decided, from what you have read of my
case, that I am guilty? Upon your answer I will begin to estimate your
capability to manage my case."
The two young lawyers looked at each other a moment, embarrassed, and
remained silent. Dr. Medjora scrutinized them keenly. Finally, Mr.
Dudley decided upon his course, and spoke.
"Dr. Medjora, I will confess to you that before you came in, and, as
you have guessed, from reading what the newspaper says, I had decided
that you are guilty. But that was not a juridical deduction. That is,
it was not an opinion adopted after careful weighing of the evidence,
for, as it is here, it is all on one side. I regret now that I should
have formed an opinion so rashly, even though you were one in whom, at
the time, I supposed I would have no interest."
"Very good, Mr. Dudley," said the Doctor. "I like your candor. Of
course, it was not the decision of the lawyer, but simply that of the
citizen affected by his morning newspaper. As such, I do not object to
your having entertained it. But now, speaking as a lawyer, and without
hearing anything of my defence, tell me what value is to be put upon
the evidence against me, always supposing that the prosecution can
bring good evidence to sustain their position."
"Well," replied Mr. Dudley, "the evidence is purely circumstantial,
though circumstantial evidence often convinces a jury, and convicts a
man. It is claimed against you that you have disappeared. From this it
is argued that you are hiding from the police. The next deduction is,
that if you fear the police, you are guilty. Per contra, whilst these
deductions may be true and logical, they are not necessarily so;
consequently, they are good only until refuted. For example, were you
to go now to the District Attorney and surrender yourself, making the
claim that you have been avoiding the police only to prevent arrest,
preferring to present yourself to the law officers voluntarily, the
whole theory of the police, from this one standpoint, falls to the
ground utterly worthless."
"Very well argued. Do you then advise me to surrender myself? But
wait! We will take that up later. Let me hear your views on the next
fact against me. I refer to the statement that poison was found in the
body."
"Several interesting points occur to me," replied Mr. Dudley, speaking
slowly. "Let me read the newspaper account again." He took up the
paper, and after a minute read aloud: "'The result of the autopsy,
etc., etc., shows conclusively that the girl was poisoned. The doctors
claim to have discovered morphine enough to kill three men.' That is
upon the face of it a premature statement. The woman died on Sunday
morning. The autopsy was held yesterday. I believe it will require a
chemical analysis before it can be asserted that morphine is present.
Am I not correct?" The Doctor made one of his non-committal replies.
"Let us suppose that at the trial, expert chemists swear that they
found morphine in poisonous quantities."
"Even then, the burden of proof would be upon the prosecution. They
must prove not merely that morphine was present in quantities
sufficient to cause death, but that in this case it did actually kill.
That is, they must show that Mabel Sloane died from poison, and not
from diphtheria. That will be their great difficulty. We can have
celebrated experts, as many as you can afford, and even though poison
did produce the death, we can create such a doubt from the
contradictions of the experts, that the jury would give you the
verdict."
"Very satisfactorily reasoned. I am encouraged. Now then, the next
point. The drives with the rich unknown."
"Oh! That is a newspaper's argument, and would have no place in a
court of law, unless----"
"Yes! Unless----?"
"Unless the prosecution tried to prove that the motive for the crime
was to rid yourself of your _fiancee_ in order to marry a richer
woman. Of course we should fight against the admission of any such
evidence as tending to prejudice the jury against you, and untenable
because the proof would only be presumptive."
"Presumptive. That is as to my desire to marry the woman with whom I
am said to have been out driving. Now then, suppose that it could be
shown that, since the death of Mabel Sloane, and prior to the trial, I
had actually married this rich woman?"
"I should say that such an act would damage your case very
materially."
"I only wished to have your opinion upon the point. Nothing of the
sort has occurred. Well, gentlemen, I have decided to place my case in
your hands. Will five hundred dollars satisfy you as a retaining fee?"
"Certainly." Mr. Dudley tried hard not to let it appear that he had
never received so large a fee before. Dr. Medjora took a wallet from
his pocket and counted out the amount. Mr. Bliss arose from his chair
and started to leave the room, but as he touched the door knob the
Doctor turned sharply and said:
"Will you oblige me by not leaving the room?"
"Oh! Certainly!" replied Mr. Bliss, mystified, and returning to his
seat.
"Here, gentlemen, is the sum. I will take your receipt, if you please.
Now then, as to your advice. Shall I surrender myself to the District
Attorney, and so destroy argument number one, as you suggested?"
"But, Doctor," said Mr. Dudley, "you have not told us your defence."
"I am satisfied with the one which you have outlined. Should future
developments require it, I will tell you whatever you need to know, in
order to perfect your case. For the present I prefer to keep silent."
"Well, but really, unless you confide in your lawyers you materially
weaken your case."
"I have more at stake than you have, gentlemen! You will gain in
reputation, whatever may be the result. I risk my life. You must
permit me therefore to conduct myself as I think best."
"Oh! Certainly, if that is your wish. As to your surrendering
yourself, I strongly advise it, as you probably could not escape from
the city, and even if you did, you would undoubtedly be recaptured."
"There you are entirely wrong. Not only can I escape, as you term it,
but I would never be retaken."
"Then why take the risk of a trial? Innocent men have been convicted,
even when ably defended!"
"Yes, and guilty ones have escaped. But you ask why I do not leave New
York. I answer, because I wish to remain here. Were I to run away from
these charges, of course I should never be able to return."
"Then, Doctor, I advise you to surrender."
"I will adopt your advice. But not until the day after to-morrow. I
have some affairs to settle first."
"But you risk being captured by the detectives."
"I think not," said the Doctor, with a smile.
"Should we wish to communicate with you, where may we be able to find
you, Doctor?"
Doctor Medjora appeared not to have heard the question. He said:
"Oh! By the way, gentlemen, you need not either of you study up
chemistry, as did Mr. Munson. You remember the case? I know enough
chemistry for any experts that they may introduce, and will formulate
the main lines of their cross-examination myself. Let me refer to a
point that you made. Did I understand you that if we can show that
Mabel died of diphtheria, our case is won?"
"Why, certainly, Doctor. If we can prove that, we show that she died a
natural death."
"Of course, I understood that. I merely wished to show you what a
simple thing our defence is. We will convince the jury of that. I will
meet you at the office of the District Attorney at eleven o'clock on
the day after to-morrow. Good-morning, gentlemen." The Doctor bowed
and left the room. The two lawyers looked at one another a moment, and
then Mr. Dudley spoke:
"What a singular man!"
"The most extraordinary man I ever met!"
"Robert, why did you start to leave the room?"
"Mortimer, that is a very curious thing. I had a sort of premonition
that he would go away without leaving his address. I meant to instruct
Barnes to shadow him, when he should leave. I wonder if he read my
thoughts?"
"Rubbish! But why not send Jack after him now? He will catch up with
him easily enough."
Acting upon the suggestion, Mr. Bliss went into the outer office, and
was annoyed to be told by the office boy that Jack Barnes had gone out
half an hour before.
CHAPTER II.
JACK BARNES INVESTIGATES.
Jack Barnes, at this time, had just attained his majority. He was
studying law with Messrs. Dudley & Bliss, and acting as their office
assistant. But it was by no means his intention ever to practise the
profession, which he was acquiring with much assiduity. His one
ambition was to be a detective. Gifted with a keen, logical mind, a
strong disposition to study and solve problems, and possessing the
rare faculty of never forgetting a face, or a voice, he thought
himself endowed by nature with exactly the faculties necessary to make
a successful detective. His study of law was but a preliminary, which,
he rightly deemed, would be of value to him.
Anxious, as he was, to try his wits against some noted criminal, the
chance had never been his to make the effort. He had indeed ferreted
out one or two so-called "mysterious cases," but these had been in a
small country village, where a victory over the dull-witted
constabulary had counted for little in his own estimation.
Naturally he had read with avidity all the various newspaper accounts
of the supposed murder of Mabel Sloane, and it was with considerable
satisfaction that he had read the name upon the card intrusted to him
to be taken to his employers. It seemed to him that at last fortune
had placed an opportunity within his grasp. Here was a man, suspected
of a great crime, whom the great Metropolitan detective force had
entirely failed to locate. From what he had read of Dr. Medjora, he
quickly decided that, though he might consult Messrs. Dudley & Bliss,
he would not intrust them with his address. Jack Barnes determined to
follow the Doctor when he should leave the office. Thus it was, that
he was absent when Mr. Bliss inquired for him.
Descending by the elevator--a contrivance oddly named, since it takes
one down as well as up,--he stationed himself in a secluded corner,
whence he could keep watch upon the several exits from the building.
Presently, he saw Dr. Medjora step from the elevator, and leave the
building, after casting his eyes keenly about him, from which
circumstance Barnes thought it best not to follow his man too closely.
When, therefore, he saw the Doctor jump upon a Third Avenue horse-car,
he contented himself with taking the next one following, and riding
upon the front platform.
He saw nothing of Dr. Medjora until the Harlem terminus was reached.
Here his man alighted and walked rapidly across the bridge over the
river, Barnes following by the footpath on the opposite side, keeping
the heavy timbers of the span between them as a screen. But, however
careful Dr. Medjora had been to look behind him when leaving the
lawyers' offices, he evidently felt secure now, for he cast no anxious
glances backward. Thus Barnes shadowed him with comparative ease,
several blocks uptown, and then down a cross street, until at last he
disappeared in a house surrounded by many large trees.
Barnes stopped at the tumbled-down gate, which, swinging on one hinge,
offered little hindrance to one who wished to enter. He looked at the
house with curiosity. Old Colonial in architecture, it had evidently
once been the summer home of wealthy folks. Now the sashless windows
and rotting eaves marked it scarcely more than a habitat for crows or
night owls. Wondering why Dr. Medjora should visit such a place, he
was suddenly astonished to hear the sound of wheels rapidly
approaching. Peeping back, he saw a stylish turn-out coming towards
him, and it flashed across his mind that this might be the equipage in
which the Doctor had been said to drive in the Park. Not wishing to be
seen, he entered the grounds, ran quickly to the house, and admitted
himself through a broken-down doorway that led to what had been the
kitchen. He had scarcely concealed himself when the carriage stopped,
a woman alighted, and walking up to the house, entered by the same
door through which the Doctor had passed. Barnes was satisfied now
that this meeting was pre-arranged, and that it would interest him
greatly to overhear the conversation which would occur.
Seeking a means of reaching the upper floor, he soon found a stairway
from which several steps were absent, but he readily ascended. At the
top, he stopped to listen, and soon heard low voices still farther up.
The staircase in the main hall was in a fair state of preservation,
and there was even the remains of an old carpet. Carefully stepping,
so as to avoid creaking boards, he soon reached a level from which he
could peep into the room at the head of the stairs, and there he saw
the two whom he was following. But though he could hear their voices,
he could not distinguish their words. To do so he concluded that he
must get into the adjoining room, but he could not go farther upstairs
without being detected, as the door was open affording the Doctor a
clear view of the top of the stairway.
Barnes formed his plan quickly. Reaching up with his hands, he took
hold of the balustrade which ran along the hallway, and then, dangling
in the air, he worked his way slowly from baluster to baluster, until
he had passed the open doorway, and finally hung opposite the room
which he wished to enter. Then he drew himself up, until he could rest
a foot upon the floor of the hall, after which he quickly and
noiselessly swung himself over and passed into the front room. That he
succeeded, astonished him, after it had been done, for he could not
but recognize that a single rotten baluster would either have
precipitated him to the floor below, or at least by the noise of its
breaking have attracted the attention of Dr. Medjora, who, be it
remembered, was suspected of no less a crime than murder.
Looking about the room in which he then stood, he took little note of
the decaying furniture, but went at once to a door which he thought
must communicate with the adjoining room. Opening this very gently, he
disclosed a narrow passageway, from which another door evidently
opened into the room beyond. Stealthily he passed on, and pressing his
ear against a wide crack, was pleased to find that he could easily
hear what was said by the two in the next room. The conversation
seemed to have reached the very point of greatest interest to him. The
woman said:
"I wish to know exactly your connection with this Mabel Sloane."
"So do the police," replied the Doctor, succinctly.
"But I am not the police," came next in petulant tones.
"Exactly! And not being the police you are out of your province, when
investigating a matter supposed to be criminal." Barnes learned two
things: first that the Doctor would not lose his temper, and therefore
would not be likely to betray himself by revealing anything beyond
what his companion might already know; and second, that she knew
little as to his relation with Mabel Sloane. This was not very
promising, yet he still hoped that something might transpire, which
would repay all the trouble that he had taken. The woman spoke again
quickly.
"Then you are not going to explain this thing to me?"
"Certainly not, since you have not the right to question me."
"I have not the right? I, whom you expect to marry? I have not the
right to investigate your relations with other women?"
"Not with one who is dead!"
"Dead or alive, I must know what this Mabel Sloane was to you, or
else----" She hesitated.
"Or else?" queried the Doctor, without altering his tone.
"Or else I will not marry you."
"Oh! Yes, you will!" replied the Doctor, with such a tone of certainty
that his companion became exasperated and stamped her feet as she
replied in anger:
"I will not! I will not! I will not!" Then, as though her asseveration
had slightly mollified her, she added: "Or if I do----" and, then
paused.
"Continue!" exclaimed the Doctor, still calm. "You pause at a most
interesting period. Or if you do----"
"Or if I do," wrathfully rejoined the woman--"I'll make your whole
life a burden to you!"
"No, my wife that is to be, you will not even do that. Perhaps you
might try, but I should not permit you to succeed in any such an
undertaking. No, my dear friend, you and I are going to be a model
couple, provided----"
"Provided what?"
"That you curb your curiosity as to things that do not concern you."
"But this does concern me."
"As I have intimated already, Mabel Sloane being dead, you can have no
interest whatever in knowing what relations existed between us."
"Not even if, as the newspapers claim, she had a child?"
"Not even in that case."
"Well, is there a child?"
"I have told you that it does not concern you."
"Do you deny it?"
"I neither deny it, nor affirm it. You have read the evidence, and may
believe it or not as you please."
"Oh! I hate you! I hate you!" She was again enraged. "I wonder why I
am such a fool as to marry you?"
"Ah! This time you show curiosity upon a subject which does concern
you. Therefore I will enlighten you. You intend to marry me, first,
because, in spite of the assertion just made, you love me. That is to
say, you love me as much as you can love any one other than yourself.
Second, you are ambitious to be the wife of a celebrated man. You have
been keen enough to recognize that I have genius, and that I will be a
great man. Do you follow me?"
"You are the most supreme egotist that I have ever met." The words,
meant as a sort of reproach, yet were spoken in tones which betokened
admiration.
"Thank you. I see you appreciate me for what I am. All egotists are
but men who have more than the average ego, more than ordinary
individuality. The supreme egotist, therefore, has most of all. Now,
to continue the reasons for our marriage, perhaps you would like to
know why I intend to marry you?"
"If your august majesty would condescend so far." The Doctor took no
notice of the sneer, but said simply:
"I too have my ambitions, but I need money with which to achieve
success. You have money!"
"You dare to tell me that! You are going to marry me for my money!
Never, you demon! Never!"
"I thought you had concluded to be sensible and leave off theatricals.
You look very charming when you are angry, but it prolongs this
conversation to dangerous lengths. We may be interrupted at any moment
by the police."
"By the police! In heaven's name how?" In a moment she showed a
transition from that emotion which spurned him, to that love for him
which trembled for his safety. Thus wisely could this crafty physician
play upon the feelings of those whom he wished to influence.
"It is very simple. As much as you love me, you love your own comfort
more. I asked you to come up here quietly. You came in your carriage,
with driver and footman in full livery. Is that your idea of a quiet
trip?"
"But I thought----"
"No! You did not think." The Doctor spoke sternly, and the woman was
silent, completely awed. "If you had thought for one moment, you would
have readily seen that the police are probably watching you, hoping
that, through you, they might find me. Fortunately, however, I have
thought of the contingency, and am prepared for it. But let us waste
no more time. No! Do not speak. Listen, and heed what I have to say. I
have decided not to follow your suggestion. You wrote to me advising
flight. That was another indiscretion, since your messenger might have
been followed. However, I forgave you, for you not only offered to
accompany me, but you expressed a willingness to furnish the funds, as
an earnest of which I found a thousand dollars in your envelope. A
token, you see, of a love more intense than that jealousy which a
moment ago whispered to you to abandon me. From this, and other
similar circumstances, I readily deduce that after all you will marry
me. But to come to the point. I have consulted a firm of lawyers, and
by their advice I shall surrender myself on the day after to-morrow."
"You will surrender to the police?" The woman was thoroughly alarmed.
"They will convict you. They will----ugh!" She shuddered.
"No," said the Doctor more kindly than he had as yet spoken. "Do not
be afraid. They will neither convict me, nor hang me. I will stand my
trial, and come out of it a freed man."
"But if not? Even innocent men have been convicted."
"Even innocent men! Why do you say even? Do you doubt that I am
innocent?"
"No! No! But this is what I mean. Although innocent you might be
brought in guilty."
"Well, even so, I must take the chance. All my hopes, all my
ambitions, all that I care for in life depend upon my being a free
man. I cannot ostracize myself, and reach my goal. So the die is cast.
But there is another thing that I must tell you. We cannot be married
at present."
"Not married? Why not? Why delay? I wish to marry you now, when you
are accused, to prove to you how much I love you!" Thus she showed the
vacillation of her impulsive, passionate nature.
"I appreciate your love, and your generosity. But it cannot be. My
lawyers advise against it, and I agree with them that it would be
hazardous. Next, I must have money with which to carry on my defence.
When can you give it to me? You must procure cash. It would not be
well for me to present your check at my bankers. The circumstances
forbid it, lest the prosecution twist it into evidence against me."
"When I received your note bidding me to meet you here, I thought that
you contemplated flight. I have brought some money with me. Here are
five thousand dollars. If you need more I will get it."
"This will suffice for the present. I thank you. Will you kiss me?" A
sound followed which showed that this woman, eager for affection,
gladly embraced the opportunity accorded to her. At the same moment
there was a loud noise heard in the hall below, from which it was
plain that several persons had entered.
"The police!" exclaimed the Doctor. Then there was a pause as though
he might be listening, and then he continued, speaking rapidly: "As I
warned you, they have followed you. Hush! Have no fear. I shall not be
taken. I am prepared. But you! You must wait up here undisturbed. When
they find you, you must explain that you came here to look at the
property, which you contemplate buying. And now, whatever may happen,
have no fear for my safety. Keep cool and play your part like the
brave little woman that I know you to be."
There was the sound of a hurried kiss, and then Barnes was horrified
to see the door at which he was listening, open, and to find himself
confronted by Dr. Medjora. But if Barnes was taken by surprise, the
Doctor was even more astonished. His perturbation however passed in a
moment, for he recognized Barnes quickly, and thus knew that at least
he was not one of the police. Stepping through the door, he pulled it
shut after him, and turned a key which was in the lock, and, placing
the key in his pocket, thus closed one exit. Barnes retreated into the
next room and would have darted out into the hall, had not the strong
arm of the Doctor clutched him, and detained him. The Doctor then
locked that door also, after which he dragged Barnes back into the
passage between the two rooms. Here he shook him until his teeth
chattered, and though Barnes was not lacking in courage, he felt
himself so completely mastered, that he was thoroughly frightened.
"You young viper," hissed the Doctor through his teeth. "You will play
the spy upon me, will you? How long have you been listening here? But
wait. There will be time enough later for your explanations. You
remain in here, or I will take your life as mercilessly as I would
grind a rat with my heel." As though to prove that he was not
trifling, he pressed the cold barrel of a revolver against Barnes's
temple, until the young man began to realize that tracking murderers
was not the safest employment in the world.
Leaving Barnes in the passageway the Doctor went into the front room,
and Barnes was horrified by what he saw next. Taking some matches from
his pocket he deliberately set fire to the old hangings at the
windows, and then lighted the half rotten mattress which rested upon a
bedstead, doubly inflammable from age. Despite his fear Barnes darted
out, only to be stopped by Dr. Medjora, who forcibly dragged him back
into the passageway, and then stood in the doorway watching the flames
as they swiftly fed upon the dry material.
"Dr. Medjora," cried Barnes, "you are committing a crime in setting
this house afire!"
"You are mistaken. This house is mine, and not insured."
"But there are people in it!"
"They will have ample time to escape!"
"But I? How shall I escape?"
"I do not intend that you shall escape."
"Do you mean to murder me?"
"Have patience and you will see. There, I guess that fire will not be
easily extinguished." Then to the amazement of young Barnes the Doctor
stepped back into the passageway, and closed and locked the door. Thus
they were in total darkness, in a small passageway having no exit save
the doors at each end, both of which were locked. Already the fire
could be heard roaring, and bright gleams of light appeared through
the chinks in the oak door. At this moment voices were heard in the
next room. The Doctor brushed Barnes to one side and took the place
near the crevice to hear what passed.
"Madam," said the voice of a man evidently a policeman, "where is Dr.
Medjora?"
"Dr. Medjora?" replied the woman. "Why, how should I know?"
"You came here to meet him. It is useless to try to deceive me. We
tracked you to this house, and, what is more, the man himself was seen
to enter just before you did. We only waited long enough to surround
the grounds so that there would be no chance to escape. Now that you
see how useless it is for him to hide, you may as well tell us where
he is, and save time!"
"I know nothing of the man for whom you are seeking. I came here
merely to look over the property, with a view to buying it."
"What, buy this old rookery! That's a likely yarn."
"I should not buy it for the house, but for the beautiful grounds."
"Well, I can't stop to argue with you. If you won't help us, we'll get
along without you. He is in the house. I know that much."
"Sarjent! Sarjent! Git outer this! The house is on fire!" This
announcement, made in breathless tones by another man who had run in,
caused a commotion, and, coming so unexpectedly, entirely unnerved the
woman, who hysterically cried out:
"He is in there! Open that door! Save him! Save him!"
Dr. Medjora smothered an ejaculation of anger, as in response to the
information thus received, the police began hammering upon the door.
Old as it was, it was of heavy oak and quite thick. The lock, too, was
a good one and gave no signs of yielding.
"Where is the fire?" exclaimed the sergeant.
"In the front room," answered the other man.
"Get the men up here. Bring axes, or anything that can be found to
break in with." The man hurried off, in obedience to this order, and
the policeman said to the woman:
"Madam, you'd better get out of this. It is going to be hot work!"
"No! No! I'll stay here."
Barnes wondered what was to be the outcome of the situation, and was
surprised to hear the sound of bolts being pushed through rusty
bearings. Dr. Medjora was further fortifying the door against the
coming attack. Barnes would have assailed the other door, but from the
roar of the flames he knew that no safety lay in that direction.
Presently heavy blows were rained upon the door, showing that an axe
had been found. In a few moments the panel splintered, and through a
gap thus made could be seen the figure of the man wielding the axe. It
seemed as though he would soon batter down the barrier which separated
Barnes from safety, when at the next blow the handle of the axe broke
in twain. A moment more, and a deafening crash and a rush of smoke
into the passageway indicated that a part of the roof had fallen in.
The sergeant grasped the woman by the shoulders, and dragged her
shrieking, from the doomed house, which was now a mass of flames. The
little knot of policemen stood apart and watched the destruction,
waiting to see some sign of Dr. Medjora. But they saw nothing of the
Doctor, nor of Barnes, of whom, indeed, they did not know.
CHAPTER III.
A WIZARD'S TRICK.
All New York, that afternoon, was treated to a sensational account in
the afternoon "Extra" newspapers, of the supposed holocaust of the
suspected murderer of Mabel Sloane. Yet in truth not only was Dr.
Medjora safe and well, but he had never been in any serious danger.
As soon as the police had abandoned the effort to batter in the door,
Dr. Medjora turned and said to young Barnes:
"It would serve you right were I to leave you in here to be burned, in
punishment for your audacity in spying upon me. Instead of that, I
shall take you out with me, if only to convince you that I am not a
murderer. Give me your hand!"
Barnes obeyed, satisfied that even though treachery were intended, his
predicament could not be made worse than it already was. By the dim
light which occasionally illuminated the passageway, as the flames
flared up, momentarily freed from the smoke, and shone through the
crack in the door, already burned considerably, Barnes now saw the
Doctor stoop and feel along the wainscoting, finally lifting up a
sliding panel, which disclosed a dark opening beyond.
"Fear nothing, but follow me," said the Doctor. "Step lightly though,
as these stairs are old and rickety." Much astonished, Barnes followed
the Doctor into the opening, and cautiously descended the narrow
winding stairs, still holding one hand of the man who preceded him. He
counted the steps, and calculated that he must be nearing the
basement, when a terrible crash overhead made him look up. For one
moment he caught a glimpse of blue sky, which in a second was hidden
by lurid flames, and then darkness ensued, whilst a shower of debris
falling about him plainly indicated that the burning building was
tumbling in. The hand which held his, gripped it more tightly and
their descent became more rapid, but beyond that, there was no sign
from the Doctor that he was disturbed by the destroying element above
them. In a few more moments they stood upon a flat cemented floor.
"It seems odd," said the Doctor, with a laugh that sounded ghoulish,
considering their position, "that I should need to ask you for a match
when there is so much fire about us. But I used my last one upstairs."
Barnes fumbled in his pocket, and finding one, drew it along his
trouser leg until it ignited. As the flame flared up, a dull red glare
illumined the face of Dr. Medjora, making him seem in his companion's
fancy the prototype of Mephistopheles himself. Again the Doctor
laughed.
"Afraid to trust me with fire, eh? Is that why you lighted it
yourself? Never mind. I only wished to get my bearings. It is long
since I have been in this place. See, here is a door to the right." He
grasped the iron handle, and after some exertion the bolt shot back,
but when he pushed against it the door did not yield. At the same
moment the match spluttered and the flame died.
"Help me push this door," said the Doctor. Barnes obeyed most
willingly, but their combined efforts still failed to move it.
"Well," said the Doctor, "my young friend, it looks as though we were
doomed, after all. In case we should fail to escape, when we are thus
unexpectedly hurried into the presence of the secretary of the other
world, in making your statement, I trust you will not forget that you
cannot blame me for the accident which curtails your earthly
existence. It was no fault of mine that you were in the passageway
above, nor could I foresee that we could not open this door."
This sacrilegious speech, made in a tone of voice which showed in what
contempt the speaker held the great mystery of life and death, chilled
young Barnes so that he shivered. It made him more than convinced that
this man was fully capable of committing the murder which had been
attributed to him. At the same time, as the Doctor appeared to have
abandoned the effort to escape, despair rendered Barnes more
courageous and sharpened his senses so that he could think for
himself. Freeing his hand from the other's grasp, he felt about until
he found the edge of the door, and rapidly searched for the hinges. In
a few moments a cry of gladness escaped from him.
"It is all right, Doctor. The hinges are on our side. We must pull the
door to open it, and not push it as we have been doing."
"Good!" said the Doctor. "I knew that. I was only trying you. You are
clever. And courageous. Too much so for me to run any risks." The last
words were spoken as though to himself. He continued: "Come. We must
get out of this before it is too late!" He opened the door, which
moved so easily that Barnes readily comprehended that the Doctor must
have held it firmly shut whilst the two had been trying to open it,
else his own shaking would have disclosed the fact that it opened
inward. Thus he saw that Dr. Medjora spoke truly, and had only been
submitting him to a test. He followed through the door, glad once more
to have hope before him, for had the Doctor intended to destroy him,
it would have been easy enough to shut the door, leaving him behind,
fastening it, as he did now, with a heavy bolt.
"There is little chance of our being followed," said the Doctor, as he
thus barred the way behind them, "but it is as well to be careful. And
now that we are safe, for this vault is fire-proof, I will let you see
where you are." In a moment the Doctor had found a match and lighted a
lamp, and Barnes gazed about him bewildered.
At most he had expected to find himself in some forgotten vault or old
wine-cellar. What he saw was quite different. The apartment, if such a
term may be employed was spacious, and formed in a perfect circle,
with a hemispherical roof. This dome was covered with what, in the dim
light, appeared to be hieroglyphical sculpture. What puzzled Barnes
most was that no seams appeared, from which he concluded that the
entire cavern must have been hewn out of the solid rock. The floor
also was of stone, elaborately carved, and, appearing continuous with
the ceiling, at once presented an impossible problem in engineering.
For the door through which they had entered evidently had no
connection with the original design of the structure, since it was of
modern style, and, moreover, the doorway, cut for its insertion, had
destroyed the continuity of the carvings on the wall, which, to the
height of this doorway, represented a seemingly endless procession,
interrupted only by the cutting of the opening, which thus showed
curiously divided bodies of men and women along its two edges. In the
centre of the place was a singular stone, elaborately carved, with a
polished upper surface. Upon this Dr. Medjora seated himself, after
having lighted the lamp which hung like a censer from the centre of
the roof. Barnes looked at him, awed into silence. Allowing him a few
minutes to contemplate his surroundings, the Doctor said:
"You are Jack Barnes, the assistant of Dudley & Bliss. You are
ambitious to become a detective. Therefore, when you read my name on
my card this morning, you thought it a good opportunity to track a
murderer, did you not? Answer me, and tell me no lies!"
"Yes," said Barnes, surprised to find that a curious sensation in his
throat, as though he were parching, precluded his saying more.
"Well, you have tracked the murderer to his den. What do you think of
the place. Safe enough from the police, eh!" The Doctor laughed in a
soft congratulatory way, which grated upon his hearer's ear. He
continued, as though to himself: "And Dudley & Bliss warned me that I
could not escape from the police. I, Emanuel Medjora! I could not
escape!" Then he burst out into a prolonged ringing peal of laughter
which made Barnes tremble affrighted, as a hundred echoes for the
moment made his imagination picture myriads of demons chiming in with
the merriment of their master.
"Come here," cried the Doctor, checking his laugh. Barnes hesitated
and then retreated. "Come here, you coward!" said the Doctor, in a
sterner voice. The taunt made the blood course more swiftly through
the young man's veins, and the laugh of the demon echo having died
away, he threw his head up and approached the stone, stopping within a
few feet of Dr. Medjora, and looking him in the eye.
"Ah! As I thought. A strong will, for a youngster. I must use
strategy." This so softly that Barnes did not comprehend the sense of
the words. Then the Doctor spoke in his most alluring manner:
"You are plucky, Mr. Barnes. This is a gruesome place, and I have
brought you here under such peculiar circumstances that you might well
be alarmed. But I see that you are not, and I admire you for your
courage. It is his courage that has made man the master of all the
animal world. By that he controls beasts, who could rend him to a
thousand bits, with ease: only they dare not. So, for your courage, I
forgive your impudence, and I might say imprudence, in following me
this morning."
Barnes was mystified by this alteration of manner, and was not such a
fool that he did not suspect that it boded him no special favor. He
did not reply, not knowing what to say. The Doctor jumped up from his
seat, saying pleasantly:
"I am forgetting my politeness. You are my guest, and I am occupying
the only available seat. Pardon me, and be seated." Barnes hesitated,
and the Doctor said, "Oblige me!" in a tone which made Barnes think it
wise to comply. He therefore seated himself on the stone, and the
Doctor muttered low to himself:
"How innocently he goes to the sacrifice," words which Barnes did not
hear and would not have understood had he done so. Then the Doctor
laughed with a muffled, gurgling sound, which, answered by the echoes,
again made Barnes feel uncomfortable.
"Now then, Mr. Barnes," began Dr. Medjora, "I have no doubt that your
curiosity has been aroused, and that you would like to know what sort
of place this is, and how it came here. It is a very curious story
altogether, and as we shall find time hang heavily on our hands whilst
the fire is burning upstairs, I cannot entertain you better, perhaps,
than with the tale. You know, of course, or you have heard, that I am
a physician. But no one knows how thoroughly entitled I am to the
name. I am a lineal descendant of the great AEsculapius himself."
Barnes stared, wondering whether the man were mad. Having begun his
recital, Dr. Medjora apparently took no more notice of Barnes than
though he had not been present. But whilst he spoke, with his hands
clasped behind his back, he began to pace around the room, thus
walking in a circle about Barnes, as he sat upon the stone in the
centre.
"The ancient Mexicans worshipped a god to whom they built pyramids.
This was no other than my great ancestor AEsculapius. He was also known
to many of the races that inhabited the great North country. Here in
this place, a powerful tribe built a great pyramid, the top of which
was this dome, hewn from a single rock, and carved, as you see, with
characters which, translated would tell secrets which would astound
the world. The man who acquires all the knowledge here inscribed, may
well call himself the master of this century. I will be that man!"
He had increased his pace as he walked around, so that during this
speech he had made three circles about Barnes, who, astonished as much
by his actions as by his words, had followed him with his eyes,
turning his head as far as possible in one direction to accomplish
this, and then rapidly turning it to the opposite side so that he
might not lose sight of the Doctor. As the last words were uttered,
the Doctor stopped suddenly before him, and hurled the words at him as
though they contained a menace. But Barnes flinched only slightly, and
the Doctor continued his walk and his narrative.
"Yes, for here on these rocks are graven the sum of all the knowledge
of the past, which the great cataclysm lost to us for so many
centuries. This dome was the summit of the great temple. This floor
was a hundred feet below it, and was the floor of the edifice. Then
came the flood. The earth quaked, the waters rose, the earth parted,
the temple was riven, and the dome fell, here upon this floor, and the
record of the greatest wisdom in the world was buried beneath the
earth. Lost! Lost! Lost!!"
His gyrations had increased in rapidity, so that he had run around
Barnes six times during the above speech, and, as before, he stopped
to confront him, fairly screaming the last words. Barnes began to feel
odd in his head from turning it to watch this man who, he had now
decided, was surely a madman, and as the Doctor screamed out "Lost!
Lost! Lost!" almost in his face, he started to his feet, standing upon
the stone and prepared to defend himself if necessary. As though much
amused at this action, Dr. Medjora threw back his head and laughed.
Laughed long and loud! Laughed until the answering echoes reverberated
through the place as though a million tongues had been hidden in the
recesses. Stopping suddenly, he began racing around again, and resumed
his story:
"And so came that great cataclysm which all corners of the world
record as the flood. So the great Atlantis, the centre of the
civilization of the world, was lost for centuries, until at last
re-discovered and re-christened America. AEsculapius perished, and his
wisdom died. His records were hidden. But he left a son, and that son
another, and from him sprung another, and another, and another, and so
on, and on, as time sped, until to-day I am the last of the great
line. Ha! You doubt it. You think that I am lying. Then how comes it
that I am here? Here in the treasure house of my great ancestor?
Because among my people there are traditions, and one told of this
temple. I studied it, and worked it out, until I located it. Then I
came here and found this old house built over it. And I knew that it
covered the greatest secret in all the world. But it contained another
secret too. A simple, easy secret for a man like me to solve. A secret
staircase, built by some stupid old colonist, to lead him down to a
secret wine-cellar, which is on the other side of that stairway. But
Providence would not permit the old drunkard to turn to the right, in
digging for his vault, or he would have entered this chamber, as I
have done. I found this staircase, and cut my way into this place,
which I closed with that iron door. And you, you fool, thought that I
did not know how to open a door that I had built myself." His laugh
rang out again, and the piercing shrieks, coming back from the echoes,
darted through Barnes's brain, confused by his pivotal turning on the
stone as he tried to follow the Doctor racing around the chamber, and
as the man now rushed at him screaming:
"Now! Now! You fool, you are mine! Mine! All mine!" Barnes felt as
though something in his brain had snapped, and, tottering, he threw up
his arms, and then sank down, to be caught by Dr. Medjora, who lifted
him as though he had been a child, and laid him upon the floor.
Placing his ear to his heart a moment, the Doctor arose to his feet
with a satisfied expression and speaking low, said:
"He is now thoroughly frightened, but the shock will not kill him.
When he wakes he will be mine indeed! I will play the little trick,
and I can be safe without fear from this." He kicked the prostrate
form lightly with his foot, and then lifted Barnes up and sat him upon
the stone as he slowly revived, supporting him until he had
sufficiently recovered not to need assistance. Then he placed himself
in front of Barnes, and as soon as the young man seemed to have
regained his senses he folded his arms and said sternly:
"Look at me!" Barnes obeyed for a moment and then turned away and
would have risen, but the doctor called out authoritatively:
"You cannot get up! You have no legs!" Barnes reached down with his
hands towards his legs, only to be stopped by the words:
"You cannot feel! You have no hands! Now look at me! Look! I command
you!" Barnes gazed helplessly into the Doctor's eyes, and the latter
continued, in a voice of peremptory sternness:
"Now answer me when I speak to you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand. I will answer!" The voice did not seem to be the
normal tones of the young man, and a smile passed over the Doctor's
face as he went on.
"Do you know who you are? If so, tell me!"
"I am Jack Barnes!"
"And who am I?"
"Doctor Medjora!"
"Do you know where you are?"
"Yes! In the chamber of AEsculapius!"
"If I let you go from here, what will you do?"
"I would tell the police what I know!"
"Good! Now listen to me!"
"I am listening!"
"You wish to escape?"
"Yes!"
"I am your master?"
"You are my master!"
"You must obey my commands! You understand that?"
"I must obey your commands. I understand that!"
"You are asleep now?"
"Yes, I am asleep!"
"But if I give you a command now when you are asleep, you will obey it
when I allow you to awaken?"
"What you command when I am asleep, I will do when you let me be
awake!"
"You followed me to-day?"
"I followed you."
"You will forget that?"
No answer came from the sleeper. The crucial test had come. The
contest of wills. The Doctor, however, was determined to succeed.
Success meant a great deal to him, for he must either kill this man,
or else control him. He did not consider the first expedient. Murder
was not even in his thought. He stepped up to Barnes and took his two
hands.
"You will forget that you followed me?"
Still no reply. The Doctor gently closed the open eyes of the sleeper,
and rubbed them with a rotary movement of the thumb. Again he
ventured:
"You will forget that you followed me?
You--will--forget--that--you--followed--Dr. Medjora?" A pause, a
quiver of the released eyelids, which opened slowly, allowing the eyes
to gaze at the Doctor; then the lids closed again, a shiver passed
over the sleeper's body, and the voice spoke:
"I will obey! I will forget!"
"You will forget that you followed me?"
"I will forget!"
"Repeat what I say. You will forget that you followed me?"
"I will forget that I followed you!"
"You will forget that you saw me and heard me speaking to a woman?"
"I will forget that you were speaking to a woman!"
"You will forget that there was a fire?"
"I will forget the fire!"
"You will forget the secret staircase?"
"I will forget the staircase!"
"The secret staircase!" The Doctor was determined to take no risk.
"I will forget the secret staircase!" said the sleeper.
"You will forget this room?"
"I will forget this room!"
"Finally, you will forget that you have been asleep?"
"Finally, I will forget that I have been asleep!"
"Good! That ought to be safe enough!" This the Doctor said to himself,
but the sleeper replied:
"Good! That ought to be safe enough!"
"Pah! He is a mere automaton," said the Doctor.
"A mere automaton!" repeated Barnes.
At this last sally the Doctor burst out into uncontrolled laughter, so
much heartier than before that it was plain that his previous laughing
had been but a part of his scheme to overawe the strong young will of
his companion, by raising up the affrighting echoes. The sleeper
joined in with this laughing, imitating it almost note for note, and
the answering echoes adding to the bedlam, made the place indeed like
some dwelling-place of evil spirits. The Doctor's hilarity passed, and
placing one hand upon Barnes's shoulder, in a voice of command he
cried!
"Silence!" At once the stillness of death ensued, as though each
gibbering demon had scurried back into his hiding-place. The Doctor
took the young man's head in both hands, the palms open against the
temples, and a thumb over each eye. Rubbing the closed lids gently, at
the same time pressing the temples, he spoke in deep resonant tones.
"Sleep! Sleep more deeply! Sleep unconscious! Sleep oblivious! Sleep
as though dead, but awaken when I call upon you to awaken!"
He continued his manipulations a few moments, and then removed his
hands. The eyelids released, slowly opened, and the sleeper gazed at
him. Then as slowly they closed again, and being shut, twitched and
fluttered as the heart of a dying bird might do. More and more quiet
the movements became, till at length all was still. Then the erect
head sank gently down, until it rested upon the breast, and the body
swayed, and slipped by easy stages from the stone to the floor, where,
as it turned over and lay prone upon the face, a long-drawn sigh
escaped, and Barnes lay as one dead. The Doctor gazed silent,
satisfied, yet as though awed by his own work. Then he lost himself in
reverie.
"And this thing is a man. A strong healthy body encasing a powerful
will. Yet where now is that will? What has become of the soul that
tenants this shell, which now seems empty, dead. Escaped, gone, and at
my bidding! 'He sleeps, he is not dead,' says the scientist. What wily
excuses men make for their ignorance. If he sleeps, he is dead, for
sleep is death, different only because there is an awakening. Yet in
the true death is there not an awakening? All analogy cries out 'Yes!'
Now this man sleeps, and I have made him thus temporarily dead. Except
at my bidding there can be no awakening on this earth. Then if I do
not bid him rise, am I a murderer? The law would say so. The law! The
law! Pah! The law that says that, is but a written token of man's
ignorance. For if I leave him here, he still must awaken. And who can
say that if I leave him to awaken in another world he might not thank
me so much, that his spirit in gratitude would become my attendant
guardian, until his foolish fellow-men, having hanged my body to a
gibbet, by a rope, should send my soul into eternity beside him. My
soul! Have I a soul? Yes! and not yet is it prepared to pass beyond
the limit of this life. No, despite the laws, and the minions of the
laws, I will live to reap the harvest which my great ancestor has
garnered here. So this fellow must be awakened and restored to his
place amongst his kind! Will it be safe? I have made his mind a blank.
But will it so remain? His will is strong. He offered more resistance
than any upon whom I have tried my power. Had I not first numbed his
brain by twisting it into knots, I doubt that I should have controlled
him. So if I release him, to-morrow in his waking senses he will
perceive that several hours of his life are as a blank. He will
realize that during that time something must have occurred that he has
forgotten, and all his energy will be aroused to force remembrance.
There is a vivid danger should he recall his experience, before my
trial occurs and ends. And with our stupid laws who may say when that
may be? Ah! I have the trick. His mind is now a blank, and these few
hours will be a void. I have charged him to forget. Now I must bid him
to remember, and furnish him with the incidents with which to account
for the lapse of time. I will take him near the truth. So near that
fluctuating recollection will be unable to disentangle fact from
fiction. Thus what he recalls will bear no menace to my safety, and
yet will so satisfy his will to know what has passed, that no great
effort will be made to delve deeper into the records of this day. But
first I must take him from this sacred place. It will be safer."
He opened the iron door, lifted the body of the sleeper in his arms
and bore it into the passage at the foot of the stairs. Immediately
opposite, there was another door, dimly shown by the light from the
swinging lamp. This he kicked open with his foot, without dropping his
burden. He walked straight across, through the darkness of this old
wine cellar, towards a dim ray of light which penetrated at the
opposite end, presently coming to a low arch through which he passed
with lowered head, emerging into a greater light. They were now in an
old cistern, and a circular opening above permitted the moonlight to
enter. Here the Doctor laid the sleeper gently down, and retraced his
steps. Re-entering the domed chamber, he extinguished the lamp, and
then again emerged, closing the door behind him. From a corner under
the stairway he procured a long-handled, heavy, iron hammer, such as
men use who break large rocks. He next went into the wine cellar,
closing the door behind him, and thence passed on through the archway
into the cistern. Taking one glance at the still sleeping form of Jack
Barnes, he threw off his coat, and attacked the brick-work of the
arch, raining upon it heavy blows, each of which demolished a part of
the thick wall. At the end of half an hour the opening was choked with
fallen debris, and the entrance into the wine vault thus effectually
concealed.
This task accomplished, the Doctor resumed his coat, and turned to
examine the sleeper. He raised him up, and stood him against that side
of the wall upon which the most light was shed. As the body was thus
supported, the head hanging, and the weird half-light making the face
more ghastly, one might readily have supposed that this was a corpse.
But the Doctor presently cried out:
"Awaken! Awaken! not entirely, but so that you may hear and speak!"
In an instant the head was lifted, the eyes opened, and the voice
said:
"I am awake! I can hear and speak!"
"Good!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Tell me, what do you remember?"
"You commanded me to remember nothing!"
"True! I commanded! But do you remember?"
"You are the master! I have forgotten!"
"I am the master. Now I tell you to remember!"
"It is impossible! I cannot remember what I have forgotten, unless you
tell it to me again!"
"Very true. I will tell you what you have forgotten, and you will then
remember it. You will remember even after you are awakened!"
"I will obey. I will remember what you tell me!"
"You left your office this afternoon to follow Dr. Medjora?"
"Yes! I followed Dr. Medjora!"
"He took a car, and you took another?"
"He took a car, and I took another!"
"He left the car, and you followed him to a house and saw him enter?"
"I saw him enter a house!"
"Then there was a fire and you watched the house burning?"
"I saw the house burning!"
"Then you rushed forward and fell into this well?"
"I rushed forward and fell into the well!"
"You will remember all this?"
"Yes, I will remember!"
"Everything else you have forgotten? Nothing else occurred?"
"Nothing else occurred!"
"Now sleep!" The Doctor passed his hands over the eyes and the deep
sleep was resumed. The Doctor pressed his lips near the sleeper's
ears, and said:
"You will awaken completely in two hours, climb out of this place, and
return to your home!"
To this there was no reply, but the Doctor had no doubt that the
injunction would be followed. He laid Barnes down upon the bottom of
the cistern so that his opening eyes would gaze directly at the
orifice above, and then, climbing upon a lot of loose rubbish, he
easily reached the edge of the hole, and clutching it with his strong
hands drew himself out.
Exactly two hours later, Barnes opened his eyes and slowly awakened to
a sense of stiffness and pain in his limbs. He staggered up, and soon
was sufficiently aroused to see that he must climb out of the place
where he was. This he did with some difficulty, and after wandering
about for nearly an hour he found his way to the bridge and crossed
the river. Thence he went home, threw himself on his bed, and was soon
wrapped in deep, but natural slumber.
In the morning he wondered why he had slept in his clothing. His head
ached, and his limbs felt bruised. Slowly he seemed to recall his
following Dr. Medjora, his tracking him across the bridge, the house
afire, and his tumble into a well, from which he had climbed out late
at night. In fact nothing remained in his recollection except what had
been suggested by Dr. Medjora whilst he had been hypnotized. Still in
a vague way he half doubted, until at breakfast he found seeming
corroboration in the newspaper account, which told that the suspected
man had been burned to death. How could he reject so good an authority
as his morning paper?
CHAPTER IV.
DR. MEDJORA SURRENDERS.
Madam Cora Corona watched the destruction of the old mansion in which
she had last seen her lover, with mingled feelings of horror and of
hope. At one moment it seems impossible that the Doctor could find a
means of escaping from the flames, whilst at the next she could but
remember the manner of man that he was, and that having told her of
his intention to surrender to the police, he would scarcely have
chosen so horrible a death whilst immediate safety was attainable by
simply opening the door of the passageway before the flames enveloped
the whole building. Besides, how did the fire occur? He must have
started it himself, and, if so, with what object, except to cover up
his escape? But love, such as she bore this man, could never be
entirely free from its anxiety, until the most probable reasoning
should become assured facts. So, with a dull pain of dread gnawing at
her heart, she drove her horses home, holding the reins herself, and
lashing the animals into a swift gait, which made their chains clank
as they strained every nerve to obey their mistress's behest.
Reaching her sumptuous home on Madison Avenue, she hurried to her own
room, passing servants, who moved out of her way awed by her
appearance, for those who dwelt with her had learned to recognize the
signs which portended storm, and were wise enough to avoid the
violence of her anger.
Tossing aside her bonnet and mantle, regardless of where they fell,
Madam Corona dropped into a large, well-cushioned arm-chair, and gazed
into vacancy, with a hopeless despair depicted on her features. The
death of Dr. Medjora would mean much to this woman, and as the minutes
sped by, the conviction that he must have perished, slowly burned
itself into her brain.
She was the widow of a wealthy Central American. Her husband had been
shot as a traitor, having been captured in one of those ever-recurring
revolutions, whose leaders are killed if defeated, but made governors
if they succeed; rulers until such time when another revolutionary
party may become strong enough to depose the last victors. Thus the
chance of a battle makes men heroes, or criminals.
She had never loved her husband, and, with a sensual, passionate
temperament, which had never been satisfied by her marriage, she
welcomed her freedom and her husband's wealth as a possible step
towards that love for which she longed. Exiled from her own country,
because of the politics of her dead husband, she had come to the
United States, the home of all aliens. Her estates had not been
confiscated, for fear that the fires of the revolution, smothered but
not quenched, might have been again stirred by a seeming warring
against the woman. But the President had said to his council:
"Madam Corona is too rich, and she talks too much." So the hint had
been given to her to depart, and she had acquiesced, glad enough to
retain her fortune.
In New York she had been welcomed amidst the Spanish-Americans, and
with a different temperament might readily have endeared to herself a
host of true friends. But her selfish desire for a despotic sway over
all who came near, and her extreme jealousy of attentions to others,
imbued those who made her acquaintance with an aversion which was
scarcely concealed by the thin veneer of the polite formalities of
social life. So she knew that in the new, as in the old home, she had
no friends.
One day she was taken ill, and sent for Dr. Medjora, of whom she had
heard, though she had not met him. His skill brought about her rapid
recovery, and, being attracted by his fine appearance, she invited him
to visit her as a friend. He availed himself of this opportunity to
become intimate with a wealthy patron, and called often. Very soon she
became aware of the fact that here was a man over whom she could never
hope to dominate, and so, as she could not make him her slave, she
became his. Her whole fiery nature went out to him, and she courted
him with a wealth of passion which should have melted ice, but which
from the Doctor earned but little more than a warm hand-clasp at
parting. Finally, to her utter amazement, as she was about to despair
of ever attracting him, he came to her and asked her to marry him. She
consented joyously, and for twenty-four hours lived in rapture.
Then her morning paper told of the death of Mabel Sloane, and
connected the Doctor with the tragedy. She hurried to his office and
heaped upon him vituperation and reproach, such as only could emanate
from a heart capable of the deepest jealousy. He met the storm
unflinchingly, and turned it away from himself by reminding her that
he would probably be tried for murder, and that thus she would be rid
of him. At once she changed her threats to entreaties. She begged him
to fly with her. Her wealth would suffice, and in some other clime
they could be safe, and she would forget, forgive, and love him.
He appeared to yield, and bade her be ready to come to him at his
bidding. She returned home, only to write him a long urgent letter,
containing money; the letter to which the Doctor had alluded during
the conversation overheard by young Barnes. Then she had been summoned
and had gone to him. And now? Now the longer she thought, the more
certain did it appear to her, as the hours went by, that her lover was
dead. And such a death! She shuddered and closed her eyes. But she
could not shut out the vision of her beloved Doctor standing bravely,
with folded arms, as the flames crept upon him, surrounded him, and
destroyed him. She could not shut out the sound of a last despairing
cry wrung from his unwilling lips, as with a final upflaring of the
flame, the whole structure fell in.
Maddened by her thoughts, at length she started up and turned towards
her basin, intending to lave her fevered brow, when with a cry she
sprang back, for there, in her room, with arms folded as in her
vision, stood what she could but suppose to be the wraith of the dead.
She shrieked, and fell forward in a swoon, to be caught in the arms of
Dr. Medjora, who had admitted himself, unknown to the sleeping
servants, by a latch key furnished to him by her, when she had begged
him to join her in flight.
When she recovered consciousness and realized that this was no spectre
which had intruded upon her, she lavished upon him a wealth of kisses
and caresses, which should have assured him of the intensity of her
love and joy. She laughed and cried alternately, petted him and patted
his cheeks, kissed him upon the hands, upon his face, his hair, his
lips. She threw her arms around him and pressed him to her palpitating
heart, the while crying:
"Alive! Thank heaven! Alive! Alive!"
"And did you think me dead, Cara mia?" He folded his arms about her,
touched by the evident genuineness of her feelings, and moved to some
slight response.
"Yes! I thought so! No! I did not! I knew you were too clever to die
so. But then the flames! They ate up the whole building, and I did not
see how--I could not imagine--and I was afraid! But now you are safe
again! You are with me, and I love you a million times more that I
have mourned your death!"
"Come, come, dear heart! I am alive and unhurt. I never was in danger.
I would not kill myself, you know. I love my life too well! And it was
I who set the fire!"
"I thought that too at times! You did it to baffle the police! I see
it all! Oh, you are so clever! Now they will think you dead, and we
can go away together and live without fear! Is it not so?"
"No, Cora! As I told you this afternoon, I shall give myself up to the
police!"
"No, no, no! You must not! You shall not! What, risk your precious
life again? You will not, say that you will not! If you love me, say
it!"
She twined her arms about his neck, and held him tight as though he
meditated going away at once. In the fear of this new danger, an agony
welled up about her heart, and tears choked her utterance. But the
Doctor remained impassive. He gently, but forcibly, disengaged himself
from her embrace, and seating himself, drew her down to her knees
beside him. Then he took her head in his hands, compelling her to look
at him, and spoke to her in measured tones.
"Cora! Calm yourself! You are growing hysterical. You know me too
well, to suppose that I would swerve from a fixed purpose. I will not
leave this city. As I have told you, all my hopes for the future bind
me here. Elsewhere I should be as nothing, here I will grow into
greatness,--greatness which you shall share with me, if you be but
brave!"
"But this trial! Suppose--suppose--oh! The horror of it!" She dropped
her head upon his lap and wept. He stroked her beautiful black hair,
which had become disengaged and now fell down her back, completely
covering her shoulders. Presently when she was more quiet, only an
occasional sob indicating that she was yet disturbed, he spoke to her,
soothingly, caressingly, so that under the magic of his tones she
gradually recovered her self-possession.
"My little one, have no fear! This trial is but an incident which
scarcely gives me a troublesome thought. The worst is that I shall
probably be in prison for some time awaiting trial. A meddlesome
interference with the liberty of a man, which the law takes, offering
no recompense when the accused is proven to have been innocent. This
is one of the anomalies of a system which claims to administer equal
rights and justice to all. I am accused of a crime. I am arrested and
incarcerated for weeks, or months. I am tried and acquitted. I spend
thousands of dollars in my defence. When I am released, I am in no way
repaid for my loss of liberty and money. Indeed, innocent though I be,
I am congratulated by a host of sympathizers because I was not hanged.
But I have had full justice. I have been accorded an expensive trial,
with learned talent against me, etc., etc. The law is not to blame,
nor those who enforce the laws. I am the victim of circumstances, that
is all. Well, so be it. A stupid doctor has warned the authorities
that a woman has died of morphine poisoning, despite the fact that a
more competent man has signed a certificate that she died of a natural
disease. So I have been accused, and will undoubtedly be indicted and
tried. But do you not see, that I have but to show that diphtheria
caused death, and my innocence will be admitted?"
"Yes, but----!"
"No! There is no but? Now show me to a room, where I may rest
unobserved, until the day after to-morrow. We must not rob the public
of its sensation too soon. Think of it, I read my own holocaust in an
afternoon paper!"
Madam Corona shivered at this, not yet fully unmindful of her own
recent forebodings. Obediently she took him to a room, and left him,
the single comforting thought abiding with her, that she would have
him all to herself during the whole of the following day.
When Messrs. Dudley and Bliss learned from Barnes that he had followed
Dr. Medjora, and had seen him go into the building which had been
destroyed by fire, their hope that possibly the newspaper accounts
were erroneous, was dissipated.
"I knew it!" began the junior member. "I knew that it was too good to
be true. Think of that man's permitting himself to be burned to death
just as we were about to get our chance. It's too exasperating."
"It is annoying, Robert, of course," said Mr. Dudley. "Yet there is
some comfort in the thought that he had the courtesy to pay us a
retainer. That five hundred is most acceptable."
"Oh! certainly, the money will come handy, but what is five hundred
dollars to an opportunity such as this would have been?" Mr. Bliss was
in a very bad humor.
"Robert," began his partner, speaking seriously, "you must not be so
impatient. We are no worse off, at any rate, than before the man
called upon us, so far as our profession goes, and we are better off
than we would be if he had not called at all. You should be grateful
for the good received, and not cry after lost possibilities."
"Oh! well! I suppose you are right!" and throwing up both arms in a
gesture of disgust, he went to his desk and began writing furiously. A
long silence was maintained. These two men contrasted greatly. They
had met each other during their law-school days, and were mutually
attracted. Mr. Dudley was a hard student who had realized early in
life that the best fruit comes to him, who climbs, rather than to him
who shakes the tree; whilst that man who lies at ease, basking in the
sunshine and waiting for ripe plums to fall into his mouth, is likely
to go hungry. He was methodical, persistent, patient, energetic. He
wasted no time. Even during his office hours, if there were nothing
else to occupy him, he would continue his studies, delving into the
calf-bound tomes as though determined to be a thorough master of their
contents.
Mr. Bliss was his antithesis, and yet he had just those qualifications
which made him complement his partner, so that he strengthened the
firm. He was a brilliant, rather than a deep student. He read rapidly,
and had a remarkable memory, so that he had a superficial
comprehension of many things, rather than a positive knowledge of a
lesser number. He could be both rhetorical and oratorical, and, at a
pinch, could blind a jury with a neat metaphor, where surer logic
might have made a smaller impression, being less attractive. When
addressing the jury, he would become so earnest, that by suggesting to
his hearers that he himself was convinced of the truth of his
utterances, he often swayed them to his wishes. He was quick, too, and
keen, so that he eventually became justly celebrated for his
cross-examinations. But at this time his greatness had scarcely begun
to bud, and so he sat like a schoolboy in the dumps, whilst his graver
partner, though equally disappointed at the prospect of losing a good
case, showed not so much of his annoyance.
Presently Barnes entered with a telegram, which Mr. Bliss took, glad
of anything to divert his thoughts. A moment after reading it he was
greatly excited, and handing the message to his partner, exclaimed:
"Mortimer, in heaven's name read that!"
Mr. Dudley took the despatch and read as follows:
"Be at office District Attorney to-morrow ten o'clock. I will take
your advice and surrender. Medjora."
"Well, Robert, what of it?"
"What of it? Has the Western Union an office in the other world now,
that dead men may send telegrams?"
"Certainly not. Therefore this was sent before he died."
"Before he died!" This unthought-of possibility shattered the rising
hopes of Mr. Bliss. He made one more effort, however, saying:
"What is the date?"
"Why, the date is to-day!" said Mr. Dudley, slowly. "Singular! But it
is an error, of course."
"Why do you say 'of course'?" asked his partner, testily. "You seem to
be anxious to lose this case. Now, how do you know that Medjora is
dead after all?"
"Why Barnes saw him go into the building, and he could not have
escaped, for the place was surrounded by the police."
"There is no telling what that man can do. I verily believe that he is
more than human, after the way in which he read my thoughts yesterday.
I am going to probe this thing to the bottom." And before his partner
could detain him, he had taken down his hat and rushed off.
Two hours later, he returned discouraged. At the main office he had
been referred to a branch, far uptown. Arriving there he found that
the operator who had sent the despatch had gone off duty. The original
blank upon which the message had been written was undated. So he
learned practically nothing.
"Never mind," said he, doggedly, after relating his ill-success, "I
will go to the District-Attorney's office to-morrow, and wait for that
man whether he come, or his ghost. I firmly believe that one or the
other will do so."
"I will go with you," said Mr. Dudley. "Only promise me to say
nothing, unless our man turns up."
At half-past nine on the next morning, both of the young lawyers were
at the appointed place. Mr. Dudley sat down and read, or appeared to
read, the paper. Mr. Bliss walked about impatiently, leaving the room
occasionally to go out into the hall and stand at the main doorway,
looking into the street.
A few moments before ten o'clock the District Attorney himself arrived
and nodded pleasantly to the young men, with whom he was acquainted.
"Waiting for me?" he asked of Mr. Dudley.
"No! I am waiting for a client," was the quiet rejoinder. Mr. Bliss
started to speak, but a signal from his partner reminded him of his
injunction.
"Strange news in the morning paper," remarked the District Attorney,
evidently full of his topic. "That man Medjora, the fellow who
poisoned his sweetheart you know, was burned to death trying to escape
the detectives. Served him right, only it is a great case missed by us
lawyers, eh?"
"Why do you say it served him right?" asked Mr. Bliss, quickly. He
still hoped that the Doctor would appear, and it occurred to him
instantly, that he might learn something from the prosecution, thus
taken unawares, supposing the case to be ended.
"Oh, well!" said the old lawyer, careful of speech by habit rather
than because he saw any necessity for caution in the present instance;
"had the case come to trial, we had abundant evidence upon which to
convict, for Medjora certainly murdered the girl."
"Your are mistaken!" said a clear voice behind them, and as the three
men turned and faced Dr. Medjora, the clock struck ten. Without
waiting for them to recover from their surprise the Doctor continued:
"Mr. District Attorney, I am Emanuel Medjora, the man whom you have
just accused of a hideous crime; the murder of a young girl, by making
use of his knowledge of medicine. To my mind there can scarcely be a
murder more fiendish, than where a physician, who has been taught the
use of poisons for beneficent purposes, prostitutes his knowledge to
compass the death of a human being; especially of one who loved him."
He uttered the last words with a touch of pathos which moved his
hearers. Quickly recovering he continued: "Therefore, both as a man,
and as a physician, I must challenge you to prove your slanderous
statement. I have come here to-day, sir, to surrender myself to you as
the law's representative, that I may show my willingness to answer in
person the charges which have been made against me. Messrs. Dudley &
Bliss here, are my counsel."
The District Attorney was very much astonished. Not only was he amazed
to see the man alive, when he had been reported dead, but he was
entirely unprepared to find this suspected criminal to be a man of
cultured refinement, both of speech and of manner. He was thus, for
the moment, more leniently inclined than he would have been, were he
alone considering the mass of evidence which his office had already
collected against the Doctor. Turning to him therefore he said:
"So you are Dr. Medjora! Well, sir, I am delighted to see you. That
you have voluntarily surrendered yourself will certainly tell in your
favor. You must pardon my hasty remark. But I thought that you were
dead, and----"
"And as you could not hurt the dead, you saw no harm in calling an
unconvicted man a murderer. I see!" There was a vein of satirical
reproach beneath the polished manner of saying these words, which
stung the old lawyer, and restored him at once to his wonted
craftiness.
"Perhaps you are right, Doctor, and I ought not to have used the words
about you, dead or alive. Of course, in this office the prisoner is
only the accused. Never more than that, even in our thoughts. That is
an imperative injunction which I place upon all of my assistants. You
see, gentlemen," he addressed them all collectively, with the purpose
of bringing the Doctor to the conclusion that he was not specially
thinking of him. Thus he prepared to spring a trap. "You see, the
District Attorney is a prosecuting officer, but he should never
persecute. It is his duty to represent and guard the liberties of the
whole community. He should be as jealous of the rights of the accused,
as of the accuser. More so, perhaps, for the prisoner stands to an
extent alone, whilst the whole commonwealth is against him. And so,
Dr. Medjora, if you are an innocent man, as you seem to be, it would
be my most pleasing duty to free you from the stigma cast upon you.
And should you come to trial, you must believe that the more forcible
my arguments may be against you, the more do I espouse your cause, for
the more thorough would be your acquittal if you obtained the
verdict." Then having, as he thought, led his man away from his
defence, he asked quickly, "But tell me, why have you not surrendered
before?"
If he hoped to see the Doctor stammer and splutter, seeking for some
plausible explanation, he was doomed to disappointment. Dr. Medjora
replied at once, ignoring a signal from Mr. Bliss not to speak.
"Mr. District Attorney, I will reply most candidly. Whilst, as you
have just said, it is your duty to guard the interests of the accused
as well as of the commonwealth, I regret to be compelled to say that
such is not your reputation. People say, and I see now that they must
be wrong,"--the Doctor bowed and smiled most politely,--"but they do
say that with you it is conviction at any cost. Thus even an innocent
man might well hesitate to withstand the attacks of so eminent and
skilful a jurist as yourself. Circumstantial evidence, whilst most
reliable when thoroughly comprehended, may sometimes entrap the
guiltless. So whilst my blood boiled in anger at the disgraceful
charges which were made against me, my innate love of liberty, and my
caution, bade me think first. Not satisfied with my own counsel, I
deemed it wise to consult legal authority, which I did two days ago.
Messrs. Dudley & Bliss advised me to surrender, confident that my
innocence will be made so apparent that I do not materially jeopardize
my life. In compliance with the understanding entered into two days
ago, as these gentlemen will testify, I am at your service."
"But why did you not come here two days ago?"
"Because I had some affairs of a private nature to arrange."
"What about the incident of the fire reported in the papers?"
"Why, I see nothing in that but poor reportorial work. I did not
choose to be arrested when I had decided voluntarily to surrender, as
such a mischance would have injured my case. I therefore escaped
during the confusion. That I was unobserved, and was reported to have
perished, is not my fault certainly."
"Very well, Doctor. You have not been indicted, and there is no
warrant out for your arrest; still, as you have surrendered, are you
willing to be taken to prison?"
"That is what I expect. I am entirely ready."
"May I ask," said Mr. Dudley, addressing the District Attorney, "in
view of the fact that our client has voluntarily surrendered himself,
that his confinement in prison may be as brief as possible? We claim
that the Doctor is an innocent man, deprived of his liberty whilst
awaiting trial, through the blundering accusations of a stupid
physician. We venture to suggest that common justice demands that his
trial should be as soon as possible."
"I shall arrange to have the trial at as early a date as is consistent
with my duty to the commonwealth!"
"And to the accused?" interjected Dr. Medjora, with a twinkle in his
eye.
"And to the accused, of course," said the old lawyer, with a smile,
unwilling to be outdone.
And so Dr. Emanuel Medjora was taken to prison to await his trial, and
the public was treated to another sensation through the newspapers.
CHAPTER V.
FOR THE PROSECUTION.
In spite of the promises of the District Attorney, several months
passed before the great murder trial was commenced. The public at last
were delighted to hear that their love for the harrowing details of a
celebrated crime was to be satisfied. A few of the newspapers of the
sensational stamp announced that they, and they only, would have the
fullest accounts, illustrated with life-like portraiture of the
accused, the lawyers, the judge, the jury, and the chief witnesses.
This promise was so well fulfilled that on the opening day there
appeared several alleged portraits of Dr. Medjora, which resembled him
about as little as they did one another.
Several days were consumed before the jury was impanelled, and then at
length the prosecution opened its case, which was mainly in charge of
Mr. George Munson, a newly appointed Assistant District Attorney, the
very man of whom Mr. Dudley had spoken, when his partner had bewailed
their unfortunate lot, because they had never been intrusted with a
criminal case.
Mr. Munson was a rising man. He had attracted attention, and was
receiving a reward of merit by his promotion to the office which he
now filled. It was hinted somewhere, that his appointment had been
largely dependent upon his conduct of that murder case, during which
he had shown a wonderful knowledge of chemistry, for one not actually
a chemist. And his having charge of this most important case, in which
chemical expert testimony seemed likely to play an important part,
substantiated the statement.
He was well versed in law, was keen and quick at cross-examination,
and merciless in probing the private lives of witnesses, when such
action promised to aid his cause. He was not, however, a very
brilliant speaker, but it was expected that the District Attorney
would himself sum up. Thus the prosecution seemed to be in able hands.
Opposed to them were Messrs. Dudley & Bliss, two young, unknown men,
and people wondered why the Doctor, reputed to have wealth, had not
engaged more prominent counsel.
Mr. Munson's opening speech was not lengthy. He confined himself to a
brief statement of his case, summarizing in the most general fashion
what he expected to prove; in brief, that Mabel Sloane had died of
morphine poisoning, and not of diphtheria, that the poison had been
administered by Dr. Medjora, and that his object had been to rid
himself of a woman who stood in his path, an obstacle to the
advancement of his ambition. Mr. Munson thus avoided the mistake so
often made by lawyers, where, following the temptation to make a
speech, they tell so much that they weaken their cause, by affording
their opponents time to prepare a more thorough defence.
A few witnesses were called to establish in a general way the death of
the girl, her place of residence, and such other facts as are
essential in the preparation of a case, in order that no legal
technicality may be neglected. But as it is manifest that I cannot, in
the scope of this narration, give you a full account of the trial, I
shall confine myself to compiling from the records just so much of the
evidence as shall seem to me likely to attract your interest, and to
be necessary to a full comprehension of the Doctor's position, and
relation to this supposed crime.
The first important witness, then, was Dr. Meredith, the physician who
had aroused suspicion by reporting to the Board of Health that the
girl had, in his opinion, died of opium narcosis. It was apparent,
when he took the stand, that he was extremely nervous, and disliked
exceedingly the position in which he found himself. Indeed it is a
very trying predicament for a physician to be called upon to testify
in a court of law, unless he is not only an expert in his profession,
but also an expert witness. He finds himself confronted by an array of
medical and legal experts, all conspiring to disprove his assertions,
and to show how little his knowledge is worth. Generally, he has
little to gain, whereas he may lose much in the estimation of his
patrons by being made to appear ridiculous on the stand.
After taking the oath, Dr. Meredith sat with his eyes upon the floor
until Mr. Munson began to question him. Then he looked straight at the
lawyer, as though upon him he relied for protection.
"You attended Miss Mabel Sloane in her last illness, I believe?" began
Mr. Munson.
"I did."
"How were you called in to the case?"
"I was called in consultation by Dr. Fisher."
"You were sent for by Dr. Fisher! Then I am to understand that you and
he were good friends?"
"The best of friends."
"And are so still?"
"I think so. Yes."
"And Dr. Medjora. Did you know him before your connection with this
case?"
"Only slightly."
"Were you present when Miss Sloane died?"
"I was present for half an hour before she died."
"Exactly! And you remained with her until she was actually dead?"
"Yes, sir. I saw her die."
"Of what did she die?"
"I object!" cried Mr. Bliss, springing to his feet and interrupting
the prosecution for the first time.
"State your objection," said the Recorder, tersely.
"Your Honor," began Mr. Bliss, "I object to the form of the question.
The whole point at issue is contained in it, and I contend that this
witness is not qualified to answer. If he were, the trial might end
upon his doing so."
"The witness is only expected to testify to the best of his belief,"
said the Recorder.
"Very true, your Honor. I only wish it to go to the jury in the proper
form. If they understand that this witness does not know of what Miss
Sloane died, but simply states what he thinks, I shall be perfectly
satisfied."
"You may as well modify your question, Mr. Munson," said the Recorder.
Thus Mr. Bliss scored a little victory, which at once convinced the
older lawyers present that, though young, he would prove to be shrewd
to grasp the smallest advantage. His object had evidently been to
belittle the value of the answer, before it was made, by thus calling
attention so prominently to the fact that Dr. Meredith could not know
positively what he was about to charge.
"In your opinion, what caused the death of Miss Sloane?" This was the
new question formulated to meet the objection raised.
"She died of morphine poisoning!" replied Dr. Meredith.
"You mean you think she died of morphine poisoning?" interjected Mr.
Bliss.
"Kindly wait until you get the witness before you begin your
cross-examination!" said Mr. Munson, with a touch of asperity. Mr.
Bliss merely smiled and kept silent, satisfied that he had produced
his effect upon the jury.
"Will you state why you conclude that Miss Sloane died of morphine
poisoning?" continued Mr. Munson.
"I observed all the characteristic symptoms of morphine narcosis prior
to her death, and the nature of the death itself was consistent with
my theory."
"Please explain what the symptoms of morphine poisoning are?"
"Cold sweat, slow pulse, stertorous breathing, a gradually deepening
coma, contracted pupils, which, however, slowly dilate at the approach
of death, which is caused by a paralysis of the respiratory centres."
"Did you observe any of these symptoms in Miss Sloane?"
"Yes. Practically all of them."
"And would these same symptoms occur in any other form of death,
except from morphine poisoning?"
"They would not. Of course they do not apply to morphine only. They
are generally diagnostic of opium poisoning."
"But morphine is a form of opium, is it not?"
"Yes. It is one of the alkaloids."
"Now, Doctor, one more question. You have testified that you attended
this girl in her last illness; as a physician you are familiar with
death from diphtheria; you have stated what are the symptoms of
morphine, or opium poisoning, and that you observed them in this case;
further, that an identical set of symptoms would not occur in any
other disease known to you; now, from these facts, what would you say
caused the death of Miss Mabel Sloane?"
"I should say that she died of a poisonous dose of some form of opium,
probably morphine."
"You may take the witness," said Mr. Munson, as he sat down. Mr. Bliss
spoke a word to Doctor Medjora, and then holding a few slips of paper,
upon which were notes, mainly suggestions which had been written by
the prisoner himself, and passed to his counsel unperceived by the
majority of those present, he faced the witness, whose eyes at once
sought the floor.
"Doctor," began Mr. Bliss, "you have stated that you are only slightly
acquainted with Dr. Medjora. Is that true?"
"I said that I was only slightly acquainted with him prior to my being
called to attend Miss Sloane. Of course I know him better now."
"But before the time which you specify, you did not know him?"
"Not intimately."
"Oh! Not intimately? Then you did know him? Now is it not a fact that
you and Dr. Medjora were enemies?"
"I object!" exclaimed Mr. Munson.
"I wish to show, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, "that this witness has
harbored a personal spite against our client, and that because of
that, his mind was not in a condition to evolve an unprejudiced
opinion about the illness of Miss Sloane."
"I do not think that is at all competent, your Honor," said Mr.
Munson. "The witness has testified to facts, and even if there were
personal feeling, that would not alter facts."
"No, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, quickly, "facts are immutable. But a
prejudiced mind is as an eye that looks through a colored glass. All
that is observed is distorted by the mental state."
"The witness may answer," said the Recorder.
At the request of Mr. Bliss the stenographer read the question aloud,
and the witness replied.
"Dr. Medjora and myself were not enemies. Certainly not!"
"Had you not had a controversy with him upon a professional point?"
"I had an argument with him, in a debate, just as occurs in all
debates."
"Precisely! But was not this argument, as you term it, a discussion
which followed a paper which you had read, and in that argument did
not Dr. Medjora prove that the whole treatment outlined by you was
erroneous, unscientific, and unsound?"
"He did not prove it; he claimed something of the kind!"
"You say he did not prove it. As a result of his argument, was not
your paper refused publication by a leading medical journal?"
"I did not offer it for publication."
"I think this is all incompetent, your Honor," said Mr. Munson.
"You may go on," said the Recorder, nodding to Mr. Bliss.
"Is it not customary for papers read before your societies to become
the property of the society, and are they not sent by the society to
the journal in question?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Was not your paper sent to the journal as usual, and was it not
rejected by the journal?"
"I do not know that it was."
"Well, has your paper been published anywhere?"
"No."
"You said that you were present when Miss Sloane died. Now how did
that happen. Were you sent for?"
"No. I had seen the patient with Dr. Fisher during the day, and she
seemed to be improving, so much so that Dr. Fisher decided that we
need not see her until the next morning. Later I thought this a little
unsafe, and so I called during the evening."
"Oh! Dr. Fisher thought she was well enough, but you did not. Was that
why you called at night?"
The witness bit his lip with anger at having made this slip.
"I live near, and I thought it would do no harm to call."
"Now when you called, you have stated that you were with her for half
an hour before she died. Did she die a half hour after you entered her
room?"
"In about half an hour."
"How soon after you saw her, did you suspect that she had been
poisoned?"
"Immediately."
"Oh! Immediately! Then of course you made some effort to save her
life, did you not? You used some antidotes?"
"It was difficult. At first of course there was merely a suspicion in
my mind. I tried to have her drink some strong coffee, but deglutition
was almost impossible. This is another evidence of the poison."
"Now, Doctor, be careful. You say that impaired deglutition was due to
poisoning. But do you not know that deglutition is most difficult in
cases of diphtheria?"
"The patient swallowed very well in the afternoon."
"But if she had grown worse, if the false membrane had increased,
would she not have had greater difficulty in swallowing?"
"Yes, but----"
"Never mind the buts. Now, then, when you found that she was too ill
to swallow, what else did you do?"
"I injected atropine, and sent for Dr. Fisher."
"Oh! Then you did send for Dr. Fisher?"
"Yes."
"Did he arrive before she died?"
"Yes. About five minutes."
"Did you suggest to him that the patient was dying of poison?"
"I did, but he would not agree with me. Therefore I could not do
anything more, as he was the physician in charge."
"Is Dr. Fisher a skilful man?"
"Yes."
"As skilful as you are yourself?"
This was a hard question, but with Dr. Fisher present, only one answer
was possible.
"Certainly, but we are all liable to make a mistake."
This was a bad effort to help his cause, for Mr. Bliss quickly
interposed.
"Even you are liable to make a mistake, eh?"
"Of course, but in this instance I saw more of the case than Dr.
Fisher did."
"Still, Dr. Fisher was present for several minutes before this girl
died, and though you suggested that she had been poisoned, and
proposed taking some action to save her from the poison, he disagreed
with you so entirely that he made no such effort. Is that right?"
"Well, there was very little that he could have done anyway. It was
too late. The drug had gone too far for the stomach-pump to be
efficacious; the atropine had had no beneficial result, we had no
means of applying a magnetic battery, and no time to get one.
Artificial respiration was what I proposed, whilst waiting for a
battery, but Dr. Fisher thought it a useless experiment, in presence
of the diphtheria. He offered to perform tracheotomy, but as I
considered that the respiratory centres had been paralyzed by
morphine, I could see no advantage in that."
"So whilst you two doctors argued, the patient died?"
"It was too late for us to save her life. The coma was too deep. It
was a hopeless case."
"Now, then, Doctor, let us come to those symptoms. You enumerated a
list, and claimed that you observed them all. The first is cold sweat.
Did you notice that specially?"
"The cold sweat was present, but not very marked. It would be less so
with morphine than with other forms of opium."
"Oh! So there was not much sweat after all? Now was there more than
would be expected on a warm night such as that was?"
"I think so. It is only valuable as a diagnostic sign in conjunction
with the other symptoms."
"Next we have slow pulse. This was a half hour before death. Does not
the pulse become slow in many cases just before death?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Not much sweat, and slow pulse does not amount to
anything. What next? Oh! 'stertorous breathing.' That is not uncommon
in diphtheria, is it, Doctor?"
"No."
"Just so. Now then, 'gradually deepening coma.' That is to say, a slow
sinking into unconsciousness. Or I might say, dying slowly. Is a slow
death of this kind only possible where opium poisoning has occurred?"
"No."
"Lastly we have the contracted pupils. That is your best diagnostic
symptom, is it not, Doctor?"
"Yes. It is a plain indication of opium."
"Now then, Doctor, admitting that the contracted pupils are a sign of
morphine, how did you determine, in that darkened room, that there was
a contraction of the pupils?"
"I passed a candle before her eyes, and they gave no response, whilst
the pupils were contracted minutely."
"How small?"
"As small as a pin's point."
"Now then, Doctor, you answered a lengthy question for Mr. Munson and
you told us that these symptoms, that is, all of them occurring
together, would not be found in any other condition than that which in
your opinion would be the result of opium poisoning. Please listen to
this question and give me an answer. Suppose that a patient were
suffering with diphtheria, and were about to die of that disease, and
that some time before she died morphine were administered in a
moderate, medicinal dose, would it not be possible to have the
contracted pupils such as you have described as a result of the
morphine, whilst death were really caused by diphtheria?"
"I object!" cried Mr. Munson, quick to see the ingenuity of this
question, which if answered affirmatively by the witness would leave
the inference that Miss Sloane might have taken a non-poisonous dose
of morphine and still have died of diphtheria.
"The question seems to me to be a proper one," said the Recorder.
"Your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "this witness is here to testify to
facts. He is not here as an expert. That is a hypothetical question
and does not relate to the facts in this case."
"It is no more a hypothetical question than one which the prosecution
asked, your Honor. He asked if the described symptoms could occur in
any other disease. The witness was allowed to answer that."
"Yes," said the Recorder, "but you made no objection. Had you done so,
and claimed that this witness could not give expert testimony, I would
perhaps have sustained you. I think you may leave your question until
the experts are called, Mr. Bliss."
"Oh! Very well, your Honor. I should prefer to have an expert opinion
upon it. If this witness is not an expert, of course his opinion would
be of no value to us."
This was a rather neat manoeuvre, tending to further discredit the
witness, without placing himself in opposition to the Judge, an
important point always. Mr. Bliss then yielded the witness, and
the Assistant District Attorney asked a few more questions in
re-examination, but they were mainly intended to re-affirm the
previous testimony, and so obtain a last impression upon the minds of
the jury. Nothing was brought out which would add to what has already
been narrated. Court then adjourned for the day.
CHAPTER VI.
DAMAGING TESTIMONY.
On the following day the newspaper accounts of the trial, and
especially of the sharp cross-examination of Dr. Meredith, attracted a
tremendous crowd, which assailed the doors of the court-room long
before the hour for opening. Every conceivable excuse to gain
admission was offered. Men claimed to be personal friends of the
prisoner, and women brought him flowers. Some essayed force, others
resorted to entreaty, whilst not a few relied upon strategy, appearing
with law books under their arms, and following in the wake of counsel.
Thus when the Recorder finally entered, and proceedings were begun,
every available seat, and all standing room was fully occupied by the
throng, which, without any real personal interest in the case, yet was
attracted through that curious love of the sensational, and of the
criminal, which actuates the majority of mankind to-day.
The first witness was called promptly. This was Dr. McDougal, the
Coroner's physician, to whom had been intrusted the autopsy. He gave a
full account of the operations performed by himself and his assistants
upon the body of the deceased. He described in detail each step of his
work, and exhibited a thoroughness and caution which more than
anything demonstrated that he was the expert pathologist which the
prosecution claimed him to be. Indeed, it would be well in great
trials, if those having charge of autopsies would emulate the example
of Dr. McDougal. He explained how, before opening the body, it had
been thoroughly washed in sterilized water, and placed upon a marble
slab, which had been scrubbed clean and then bathed in a germicidal
solution. Next new glass cans, absolutely clean, had been at hand, in
which the various organs were placed as they were removed from the
body, after which they were hermetically sealed, and stamped with the
date, so that when passed into the hands of the analytical chemist,
that gentleman might feel assured that he received the identical
parts, and that nothing of an extraneous nature, poisonous or
otherwise, had been mixed with them. It was evident that this careful
man made a deep impression upon the jury, and that his statements
would have weight with them, not alone as to his own evidence, but by
strengthening the chemical report, since he had made it apparently
assured that if poison had been found, it had not reached the body
after death. Finally, Mr. Munson brought his witness to the point of
special interest.
"From what you observed, Doctor," said he, "are you prepared to assign
a cause of death?"
"I should conclude that she died of coma!" was the reply.
"Can you state whether this coma had been produced by a poisonous dose
of morphine?"
"I should say that it was very probable that opium in some form had
been exhibited, in a poisonous dose."
"State specifically why you have adopted that opinion!"
"I found the brain wet, the convolutions flattened; the lungs, heart,
liver, and spleen, distended and engorged with dark fluid blood. The
vessels of the cerebro-spinal axis were also engorged with black
blood, and the capillaries of the brain, upon incision, vented the
same fluid."
"And these signs are indicative of opium poisoning?"
"They are the only evidences of opium poisoning that can be discovered
by an autopsy. Of course a chemical analysis, if it should show the
presence of the drug, would go very far to corroborate this
presumption."
"Then if the chemical analysis shows the actual presence of opium,
would you say that this patient died of opium poisoning?"
"I would!"
"Doctor, it has been suggested that she died of diphtheria. What is
your opinion of that?"
"I found evidences in the throat and adjacent parts, that the woman
had had diphtheria, but, from the total absence of false membrane, I
should say that she was well on the way to a recovery from that
disease, at the time of her death."
"Then from these facts do you think that she died of opium poisoning?"
"I think it most probable, judging by what I found after death."
"It has been testified by the physician in charge of the case, that
the symptoms of morphine poisoning were sufficiently marked for him to
deem antidotes necessary prior to death. Would not that corroborate
your own conclusions?"
"If correct, it would substantiate my opinion."
Considering the very positive and damaging nature of this evidence, it
was thought that the cross-examination would be very exhaustive. To
the surprise of all, Mr. Bliss asked only a few questions.
"Dr. McDougal," said he, "did you examine the kidneys?"
"I did."
"In what condition did you find them to be?"
"They were much shrunken, and smooth. Non-elastic."
"Is that a normal condition?"
"No, sir. It is a morbid condition."
"Morbid? That is diseased. Then this woman had some kidney disease? Do
I so understand you?"
"Unquestionably!"
"Can you state what disease existed?"
"I should say Bright's disease."
"Might she not have died of this?"
"No. There was evidence of the existence of Bright's disease, but not
sufficient to adjudge it a cause of death."
"But you are certain that she had Bright's disease?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is all."
Professor Orton then took the stand for the prosecution. Under the
questioning of Mr. Munson, he described himself to be an expert
analytical chemist and toxicologist. He said that he was a lecturing
professor connected with the University Medical College, and clinical
chemist for two other schools, besides being president of several
societies, and member or honorary member in a dozen others. Then,
proceeding to a description of his work on this particular case, he
explained in almost tedious detail his methods of searching for
morphine in the organs taken from the body of the deceased. Some of
these tests he repeated in the presence of the court, showing how, by
the reaction of his testing agents upon the matter under examination,
the presence or absence of morphine could be detected. Having thus
paved the way towards the special evidence which he was expected to
give, his examination was continued as follows:
"Now then, Professor," said Mr. Munson, "you have proven to us very
clearly that you can detect the presence of morphine in the tissues.
Please state whether you examined the organs of the deceased, and with
what result?"
"I made a most thorough examination and I found morphine present,
especially in the stomach and in the intestines."
"Did you find it in poisonous quantities?"
"The actual quantity which I found, would not have been a lethal dose,
but such a dose must have been administered for me to have found as
much as I did find."
"Well, from what you did find, can you state what quantity must have
been administered?"
"I cannot state positively, but I should guess----"
"No! No! I object!" cried Mr. Bliss, jumping up. "You are here to give
expert testimony. We do not want any guess-work!"
"Professor," said the Recorder, "can you not state what was the
minimum quantity which must have been administered, judged by what you
found?"
"It is difficult, your Honor. The drug acts variably upon different
individuals. Then again, much would depend upon the length of time
which elapsed between the administration, and the death of the
individual."
"Then in this case your opinion would be a mere speculation and not
competent," said the Recorder, and Mr. Bliss seated himself, satisfied
that he had scored another point. But he was soon on his feet again,
for Mr. Munson would not yield so easily.
"Professor," said he, "you said in reply to his Honor, that you could
not answer without knowing how long before death the drug had been
administered. Now with that knowledge would you be able to give us a
definite answer?"
"A definite answer? Yes! But not an exact one. The drug is absorbed
more rapidly in some, than in others, so that one person might take
two or three times as much as another, and I would find the same
residuum. But I could tell you what was the minimum dose that must
have been administered."
"Well, then, supposing that the drug had been administered about three
hours before death, how large must the dose have been, or what was the
minimum quantity that could have been given, judging by what you
found?"
"I must object to that, your Honor!" said Mr. Bliss.
"Your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "this is a hypothetical question, and
perfectly competent."
"It is a hypothetical question, your Honor," replied Mr. Bliss, "but
it contains a hypothesis which is not based upon the evidence in this
case. There has been absolutely no testimony to show that morphine was
administered to this woman about three hours before death."
"We have a witness who will testify to that later," replied Mr.
Munson, and this announcement created no little sensation, for here
was promised some direct evidence.
"Upon the understanding," said the Recorder, "that you will produce a
witness who will testify that morphine was administered three hours
before death, I will admit your question."
"We take an exception!" said Mr. Bliss, and sat down.
"Now please answer the question," said Mr. Munson, addressing the
witness.
"Under the hypothesis presented I should say that the minimum dose
must have been three grains."
"That is to say, she must have had three grains, or more?"
"Yes, sir; three grains or more."
"What is a medicinal dose?"
"From a thirty-second of a grain to half a grain, though the latter
would be unusual."
"Unusually large you mean?"
"Yes. It would be rarely given."
"Then would you say that three grains would be a lethal dose?"
"It would most probably prove fatal. One sixth of a grain has been
known to produce death."
"One sixth of a grain has proven fatal, and, from what you found, you
conclude that three grains had been given to this woman?"
"Yes, provided your hypothesis as to the time of administration is
correct."
"Oh, we will prove the hypothesis."
"Then I should say that three grains had been administered."
"Three grains or more?"
"Yes, three grains or more."
"You may take the witness," said the Assistant District Attorney, and
Mr. Bliss at once began his cross-examination.
"Professor, as an expert toxicologist now, leaving analytical
chemistry for awhile, you are familiar with the action of drugs in the
human body during life, are you not?"
"Of poisonous drugs. Yes, sir."
"Of poisonous drugs of course. Of opium and its alkaloids especially,
is what I mean?"
"Yes, sir. I have studied them minutely."
"Now then in regard to morphine. You said to his Honor, awhile ago,
that this drug acts variably upon different individuals. Is it not
true that it also acts differently upon the same individual at various
times?"
"Yes, sir, that is true."
"And is its action affected by disease?"
"It might be!"
"Supposing that the drug were administered continuously, might it not
occur, that instead of being absorbed, the morphine would be retained,
stored up as it were, so that the quantity would accumulate?"
"Yes, the records contain reports of such cases."
"Well, now, suppose that a patient had some kidney trouble, such as
Bright's disease, would not morphine be retained in this way?"
"I have never seen such a case."
"Never seen it! But you have read, or heard of such cases?"
"Yes, sir. That is the claim made by some authorities."
"By good authorities?"
"Yes. Good authorities."
"And these good authorities claim that morphine, administered to one
who has Bright's disease, might accumulate until a poisonous dose were
present?"
"Yes, sir!"
Thus was made plain the object of the line of cross-examination that
had been followed with Dr. McDougal. It became evident that the
defence meant to claim that if Mabel Sloane died from morphine it was
because it had been stored up in her system, in consequence of the
diseased kidneys. Satisfied with this admission from the prosecution's
expert, Mr. Bliss yielded the witness, and he was re-examined by Mr.
Munson.
"Professor," said he, "supposing that in the case of this girl,
morphine had been retained in the system, suddenly destroying life
because a poisonous quantity had been thus accumulated, would you
expect to find it, after death, in the stomach?"
"No, sir, I would not."
"How long a time would be required to eliminate it from that organ?"
"Ordinarily it should be eliminated from the system entirely within
forty-eight hours. Certainly after that length of time, it should not
appear in the stomach."
"And yet in this case you found morphine in the stomach?"
"Yes, sir."
"So that to be there, it must have been administered within two days,
and could not have been there as a result of accumulation beyond that
time?"
"I should say that the presence in the stomach proves that the
administration must have occurred within two days."
Upon re-cross Mr. Bliss asked a few questions.
"On your original examination, Professor, you said that you found
morphine in the intestines and in the stomach. Where did you find the
greater quantity?"
"In the intestines!"
"If, because of kidney disease, morphine were retained in the system,
where would you look for it after death?"
"In the intestines."
"That is all."
The next witness was a young woman. Her examination proceeded as
follows, after she had given her name and occupation.
"Now, Miss Conlin, you say you were engaged in your capacity of
professional nurse, to care for Miss Sloane. Were you on duty on the
day of her death?"
"Yes, sir. Day and night."
"You were present when the doctors called in the afternoon then. What
did they say of her condition?"
"That she was very much better. The membrane had entirely disappeared.
Dr. Fisher thought she would be up in a few days."
"Did Dr. Medjora call during the afternoon, or evening?"
"Yes, sir. He called about five o'clock."
"Did you remain with your patient throughout his visit?"
"No, sir. Dr. Medjora said that he would stay until nine o'clock, and
that I might go out for some fresh air."
"Did you do so?"
"Yes, sir. I was glad to go."
"Did you not consider it wrong to leave your patient?"
"Why, no, sir. She was getting better, and besides, Dr. Medjora being
a physician could care for her as well as I could."
"When you went out did you state when you would return?"
"Yes. I said I would be back at nine o'clock."
"As a matter of fact, when did you return?"
"About half-past eight. It was eight o'clock when I left my home."
"Did you go at once to your patient's room?"
"Yes, sir."
"And enter it?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you see when you entered?"
"I saw Dr. Medjora bending over Miss Sloane, giving her a hypodermic
injection of morphine!"
"How could you tell it was morphine?"
"He washed out the syringe in a glass of water, before he put it back
in his case. I tasted the water afterwards, and distinguished the
morphine in that way. Besides, I found several morphine tablets in the
bed."
"What did you do with these tablets?"
"At first I placed them on the mantel. Afterwards, when Dr. Meredith
said that Miss Sloane was dying from morphine, I put them in a phial
and slipped that into my pocket."
"Was that the same phial which you brought to me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is this it?" He handed up a phial containing four pellets, which was
admitted in evidence, and identified by Miss Conlin.
"Did you tell Dr. Medjora that you had seen him administer the
morphine?"
"No, sir. At the time I thought it must be all right, as he was her
friend, and a physician."
"Did he know that you had seen him?"
"No, sir. I think not."
The witness was then given to Mr. Bliss for cross-examination.
"Miss Conlin," he began, "who engaged you to attend Miss Sloane?"
"Dr. Medjora."
"What did he say to you at that time?"
"That a very dear friend of his was ill, and that he would pay me well
for skilful services."
"Did he pay you?"
"Yes, sir."
"During her illness what was the general behavior of Dr. Medjora
towards her. That is, was he kind, or was he indifferent?"
"Oh! very kind. It was plain that he was in love with her."
"I move, your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "that the latter part of that
answer be stricken out, as incompetent."
"The motion is granted," said the Recorder.
"You said that the Doctor was always kind," said Mr. Bliss, resuming.
"So much so that you would not have suspected that he wished her any
harm, would you?"
"I object!" said Mr. Munson.
"Objection sustained!" said the Recorder.
"Now, then, we will come down to the administration of the
hypodermic," said Mr. Bliss. "You testified that you saw Dr. Medjora
administer the hypodermic. Are we to understand that you saw Dr.
Medjora dissolve the tablets, fill the syringe, push the needle under
the skin, press the piston so that the contents were discharged, and
then remove the instrument?"
"No, sir. I did not see all that."
"Well, what did you see?"
"I saw him taking the syringe out of Miss Sloane's arm. Then he
cleaned it and put it in his pocket, after putting it in a case."
"Oh! You did not see him push the syringe in, you only saw him take it
out. Then how do you know that he did make the injection, if one was
made at all?"
"Why, he must have. I saw him take out the syringe, and there was no
one else who could have done it."
"Then you saw him put the syringe in a case, and place the case in his
pocket, I think you said?"
"Yes, sir."
"What sort of case was it?"
"A metal case!"
"Was it a case like this?" Mr. Bliss handed her an aluminum hypodermic
case, which she examined, and then said:
"It looked like this." The case was then marked as an exhibit for the
defence.
"In what position was Miss Sloane when you saw the Doctor leaning over
her?"
"She was lying across the bed, with her head in a pillow. She was
crying softly!"
"I think you said that this occurred at half-past eight o'clock?"
"Yes, sir. About that time."
"At what hour did Miss Sloane die?"
"At eleven thirty!"
"That is to say, three hours after you supposed that you saw Dr.
Medjora make the injection."
"Yes, sir!"
"Did you leave the room again during that time?"
"No, sir."
"Not even to get the coffee which Dr. Meredith had ordered?"
"No, sir. I made that on the gas-stove in the room."
"Well, then, during that last three hours did you, or any one else, in
your presence, inject, or administer morphine in any form to Miss
Sloane?"
"No, sir; positively not."
"Such a thing could not have occurred without your knowledge?"
"No, sir."
"Now, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, "I would like to ask the
prosecution whether this is the only witness upon whom they depend to
prove the hypothesis that morphine was administered within three hours
prior to the death of Miss Sloane?"
"That is our evidence on that point," replied Mr. Munson.
"Then, if it please the court, I move that all that testimony of
Professor Orton's following and dependent upon the hypothetical
question, shall be stricken from the records."
"State your grounds," said the Recorder.
"Your Honor admitted the question upon the express understanding, that
the hypothesis that morphine had been administered within the
specified time should be proven. The prosecution's own witness tells
us that no such administration occurred during the last three hours of
the life of the deceased. The proposition then hinges upon what this
witness claims to have seen as she entered the room. She admits that
she only saw Dr. Medjora remove a syringe. She did not see him insert
it, and she could not possibly know what the contents of that syringe
were."
"I think," said the Recorder, "that the question whether or not her
testimony shows that Dr. Medjora administered a hypodermic of morphine
is a question for the jury. The evidence may stand."
"We take exception," said Mr. Bliss. After a few moments consultation
with Mr. Dudley he said to the witness: "That is all," and she was
allowed to leave the stand. This ended the day's proceedings.
CHAPTER VII.
THE PROSECUTION RESTS.
The first witness called, on the resumption of the trial, was a
druggist, named Newton, who qualified as an expert pharmacist and
chemist. He examined the pellets contained in the bottle identified by
the professional nurse as the one which she had given to Mr. Munson.
These he dissolved in water, and then submitted to chemical tests,
from the results of which he pronounced them to be morphine. He
testified that he recognized them as the usual pellets carried by
physicians for hypodermic use. He was not cross-examined.
The next witness was Prof. Hawley, an expert pathologist. He swore
that he had assisted at the autopsy, and in the main substantiated the
evidence of Dr. McDougal, the Coroner's physician, agreeing with him,
that from the physical appearances, the probable cause of death had
been morphine poisoning. He was asked the hypothetical question and
answered as did the other witness, that at least three grains must
have been administered. Up to this point the evidence was merely
cumulative, but Mr. Munson then essayed another line of inquiry.
"Professor," said he, "from your examination of this body can you tell
us whether or not the deceased had been a mother?"
"I object!" cried Mr. Bliss springing to his feet, with more energy
than he had yet exhibited. It was plain that though heretofore his
objections to the admission of evidence may have been suggested rather
by his desire to fully protect his client, than because he feared the
testimony, this time he fought to exclude this evidence because of
some vital interest, as though, indeed, this point having been
foreshadowed in the early newspaper accounts, he had been fully
instructed by Dr. Medjora. This became the more apparent, when Mr.
Dudley himself took part in the argument, for the first time bringing
the weight of his legal knowledge to bear upon the case publicly. For
when the court asked for a cause of objection, it was Mr. Dudley who
replied.
"May it please your Honor," said he, "it seems to us, that the fact
which counsel here endeavors to introduce, is entirely irrelevant.
Whether or not Miss Sloane was a mother, can have no possible
connection with our client's responsibility for the crime of which he
is accused. It is no more against the law to kill a mother, than to
slay any other woman. We hope that your Honor will see the
advisability of shielding the name of the dead from any such
imputation as the guesses of even this celebrated expert might cast
upon her."
"I really cannot see the bearing of this evidence," said the Recorder,
addressing Mr. Munson.
"If it please your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "we wish to show that this
girl was an unmarried woman; who nevertheless bore a child to the
prisoner. Further, we will show that Miss Sloane was a poor girl,
seeking to earn her living as a music teacher. Now the accused
suddenly finds the opportunity to marry a wealthy woman, and the poor
musician, with her claim upon him as the father of her child, becomes
an obstacle in his path. Thus, your Honor, we supply a motive for this
crime."
"But, your Honor," said Mr. Dudley, "there has not been a particle of
evidence to prove any of these assertions, so glibly put for the
benefit of the jury, and therefore we must contend that this evidence
is entirely incompetent."
"As tending to explain the motive, I must rule that counsel may
examine fully into the relations that existed between the prisoner and
the deceased," said the Recorder.
"But," persisted Mr. Dudley, "even granting that this expert can say
whether a woman has borne a child, which is a question of grave
uncertainty, assuredly it cannot be claimed that he can testify as to
the father of the child. Therefore he can throw no light whatever upon
the relation which existed between the dead girl and our client."
"The question is admitted. The witness may answer!" replied the
Recorder, upon which the defence entered an exception. The expert then
answered:
"It was positively discernible that the deceased had been a mother."
"Can you state how long ago?"
"It is understood, your Honor," said Mr. Dudley, "that we take
exception to this whole line of examination?" To this the Recorder
nodded in assent, and the witness replied:
"Not within a year, I should say."
The witness was then yielded to the defence, but the cross-examination
was confined entirely to the condition of the kidneys, thus making the
prosecution's expert once more add to the evidence in favor of the
defence, by admitting the diseased condition of organs, which it was
claimed would materially affect the action of morphine in the system.
Next followed several witnesses, all of them boarders in the house
where the deceased had dwelt. The object of their testimony was to
show that the deceased passed in the house as a single woman, and that
Dr. Medjora appeared in the light of an accepted suitor. They all
denied that the girl had ever claimed that she was married, or that
she had ever worn a wedding-ring. Under cross-examination they all
admitted that they had never heard of, nor seen a child. It transpired
that she had lived in the house a little more than a year, and that
Dr. Medjora had been a visitor for less than half of that period.
Mrs. Sloane, the mother of the dead girl, then took the stand. She was
dressed in deep mourning, and wept frequently. She testified that her
daughter had always been of an unruly, headstrong disposition, and
fond of enjoying herself. That she had been disinclined to work at
home, and appeared to feel herself better than her own kith and kin.
She had met Dr. Medjora at some musical party several years before,
and the Doctor had become a constant visitor. "But I never liked the
man. Somehow I knew that he was a cruel, dangerous man for a poor
girl, with high ideas, like my Mabel." These remarks offered
voluntarily, and delivered so rapidly that she could not be prevented
from having her say, were objected to, and promptly ruled out, the
Recorder agreeing with Mr. Dudley, that personal impressions could not
be received in evidence against a man's character. Coming down to a
later period, she explained that she and her daughter had "had some
words about her going with that man," and the girl had suddenly left
home. "Of course I knew she had been lured away by that black-hearted
villain," ejaculated the witness, half sobbing. This was also ruled
out, and the witness was admonished to restrain herself, and to
confine her remarks to answering questions of counsel. She went on to
say that she had received letters from time to time from the girl,
post-marked from New York, but she had never discovered her address,
nor seen her alive after they separated. In these letters, Miss Sloane
had told her mother "not to worry," that she was "doing very well and
hoped soon to do better;" that "my friend, the Doctor, has been very
kind to me," and other passages of this nature. But there was never
any allusion to a marriage, nor to Dr. Medjora as intending to marry
her.
Under cross-examination, which was rather brief, she admitted that
since her daughter left home, she had had no knowledge of her except
through those letters, and that therefore she did not know,
positively, that the girl had not been married. It was also made to
appear that the girl had never been very happy in her home, and had
frequently, even before her acquaintance with Doctor Medjora,
expressed her determination to "leave home at the first chance." She
also admitted, reluctantly, that she knew nothing, positively, against
the character of the accused, "except that it was plain to be seen
that he was a villain with no respect for a woman." This, of course,
was stricken out.
The undertaker, who had originally taken charge of the body, was
placed upon the stand, and testified that he had not removed the body
from the house, when he was notified by the Coroner to retire from the
case. Neither he, nor his assistants, had used any embalming fluid,
nor had they injected any fluids whatever into the body before they
gave it into the care of the Coroner's physician. He swore that it was
the same body which had been shown to him as that of Mabel Sloane,
that he had given to Dr. McDougal.
A few more witnesses were called in corroboration of minor details,
and to protect the case of the prosecution from technical flaws of
omission, and then Mr. Munson announced that their side would rest.
The crowd in the court-room leaned forward, as Mr. Dudley arose, eager
to hear him open for the defence, as they supposed that he was about
to do. Instead of this he addressed the court as follows:
"May it please your Honor, we must request you, before permitting the
prosecution to rest, to instruct that Dr. Fisher be called as a
witness."
"Dr. Fisher, your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "is not our witness. He is
not named in the indictment. There is no reason, however, why the
defence should not call him if they wish him."
"Upon what ground, Mr. Dudley," asked the Recorder, "do you make this
motion?"
"Upon the ground, sir, that Dr. Fisher is an important witness to
material facts connected with the demise of Miss Sloane. He was the
senior attending physician, whilst Dr. Meredith had only been called
in consultation. The prosecution have called Dr. Meredith, recognizing
that as an attending physician his knowledge of the facts is material
to the cause at issue. We claim that the testimony of Dr. Fisher, the
other physician in attendance, and present at the death-bed, is
equally material, and that the prosecution have no right to choose
between the two men, selecting one as their witness, and rejecting the
other. The fact that they have done so, would warrant the imputation
that the prosecution are seeking for a conviction of our client,
rather than looking for justice, in a thorough sifting of all
available facts. I am sure that the honorable council on the other
side will be only too glad to avoid such an imputation in the public
mind, now that their attention has been called to the omission."
"Counsel is very generous," said Mr. Munson, with much sarcasm. "His
solicitude for the reputation of the district attorney's office is
very touching, but at the same time entirely misplaced. In this
matter, those who have charge of the case of the commonwealth, feel
that they can safely permit the conduct of this case to meet the most
searching criticism. We decline to call Dr. Fisher, unless ordered to
do so by the court."
"Then we move that the court so order," snapped back Mr. Dudley.
"It certainly seems to me," said the Recorder, "that the testimony of
this physician is very material, and that he should have been included
among the witnesses for the people. Have you any arguments against
this view, Mr. Munson?"
"Only this, your Honor, that it was considered that the testimony of
one witness would suffice. The selection was made without regard to
known opinion, for none had been expressed prior to the issuance of a
subpoena calling Dr. Meredith into the case. We decided to have but
one witness, merely to save unnecessary costs. Now so far as this
motion is concerned, we maintain that it comes too late. Counsel was
served with a copy of the indictment, which contained a list of our
witnesses upon the back. Thus they had ample notice of our intention
not to call Dr. Fisher, and if they desired that we should do so, the
motion should have been made earlier, and not at the end of our case."
"What have you to say in reply, Mr. Dudley?" asked the Recorder.
"Your Honor," said Mr. Dudley, showing by his bearing an assurance of
gaining the point for which he contended; "the excuse that the name of
Dr. Fisher does not appear among the list of witnesses for the
prosecution, is entirely aside from the issue. It is a claim that has
been made and rejected more than once. I need only remind your Honor
of the Holden case, to bring it to your Honor's immediate
recollection. That case was very similar to this one. Three surgeons
had examined the body of the deceased, and but two of these had been
called by the prosecuting attorney, counsel refusing upon the
identical ground that his name had not appeared in the indictment. The
presiding judge, Paterson, ruled that as a material witness, he must
be called. That is precisely the condition here and I hope your Honor
will see the justice of calling Dr. Fisher."
"I am decidedly of the opinion, Mr. Munson, that counsel is in the
right. This man is a witness material to the cause of justice!"
"Oh, certainly, if your Honor thinks so, we will call him. He was
omitted under the presumption that his evidence would be redundant,
and add unnecessarily to the costs." Mr. Dudley sat down much pleased
at his victory, and older lawyers nodded approvingly at his skilful
presentation of the law. Dr. Fisher, being in court, was then asked to
take the stand. Mr. Munson examined him with evident reluctance.
"You attended Miss Sloane in her last illness, Doctor?" he began.
"Yes, sir!"
"From what disease was she suffering?"
"Diphtheria."
"Any other disease?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Then of course you saw no symptoms of Bright's disease?"
"Well, my attention was not called to any such trouble."
"Be kind enough to give us a direct reply. Did you, or did you not,
discover symptoms of Bright's disease?"
"I cannot say that she did not have that disease, but she made no
complaints which made me suspect it."
"Exactly! You did not suspect that she had Bright's disease, until you
heard it suggested here during this trial. Is that about it?"
"I did not consider it at all."
"Now, then, I believe that you called Dr. Meredith into the case?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because, despite the efforts of myself and Dr. Medjora, the girl did
not improve."
"That is to say, you found yourself incompetent to control the
disease?"
"I felt that I should have assistance. It is common practice to call a
physician in consultation when a disease becomes uncontrollable."
"He is usually a man who has special knowledge, is he not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you considered Dr. Meredith such a man?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is to say, he had more knowledge of this disease than you
yourself?"
"Not that precisely. But he has made a special study of the disease,
and I knew that he could give us valuable advice."
"After Dr. Meredith came into the case the patient began to improve,
did she not?"
"Yes, sir."
"On the last day of her life, you met Dr. Meredith at the house, and
you decided that it would be safe to leave the patient until the
following day, I believe. You found her much improved?"
"Yes, sir."
"The membrane had all disappeared, had it not?"
"Very nearly."
"So much so that she could swallow without difficulty?"
"She swallowed very well."
"In fact you concluded that she would recover?"
"I thought that she had passed the crisis, but I did not deem her to
be entirely out of danger."
"Did you, at any time during this illness, prescribe or administer
opium in any form?"
"No, sir."
"Did you see any evidence of that drug exhibited by her condition,
lethargic sleep, contracted pupils, or any other diagnostic symptom?"
"No, sir."
"Now, then, you left this girl in the afternoon, recovering from her
attack of diphtheria and able to swallow, and you were hurriedly
called back in the evening, and found her dying. Did not that surprise
you?"
"Yes. I had not expected the disease to take a fatal turn, at least
not so rapidly."
"Yet she was in such a condition that she could not even swallow
coffee?"
"No, but that----"
"Never mind the reasons, Doctor. The fact is all that we want. Shortly
after your entrance into her room she died, did she not?"
"Yes, sir, at eleven thirty. About five minutes after."
"Now, Doctor, notwithstanding the fact that in the afternoon you
thought this girl practically out of danger, and notwithstanding the
sudden and alarming change which you saw in her that night, and in
spite of the fact that the specialist whom you yourself had called
into the case, reported to you that he suspected morphine poisoning,
you signed a death certificate assigning diphtheria as the cause of
death. Now why did you do that?"
"Because it was my opinion!"
"Oh, I see. It was your opinion. Then you did not actually know it."
"Not actually of course. We never----"
"That is all!" exclaimed Mr. Munson, cutting off the witness at the
point in his reply most advantageous to his side, and the Doctor
remained silent, but appeared much annoyed.
Mr. Bliss smiled at the old legal trick, and in taking the witness
began at once, by allowing him to finish the interrupted speech.
"Dr. Fisher," said he, "you had not quite ended your reply when
counsel closed your examination. What else was it that you wished to
say?"
"I wished to say that I could not actually know the cause of death,
because medicine is not an exact science. It is rarely possible to
have absolute knowledge about diseased conditions. No two cases have
ever been seen that were precisely identical."
"But you judged that this girl died of diphtheria from your experience
with such cases, is that it?"
"Yes, sir."
"How much experience have you had!"
"I have been in practice nearly forty years."
"And Dr. Meredith, although a specialist, has had less experience than
you, has he not?"
"I object," cried Mr. Munson, "Dr. Meredith was not an expert witness
in the first place, and it is too late to try to impeach his ability
now."
"The objection is sustained," said the Recorder.
"Now, Dr. Fisher, as you signed a death certificate naming diphtheria
as a cause of death, of course that was your opinion at that time. You
have been present throughout this trial, and have heard all of the
evidence, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you heard anything which has made you alter your opinion?"
"No, sir."
"Then tell us, please, in your opinion what was the cause of death."
"I still think that the girl died of diphtheria."
"Despite all the testimony as to finding morphine in the body, and
despite the condition of the kidneys, you still think that this girl
died of diphtheria?"
"I do."
Mr. Bliss was taking full advantage of his victory over the
prosecution, in compelling them to call this witness, who was now
giving evidence so damaging to their side.
"Now, then, Doctor, we would like a little more light upon the facts
from which you make this deduction. It has been testified and admitted
by you, that in the afternoon the membrane had nearly all disappeared,
and that the crisis had passed. Yet the girl died a few hours later,
and you still attribute it to the original disease. How do you come to
that conclusion?"
"Diphtheria causes death in several ways. Commonly the false membrane
grows more rapidly than it can be removed, and the patient is
practically strangled, or asphyxiated by it. It is in such a condition
that tracheotomy is essayed, affording a breathing aperture below the
locality of the disease. It is not uncommon for the patient apparently
to combat the more frightful form of the disease, so that the false
membrane is thrown off, and the parts left apparently in a fair state
of health, so far as freedom to breathe and swallow is concerned. But
then it may happen, especially in anaemic individuals, that this fight
against the disease has left the patient in a state of enervation and
lowered vitality, which borders on collapse. The extreme crisis is
passed, but the danger lurks insidiously near. At any moment a change
for the worse might occur, whilst recovery would be very slow. When
death comes in this form, it is a gradual lessening of vital action
throughout the body; a slow slipping away of life, as it were."
"Exactly! So that such a condition might readily be mistaken for a
gradually deepening coma?"
"Yes, sir. Whilst the term coma is applied to a specific condition,
the two forms of death are very similar. In fact, I might say it is a
sort of coma, which after all is common in many diseases."
"So that you would say that this coma, did not specifically indicate
morphine poisoning?"
"No, sir, it could not be said."
"How was the pulse?"
"The pulse was slow, but that is what we expect with this form of
death."
"So that the slow pulse would not necessarily indicate poison?"
"Not at all."
"Was the breathing stertorous?"
"Not in the true sense. Respiration was very slow, and there was a
slight difficulty, but it was not distinctly stertorous."
"How were the pupils of the eyes? Contracted?"
"No, they were dilated if anything."
"Now then, Doctor--please consider this. Dr. Meredith told us that a
symptomatic effect of morphine death, would be pupils contracted and
then dilating slowly as death approached. Now did you observe the
contracted pupils?"
"No, sir."
"What effect does atropine have upon the pupils?"
"It dilates them."
"Dr. Meredith admitted that he injected atropine. In your opinion
would that account for the dilatation of the pupils just previous to
death, which you say that you yourself observed?"
"I should say yes."
"I will only detain you another minute, Doctor." Mr. Bliss then asked
for and obtained the aluminum hypodermic case and handed it to Dr.
Fisher. He asked:
"Doctor, do you recognize that?"
"Yes, it is mine."
"How long has it been out of your possession?"
"I missed it on the day of Miss Sloane's death. I think now that I may
have left it there by accident."
Mr. Bliss then yielded the witness, and Mr. Munson began a re-direct
examination, which was practically a cross-examination, because this
witness, though technically for the prosecution, was in effect a
witness for the defence. The lawyer tried with all his cunning to
confuse the old doctor, but the longer he continued the more he
damaged his own cause. About the only thing which he brought out that
might help him, was the following in relation to the hypodermic case.
"How do you know that this case is yours?"
"Because it is made of aluminum. I had it made to order. I do not
think that such another is yet on the market, though the house that
made mine for me, has asked permission to use my model."
"So this is certainly yours?"
"Yes, sir."
"If you did not make any injections, as you have testified that you
did not, how is it that you could have left this at the house?"
"I probably took it out of my bag, when getting out my laryngoscope
and other instruments to treat the throat."
"I see that this case not only contains the syringe, but also some
small phials filled with tablets. What are those tablets?"
"They are various medicines used hypodermically."
"Was there any morphine in this case when you last saw it?"
"Yes, sir."
"How much?"
"There was a phial filled with tablets. Altogether eighty tablets, of
one eighth of a grain each."
"Please count the tablets remaining, and state how many there are?"
"I find forty-eight."
"That is to say thirty-two pellets have been taken out?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, then, supposing that this is the identical syringe which the
nurse saw Dr. Medjora using, and deducting the four pellets which she
found in the bed, how large a dose must have been administered at that
time?"
"I object!" said Mr. Bliss.
"It seems to be a mere matter of arithmetic," said the Recorder.
"No, your Honor. That question supposes that the tablets missing from
the phial were administered to the patient. Now there is no evidence
whatever as to that?"
"Whether the missing tablets were administered or not is a question
for the jury to decide. You may state, Doctor, how much morphine was
contained in the missing tablets."
"As there are forty-eight here, thirty-two are missing. Deducting
four, that leaves us twenty-eight, or a total of three and a half
grains."
This was a corroboration of the estimate made by the experts, that
three grains must have been the minimum dose administered, and if the
jury should believe that these missing tablets had been given by the
prisoner, it was evident that they must convict him. So that after all
the prosecution did gain something out of the witness who had been
forced upon them. They then rested their case, and court adjourned,
leaving the opening for the defence until the following day.
CHAPTER VIII.
FOR THE DEFENCE.
When Mr. Dudley arose to open the case for the defence, the crowded
court-room was as silent as the grave, so intense was the interest. He
spoke in slow, measured tones, with no effort at rhetorical effect.
Tersely he pictured the position of his client, assailed by
circumstantial evidence, and encircled by a chain which seemed strong
enough to drag him to the dreadful doom which would be his upon
conviction. But the lawyer claimed that the chain was not flawless. On
the contrary he said that many of the links had been forged, and he
dwelt upon the word with a significant accent, as he glance towards
the prosecuting counsel; forged from material which was rotten to
the core, so rotten that it would be but necessary to direct the
intelligent attention of the jury, to the inherently weak spots, to
convince them that justice demanded a prompt acquittal of Dr. Medjora.
A part of his speech is worthy of being quoted, and I give it
_verbatim_:
"This case has aroused the interest of the entire community. Prior to
the beginning of this trial the people, having heard but the distorted
reports of the evidence against our client, were wondering what the
defence was to be. I do not mind confiding to you now that we, the
counsel for the defence, wondered also. It had been told in the
newspapers, that Dr. Meredith, one of the attending physicians, had
suspected morphine poisoning, before the death of Miss Sloane. We were
informed that the autopsy, made by most eminent and skilful
pathologists, had revealed evidences of this deadly drug. We heard
later, that the chemical analysis had proven the actual presence of
the poison itself. What defence could we rely upon to refute such
damning evidence as that? We were in a quandary. We went to our client
and revealed to him the gravity of his position, and we begged him to
suggest some way out of the dilemma. What was his reply? Gentlemen of
the jury, he said to me: 'I cannot invent any defence. I would not if
I could. I would not accept my life, or my liberty, by means of any
trick. But I know that I am innocent. Moreover, as a member of the
medical profession, and as an acquaintance of the experts who have
been at work for the prosecution, I rely upon their integrity and
skill, to discover the true secret of this death, which was as
shocking to me, as to the community.' Thus we were told by our client
to formulate no defence in advance, but to wait for the evidence of
the prosecution's expert witnesses, and from the very source from
which conviction would be expected, he bade us pluck his deliverance.
At the time, it seemed to us a hazardous dependence, but, gentlemen of
the jury, it has proven better than we had reason to expect, for it
will be upon the testimony of the prosecution's witnesses, almost
exclusively, that we will look to you for an acquittal. In evidence of
what I have told you, I will ask you to recall the testimony of the
first witness, Dr. Meredith. He claimed that the characteristic
symptoms of morphine poisoning could alone indicate that death had
been due to morphine. Then you will remember that my associate, in
cross-examination, formulated a hypothetical question in which he
asked if it would not be possible for a patient dying of diphtheria to
take morphine, and whilst exhibiting symptoms of that drug, still to
die of diphtheria. I submit it to you, gentlemen, was not the
hypothesis suggested by that question an ingenious one? I think so,
and as such I think that my associate is entitled to credit. But,
gentlemen, it was the invention of a lawyer, conscientiously seeking
for a loophole of escape for his client; it was not the true, the only
proper, defence in this case. And it is this that explains the fact
that the question has not been propounded to the other experts. It
was, nevertheless, a shrewd guess on the part of Mr. Bliss, though
being only the guess of a lawyer groping blindly amidst the secrets of
medicine, it does not include the whole truth. But now, our defence
has been made plain, illuminated, as it were, by the statements of the
experts, who have testified, until even the minds of plain lawyers,
like myself and my associate, have grasped it. Then, and not until
then, did our client give us information, which he will repeat to you
presently, and which corroborates the view which we shall ask you to
accept. The simple facts in this case are: Miss Sloane suffered
terribly from Bright's disease, until through pain she was driven to
take morphine, finally becoming addicted to it. Then came the attack
of diphtheria, throughout which Dr. Medjora nursed her, procuring
skilled physicians, and a competent nurse, until the arrival of the
tragic day which ended her life. When the doctors believed that the
worst phase of diphtheria had passed, but when, as you have heard, she
was still in danger from exhaustion, she experienced a severe attack
of pain caused by the Bright's disease, and to relieve that, morphine
was given as you shall hear. That night she died, whether of
exhaustion from diphtheria, or whether, because of Bright's disease,
morphine had been stored up in her system, until a fatal dose had
accumulated, none of us will ever know. But that is immaterial, for in
either case, she died a natural death, and thus our client is entirely
blameless in this whole affair. The Doctor will now take the stand in
his own behalf."
Dr. Medjora did as he was bidden by his counsel, and thus became the
cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Dudley took his seat and Mr. Bliss conducted
the examination.
"Dr. Medjora," he began, "will you please state what relation you bore
to the deceased, Miss Mabel Sloane?"
"She was my wife!" he replied, thus producing a startling sensation at
the very outset.
"When were you married, and by whom?"
"We were married in Newark, by the Rev. Dr. Magnus, on the exact day
upon which Miss Sloane parted from her mother and left her home in
Orange. The precise date can be seen upon the certificate of
marriage."
Mr. Bliss produced a marriage certificate, which was admitted, and
identified by Dr. Medjora, Mr. Bliss explaining that the clergyman who
had signed it would appear later and testify to the validity of the
document.
"Did you and your wife live together after marriage?"
"Yes. For more than a year. Then I had occasion to go to Europe for
several months, and she went to live at the Twenty-sixth Street
house."
"How was it that at that place she passed as a single woman?"
"Because before I went away, I took from her the marriage certificate,
and her wedding-ring. I then instructed her to keep our marriage a
secret, threatening to abandon her if she did not obey me."
"What explanation have you to make of such conduct?"
"Shortly after our marriage, I discovered that my wife was afflicted
with Bright's disease, for which I treated her with much apparent
success. Unfortunately, however, previous to our marriage, she had
become addicted to the use of morphine for relief until she had almost
become an _habitue_. I used every effort to cure her, and thought that
I had succeeded, when, just before my departure for Europe, I found
her one day with morphine tablets and a new hypodermic needle, in the
act of administering the drug. In despair I simulated great rage, took
away her marriage certificate and ring, and threatened that if during
my absence she should use the drug, I would never acknowledge her as
my wife. Thus, my apparent cruelty was intended as a kindness. I knew
that she loved me, even more than she did morphine, and I hoped to
compel her to abandon the drug, by causing her to fear the loss of her
love."
"Did you take any further steps for her safety!"
"Yes. I confided her secret, and mine, to a dear friend and skilful
physician, who promised to watch over her, and shield her from pain or
other harm during my absence."
"Will you state who this friend is?"
"Was, you mean. He no longer is my friend, if he ever was. He proved
himself to be a traitor to friendship, for he tried to alienate my
wife's affections from me, in which, however, he failed utterly. That
man was Dr. Meredith, the false friend who charged me with this
crime."
Here was a sensation so entirely unexpected, and the situation became
so intense, that people held their breaths, awed into silence. Dr.
Meredith, who was in court, held his eyes down and gazed steadfastly
at a knot in the floor, whilst those nearest to him saw that he
trembled violently. Mr. Bliss, quick to recognize that his client was
making a most favorable impression, with true dramatic instinct,
paused some time before continuing. Finally he asked:
"Then Dr. Meredith knew that Miss Sloane was your wife?"
"He did."
"Also that she was addicted to morphine?"
"I told him so myself."
"That she had Bright's disease?"
"Yes."
"How soon after your return did you learn that he had been too
attentive to your wife?"
"I must object, your Honor," interjected Mr. Munson. "Counsel is again
endeavoring to impeach our witness, and I must once more maintain that
it is too late to do so."
"The question is allowed," replied the Recorder.
"But, your Honor," persisted Mr. Munson, "you ruled yesterday that
questions of this nature could not be asked."
"I know very well what I ruled, Mr. Munson," said the Recorder,
sharply. "You objected yesterday to evidence against Dr. Meredith's
ability as a physician, and I sustained you. This is a different
matter. As I understand it, counsel is now endeavoring to show that
Dr. Meredith was a prejudiced witness. I shall allow the fullest
latitude in that direction."
"We thank you very much, your Honor," said Mr. Bliss, and then turned
to his client saying: "Please answer my question."
"I knew of it before I returned. In fact, it was because of letters
from my wife, complaining of this man, that I shortened my trip
abroad."
"What happened between you after your return?"
"I charged him with his unfaithfulness to his trust, and we
quarrelled. Had he been a larger man, I should have thrashed him!"
"Was it after this that you attacked one of his papers in debate?"
"Yes, immediately afterwards. In fact I think that the quarrel between
us had much to do with it. He must have been in a very disturbed frame
of mind, to have written such a blundering thesis, for ordinarily he
is a skilful physician."
"Then, on the whole, Dr. Meredith was inaccurate when he said that you
and he are not enemies?"
"He simply lied."
"You must not use such language," said the Recorder, quickly.
"I must apologize to your Honor," replied Dr. Medjora. "But when I
think of what this man has done to me, it is difficult to control
myself."
"But you must control yourself," said the Recorder.
"Now, then, Doctor," said Mr. Bliss, "please tell us of your
acquaintance with your wife prior to marriage." Thereafter Mr. Bliss
always spoke of the dead girl as the wife, thus forcing that fact upon
the attention of the jury. Dr. Medjora replied:
"I met my wife when she was scarcely more than a school-girl, and I
became interested in her because, as her mother hinted, she was above
her people, being far superior to them in intelligence and demeanor. I
cannot say when my friendship increased to a warmer feeling, but I
think that I first became aware of it, by seeing her mother beat her!"
"You saw your wife's mother beat her, you say?"
"I called one evening, without previous warning, and the door of the
cottage being open, I felt privileged to walk in. I saw the girl down
on her knees, before the mother, who held her by the hair with one
hand, whilst she struck her in the face with the other."
"Did you interfere?"
"I was much enraged at the cruel exhibition, and I took the girl from
her mother forcibly. After that I went to the house oftener, and we
became more closely attached to one another. The mother never spoke
civilly to me after that occurrence."
"Mrs. Sloane testified that she had had a quarrel with her daughter,
shortly after which she disappeared. What do you know of that?"
"Mabel wrote to me that her mother had again undertaken to beat her. I
use the word advisedly, because it was not a chastisement such as a
parent may be privileged to indulge in. Mrs. Sloane would strike her
daughter with her fists, bruising her face, neck, and body. Besides,
Mabel was no longer a child. When I heard this, I sent a message
instructing Mabel to meet me in Newark. There we were married."
"Now, Doctor, we will go back to Dr. Meredith. Will you explain how it
happened that, although you and he were enemies, he should have been
called into the case?"
"When the attack of diphtheria presented, I undertook to treat it at
first. Two days later I became ill myself, and called in Dr. Fisher. I
did not tell him that Mabel was my wife, but let him think, with those
in the house, that she was merely my _fiancee_. I gave the case
entirely into his care. During my sickness Dr. Fisher became alarmed,
and called in Dr. Meredith, of course not suspecting that there
existed any ill feeling between him and me. That Dr. Meredith should
have accepted the call under the circumstances, was contrary to
medical etiquette, but he did so, and I found him attending my wife
when I recovered. I could not interfere very well, without creating a
scandal, and, besides, though I despise him as a man, I know him to be
one of the best specialists in the city." Dr. Medjora accorded this
praise to his rival with every appearance of honest candor, and it was
evident that his doing so was a wise course, causing the jury to
receive his other statements with more credulity. If he was playing a
part he did so with marvellous tact and judgment.
"Between the time of your return from Europe, and this attack of
diphtheria, do you know whether your wife took any morphine?"
"Upon my return I did not question her at all. I had made the threat
of abandoning her, with no intention of course of carrying it into
effect, for whilst I hoped that it would act as a deterrent,
stimulating her will to resist the attraction of the drug, I knew from
my professional experience that she would not be able to withstand it
entirely. Thus if I had questioned her, she must have confessed, as
she was strictly truthful. This would have placed me in an awkward
predicament, compelling me to admit that my threat had never been
seriously intended, and thus I should have lessened my influence over
her for the future. However, not long before her last illness, I found
a syringe in her room as well as some tablets. These I appropriated
and took away without saying anything to her."
"How long before the attack of diphtheria was this?"
"Two or three days."
"Supposing that she had been taking morphine prior to that time, do
you think that it might have accumulated in her system, finally
producing death?"
"I object!" said Mr. Munson. "The witness is not here as an expert."
"He is the accused," said the Recorder, "and as the party having the
greatest interest at stake I will allow him to answer. He simply
expresses his opinion. The jury will decide whether it is worthy of
credence."
Mr. Bliss smiled with satisfaction, but was a little surprised at the
answer, though later he understood better that the Doctor appreciated
what he said. The answer was:
"Considering the length of time which elapsed from the moment when I
took away the syringe, to the day of her death, I cannot believe that
morphine taken previously could have accumulated, and have caused
death ultimately."
Mr. Bliss was puzzled and paused a moment to think, whilst Mr. Munson,
much pleased at this apparently damaging testimony given by the
prisoner himself, wore a pleased expression. Mr. Bliss scarcely knew
what to ask next. He glanced at a list of notes supplied by Dr.
Medjora and read this one. "Ask me about retained morphine. Go into it
thoroughly." The latter part of this sentence convinced him that Dr.
Medjora must have conceived his defence along this line, and,
therefore, though doubting the propriety of doing so, he ventured
another question.
"It has been admitted," said he, "by the expert witnesses that
morphine may be accumulated in the system, finally resulting fatally.
How does that occur, and why do you think it did not occur in this
case?"
"I have not said that it did not occur. You asked me whether morphine
taken prior to her illness, may have caused her death, and I said no,
to that. I did not say that she did not die from morphine, because I
do not know that. As I understand it, when morphine acts fatally by
accumulation, it is where it is administered continuously. Part of the
dose is eliminated, and the rest stored up. Finally this stored up
quantity amounts to a lethal dose. In this case, as far as we know,
there was a suspension of the administration. The accumulated
quantity, when the drug was stopped, could not have amounted to a
lethal dose, or death would have ensued. The dosing being
discontinued, the stored-up quantity must have grown less and less,
day by day, by gradual elimination."
This interested the jury very evidently. They could not but decide
that this man was honest, to offer such evidence as seemed against his
own interests. Mr. Bliss, still puzzled, ventured another question.
"You said that your wife may have died of this drug, or words to that
effect. How can you think that?"
"Whilst, as I have said, the accumulated drug was lessening in
quantity daily, by elimination, nevertheless death by poisoning would
have ensued at any time, if a dose of morphine had been administered,
of sufficient size, so that when added to that still in the system,
the whole would have amounted to a lethal quantity."
"Miss Conlin, the nurse, testified that she saw you administer a dose
of morphine. She afterwards admitted that she had only seen you remove
a syringe. Did you at that time administer a dose of morphine, a dose
large enough to have caused death in the manner you have described?"
"I did not."
"Then as far as you know, your wife did not take any morphine on the
day of her death?"
"On the contrary, she did take some!" This was a tremendous surprise.
"How did it occur?" asked Mr. Bliss, still following his notes and at
length seeing the point to which Dr. Medjora had been leading.
"She administered it to herself." The Doctor paused a moment as though
to allow his startling statement to be digested. Then he continued:
"As the nurse testified, I gave her permission to go out. I sat and
chatted with my wife a few moments, and then bade her be quiet, lest
talking should injure the throat. She obeyed, and after a time seemed
to be asleep. I sat over by the lamp reading, and, thinking that my
patient was asleep, became absorbed in my book, until I was attracted
by an ejaculation from my wife. I went to her, and to my surprise
found that she had just administered a dose of morphine to herself. I
snatched her hands away, and withdrew the instrument whilst there was
yet a little of the solution in it. Miss Conlin came in at the moment.
I knew that she had seen me, and not wishing to arouse her suspicions
as to the truth, I preferred to let her think that I had given the
injection myself. Therefore I washed out the syringe, and placing it
in my pocket, took it away with me."
"So that there was sufficient morphine solution left in the syringe,
to have enabled Miss Conlin to taste it, as she claims to have done?"
Mr. Bliss asked this question, because at last he had discovered the
full intentions of the Doctor. It is very often the case in great
criminal trials, that, either upon advice of counsel, or by direction
of the accused, vital points are left unexplained, or else related
with variations which convince the jury that a lie is told. The
prisoner having heard all of the evidence, sees that certain acts of
his have been viewed, and accepted as proof of his guilt. He becomes
afraid, and when asked about these, he denies flatly that they have
occurred. Then the prosecution, in rebuttal, brings cumulative
testimony to support its first witnesses, and the jury, seeing that
the prisoner has lied, conclude that he is guilty of the crime
charged. Yet it may be that a man may lie in following a badly
conceived line of defence, even though he be an innocent man. Still,
it takes a brave man, and a cool one, to go upon the stand and admit
damaging circumstances as Dr. Medjora was doing. But Dr. Medjora was
undoubtedly courageous, and not one to become confused. Therefore Mr.
Bliss, admiring his coolness, decided to give him a chance to relate
the very occurrences which when told by the nurse had seemed so
conclusive of guilt. Dr. Medjora replied:
"I have no doubt that she could have tasted the morphine in the water
in which I washed out the syringe."
"Can you tell how your wife obtained possession of the hypodermic
syringe, and the morphine?"
"I did not know at the time. But as it was the aluminum case which has
been placed in evidence, it must have been left by Dr. Fisher, unless
she abstracted it surreptitiously from his bag."
"Do you know how much morphine she took at that time?"
"No, not positively, but I have no doubt that the estimate made
regarding the missing tablets closely represents what she took."
"You mean three and one half grains?"
"She probably took between three, and three and a half grains, as some
was left in the syringe."
"Then that self-administered dose was sufficient to cause death?"
"Oh, no. I have known her to take twice that quantity." This statement
was also received with much surprise.
"The experts told us, Doctor," said Mr. Bliss, "that a sixth of a
grain has caused death."
"Has been known to cause death. Yes. But that does not prove that it
will always do so. The _habitue_ becomes wonderfully tolerant of it.
The records are replete with histories of from twenty, to even a
hundred grains of morphine without fatal result."
"Then you do not think that three, or three and a half grains of
morphia would have caused the death of your wife?"
"Not of itself. But if a quantity of the drug was in her system, this
added dose may have contributed to her death."
"In such a case where would the morphine be chiefly found after death,
by chemical analysis?"
"In the intestines mainly, because there the stored quantity would
have been. But also in the stomach, because of the recent
administration." This view was entirely agreeable with the expert
evidence.
"In your opinion then, your wife died from the accumulation of
morphine, all of which was self-administered?"
"Certainly all the morphine that she took was administered by
herself."
"But you are charged with having administered morphine, or other form
of opium, which caused death. What have you to say to that?"
"I deny that during this last illness, or at any time, any such drug
was administered to my wife, Mabel Medjora, by me, or at my order!"
The last speech was electric, partly from the manner of its utterance,
and especially because, for the first time during the trial, the
dead girl was called by the name of the prisoner. Mr. Bliss felt
assured that he had won his case, and yielded the witness for
cross-examination with a smile. Mr. Munson begged for an adjournment,
that the cross-examination might be continuous, and not interrupted as
it would necessarily be if begun late in the afternoon. This request
was granted, and the shrewd lawyer thus obtained time to read over the
Doctor's evidence, and be better able to attack him.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DEFENCE CLOSES.
The next day's proceedings began promptly, Dr. Medjora taking the
stand for cross-examination. His evidence in his own behalf, it was
generally conceded, had materially weakened the prosecution's case,
and it was with much interest that the lawyers watched the outcome of
his cross-examination. Mr. Munson began:
"You have testified that Miss Sloane was a morphine _habitue_." Before
he could propound a question based upon this statement, the Doctor
replied quickly:
"I have not so testified."
"You have not?" asked the attorney, with much surprise.
"No! I said that she had taken morphine, for pain from Bright's
disease, until she had almost become an _habitue_."
"That is practically the same thing," said the lawyer, testily.
"Pardon my disagreeing with you. Had she become a confirmed user of
the drug, for the drug's sake, she would probably have been suspected
by those who lived in the house with her, and thus it would be easy
for us to produce witnesses in corroboration of my assertion. But as
she used it merely to soothe pain, even though she did take large
doses, it was at such intervals, that symptoms of morphine were not
sufficiently marked to attract the attention of an ordinary observer."
Messrs. Dudley and Bliss were delighted at this early proof that the
Doctor would be a match for the astute attorney, who was about to
endeavor to entangle him in contradictions, or damaging admissions.
"Oh! Very well!" said Mr. Munson. "You say that she took morphine in
large doses. You knew this, and also that she had a serious disease,
and yet you left her alone in a strange boarding-house, whilst you
went away to Europe?"
"I left her under the medical care of one who certainly possessed
skill, and who pretended to be my friend. I went to Europe, in the
cause of humanity, to prosecute studies which I yet hope to make a
benefit to my fellows." Thus the Doctor confidently predicted his
acquittal. This was most shrewd, for it not infrequently occurs that
men may be moved by suggestion, even when not in the hypnotic state.
Dr. Medjora was a past master in psychological science.
"How long had you been married, at this time?"
"Eighteen months."
"Then, when you left this woman, she was not only suffering from
disease, and the dangers of morphine, but she was grieving for her
dead child, was she not?"
This was a neat trap, sprung without warning, but the game was shy and
wary. The Doctor replied sternly:
"I have not testified either that she had a child, or that, if so, she
had lost it."
"Well, did she have a child?"
"You have had expert testimony upon that point. Why ask me?"
"That is my affair. Answer my question."
"I must decline to do so!"
"I appeal to the court to compel the witness to answer."
"Your Honor," cried Mr. Dudley, rising, "we object. Counsel, for some
undiscoverable reason, seems determined to probe the private affairs
of our client. We think that this question is irrelevant and
incompetent."
"What is the object of this, Mr. Munson," asked the Recorder.
"Your Honor has ruled, and a million precedents uphold you, that we
may examine into the relations that existed between the accused and
the deceased."
"Your Honor," interjected Mr. Dudley, "you allowed a similar question
yesterday, because counsel argued, that if he could prove the
existence of a natural child, he would show that the deceased through
the child had strong claim upon our client. I will also call your
Honor's attention to the fact, that at that time allusion was made to
another visionary claim on the part of the prosecution. This was that
Dr. Medjora was in the position to marry a wealthy woman, and that the
poor musician, with her child, became an obstacle in his way. Now, not
a scintilla of evidence has been brought out, in substantiation of
that claim, which as I said, at that time, was made merely to affect
the jury. Moreover, since then, we have shown that this woman was the
lawful wife of Dr. Medjora, and, therefore, her having, or not having
a child, can have no possible bearing upon the issue. I hope that the
question will not be allowed."
"I cannot see," said the Recorder, "what is to be gained by this, Mr.
Munson?"
"Oh, very well, your Honor," said Mr. Munson, "if you think that it is
unnecessary to the case of the people, I will withdraw it. We only
seek for justice, despite the aspersions of counsel."
"I have no doubt whatever of your conscientiousness," said the
Recorder, to mollify the rising anger of Mr. Munson. The examination
then proceeded.
"You told us yesterday, that you had received a letter whilst in
Europe, in which Miss Sloane wrote that Dr. Meredith was persecuting
her with his attentions. Of course you have that letter?"
"No! It has been lost, unfortunately!"
"Unfortunately lost! I should say most unfortunately lost, since it is
the only corroboration you had of your remarkable statement. How did
you happen to lose this precious document?"
"I think that it was stolen when my office was searched by detectives,
who were accompanied by Dr. Meredith."
The insinuation deftly concealed in this statement, that either Dr.
Meredith had taken the paper, or that the District Attorney had
suppressed it, had a visible effect upon the jury, who looked from one
to the other significantly. Mr. Munson was chagrined to find what he
had thought a good point in his favor, thus turned against him so
quickly. He attempted to repair the damage.
"You say you think this. Do you not know, that what a man thinks is
not admissible in evidence?"
"I did the best that I could to answer your question." This reply, in
the humblest of tones, caused a smile.
"You have no positive knowledge that it was stolen, have you?"
"I know that it was locked in my desk, that during my absence the desk
was forced open, and that upon my return the paper was gone. Whether
it was stolen, or whether it forced its way out of my desk, you may
decide for yourself."
"You have no evidence, beyond your own word, that Dr. Meredith acted
as you have charged?"
"None!"
"You never told any friend, before the death of this girl, that Dr.
Meredith had persecuted her?"
"No. I had no confidants."
"Not even when you found that he had been called in to attend Miss
Sloane? You did not explain this to Dr. Fisher?"
"No. Dr. Fisher was comparatively a stranger to me. I knew him by
association in societies only."
"You could have spoken to him however, and so have had Dr. Meredith
dismissed from the case."
"I considered the matter, and decided not to do so."
"Why did you come to so singular a conclusion?"
"Because, as I have already testified, despite my animosity, I
concurred with Dr. Fisher's estimate of his skill. I thought him the
most valuable consulting physician to be had, and, in a case of life
and death, I believed that personal antagonisms should be forgotten."
"You say Dr. Meredith was the most valuable consulting physician to be
had. Do you mean that he is the most skilled expert that you know?"
"No. But he is skilful and his office is very near to the house where
the patient was. That fact was of importance in deciding whether to
retain him or not."
Mr. Munson seemed to strive almost in vain to outwit the witness who
adroitly parried every attack.
"You have claimed," continued the lawyer, "that Miss Sloane
administered morphine to herself?"
"I assert it."
"Then at least you admit that a dose, a large dose, was taken by the
deceased in your presence, on the day of her death?"
"Yes."
"And though you, as a physician, were conversant with her troubles and
aware of the danger of such a dose, you did not prevent her from
taking this dangerous poison?"
"I endeavored to do so. I took the syringe away from her."
"You took it away from her after she had taken nearly all of the
dose?"
"She had taken all but five minims before I could reach her."
"It was you who sent the nurse away, I believe?"
"I gave her permission to go out."
"You told her to remain until nine o'clock?"
"I told her that she might do so."
"And this syringe incident occurred at eight o'clock?"
"At eight thirty."
"That is, half an hour before you expected to be interrupted by the
return of the nurse?"
"You do not word your questions justly. I did not expect to be
interrupted by the return of the nurse. To be interrupted, one must be
occupied with some special work. I was not specially engaged."
"You were supposed to be specially engaged watching your patient, in
place of the nurse, with whose services you had dispensed. Had you
done your full duty, that is, had you done what the nurse would have
done, kept your patient under surveillance, she would not have had a
chance to take the morphine, would she?"
"It may be that I was grievously at fault, not to observe her more
closely. But I thought that she was asleep. An error is not a crime."
"There are errors that are criminal. Your jury will judge in this
case. Now, if you please, answer my question without further evasion.
Did not the nurse return half an hour sooner than you expected her?"
"She returned half an hour earlier than the time up to which I had
given her permission to be away."
"Exactly. Now, had she remained the full time, she would not have
known anything about this morphine incident?"
"Of course not."
"In which case, you would have kept it a secret."
"Most probably."
"But, as she did see you handling the syringe, you knew that she would
be in the position to testify to the fact that you yourself
administered the morphine?"
"It is not a fact that I administered the morphine, but I supposed
that she would so testify, judging from what she saw."
"Judging honestly?"
"Yes. Judging honestly."
"So that this professional nurse, accustomed herself to using
hypodermic syringes, had a right, as you admit, to judge from what she
saw, that you administered morphine to the patient?"
"She saw me taking away the syringe, and of course could conclude that
I inserted the needle myself. Nevertheless her opinion was only an
opinion; it was not knowledge."
"Very well. You admit that she had a right to her opinion, and that
you suspected what that opinion would be. Now, of course you realized,
being an intellectual man, that such evidence would weigh against
you?"
"I fully appreciated the gravity of the situation."
"And that if not refuted, this testimony almost alone, would tend
towards a conviction?"
"Yes."
"Therefore you decided to claim that the drug was self-administered,
knowing that the administration would be proved?"
"I knew that the administration of the drug would be proved. But my
reason for saying that it was self-administered, is because it is the
truth."
"That will be for the jury to decide!" With this parting shot the
lawyer dismissed the witness, and his own counsel decided to ask no
further questions.
The clergyman who had performed the marriage ceremony, then took the
stand, and testified to the validity of the marriage. He was not
cross-examined.
Then a celebrated expert toxicologist was called, Professor Newburg.
He testified in corroboration of the claims of the defence, and
especially to the large doses of morphine, which he had known to be
tolerated by persons accustomed to it by habit. It also was claimed by
him, that persons who had been known to take as much as four and five
grains per day without ill effect, had suddenly died from so small a
dose as half a grain. He thought that in these cases the drug had
accumulated in the system, and the whole quantity stored up, was made
active by the assimilation of the last dose, which of itself would not
have been poisonous. Cross-examination did not materially alter his
testimony.
Next a pathologist was introduced, and in answer to a long
hypothetical question, based upon the testimony of Dr. Fisher and the
experts for the prosecution, he said that in his opinion the deceased
died from anaemia, following diphtheria. The symptoms of morphine
poisoning observed were probably due to the morphine which she had
taken, but under the conditions described, he did not think that even
three and a half grains would have caused death. He came to this
conclusion, arguing that the condition of the kidneys showed that they
were diseased, and the tendency would have been to store up this last
dose, just as previous doses had probably been retained. In that event
only a small portion would have become active, and whilst it might
have caused contracted pupils, it would not have caused death. All
things duly considered, therefore, he thought that death was
attributable to diphtheria.
Under cross-examination he admitted the postulate of the previous
witness, that a small dose, following retained larger doses, might
cause death, but still he adhered to his opinion that it had not
occurred here. A long series of questions failed to shake his opinion,
or cause him to contradict himself.
Several other witnesses were called, but I need scarcely introduce
their evidence here, as much of it was of small importance, and none
of it could have materially affected the verdict. The defence then
rested.
Mr. Munson called several witnesses in rebuttal, but to so little
effect that Mr. Bliss did not even cross-examine them, considering his
case practically won. He did interfere, however, when Mr. Munson at
last called Madame Cora Corona.
"I must ask your Honor, what counsel expects to prove by this witness,
and moreover, your Honor, I will ask that the jury be sent from the
room, before any discussion of this subject be allowed."
This request was granted, and the jury went into an adjoining
apartment. Mr. Munson then explained:
"We have been trying for a long time to summon this witness, your
Honor, but she has skilfully avoided the court officers, so that it
was only this morning that we found her. She will testify to the fact
that Dr. Medjora has been courting her, and seeking a marriage with
her, even previous to the death of the woman who he claims was his
wife."
"That is the most extraordinary expedient I have ever heard of, your
Honor," said Mr. Bliss. "Counsel certainly knows better, than to
suppose that at this late hour he can introduce new evidence. He
certainly cannot claim that this is in rebuttal!"
"But I do claim that!" said Mr. Munson.
"What does it rebut?" asked the Recorder.
"This man claims that he was a true and loving husband to his wife,
and denies that he contemplated such a marriage as this one, by which
a wealthy wife would aid him to accomplish his ambitions."
"That claim, Mr. Munson, was made by counsel for the defence," said
the Recorder. "It has not come out upon the witness stand. You cannot
introduce a witness to rebut a statement of counsel. If you wished to
introduce this evidence you should have questioned the prisoner upon
these points when on the witness stand. Had he denied the desire to
marry again, I would have allowed you to disprove his assertion by
this witness. As it is, I must rule out the evidence offered."
Mr. Munson bit his lip in mortification, when the Recorder pointed out
to him the serious omission made in the examination of the accused,
but of course he was powerless to do anything. Having no other witness
to call, when the jurors had returned to their seats, Mr. Bliss arose
and addressed the jury.
CHAPTER X.
MR. BLISS MAKES HIS SPEECH.
"May it please your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," began Mr. Bliss,
amidst an impressive silence, "in a few hours you will be called upon
to act in a capacity which has been delegated to you by your
fellow-men, but which finally is the province of our heavenly Father
alone. You are to sit in judgment upon a human being, and accordingly
as ye judge him, so shall ye be judged hereafter. I have not the least
doubt of the integrity of your purpose; I fully believe that such
verdict as you shall render will be honestly adopted, after the most
thorough weighing of the evidence which has been presented to you. All
I ask is that you form your final opinion with due recognition of the
fact, that if a mistake is to be made, far better would it be that you
release our client, if he be guilty, than that you should send him to
the hangman, though innocent. I beg of you to remember that great as
is the majesty of the law and the rights of the people, yet more must
you respect the rights of this man, who stands alone, to defend
himself against such an array of witnesses and lawyers, as the wealth
of the whole commonwealth has been able to summon against him. The
very weakness of his position, as compared with the forces against
which he has to contend, should excite your sympathies. If there be
any doubt in your minds, it becomes, not your privilege, but your
sworn duty to accord it to him. For, as his Honor will undoubtedly
explain to you when expounding the law, the prosecution must prove the
charge beyond all doubt. The burden of proof is upon them. They claim
that the deceased came to her death by poison administered by our
client. They must therefore prove that she died of poison, and that
the poison was given by Dr. Medjora. But they must prove even more
than that, for they must show that it was given with intent to destroy
life. Thus, if you decide that she died of diphtheria, of Bright's
disease, of poison retained in the system, or even of the last dose
which was taken by her, you are bound to acquit our client, unless
indeed you should adopt the extraordinary conclusion, that the final
dose of morphine alone produced death, and that Dr. Medjora himself
administered it, intending that it should destroy his beloved wife,
for whom he had retained skilled medical service and nursing, and at
whose bedside he even tolerated the presence of his bitterest enemy,
because he knew that the man possessed the greatest skill available in
the vicinity of the house where the poor girl lay ill. Had he intended
to injure his wife, had he premeditated poisoning her, do you think
that he would have allowed a man to be nigh, who would be only too
glad to find a pretext upon which to charge him with a crime, but who,
moreover, was possessed of exactly the experience and ability needed
to detect the symptoms of a deadly poison? The proposition is
preposterous, and I am sure that such intelligent gentlemen as
yourselves will cast it aside from you. But if the prosecution fail to
prove that the girl did not die from natural causes, then they fail
utterly to make out their case. Upon this point the law is most
explicit. In fact in one of our great text books, a work recognized by
the entire legal profession as the highest authority, I find a passage
which seems almost to have been written for your enlightenment in this
very case. I will read it to you:
"'It does not follow that because a person is wounded and
dies, the death is caused by the wound; and the burden in
such cases is on the prosecution to show beyond reasonable
doubt that the wound in question produced death. It may
happen also, where poison has been administered, that death
resulted from natural causes. The presence of poison may be
ascertained from symptoms during life, the _post mortem_
appearances, the moral circumstances, and the discovery of
the existence of poison in the body, in the matter ejected
from the stomach, or in food or drink of which the sufferer
has partaken. But to this should be added proof that the
poison thus received into the system was the cause of death.'
"I think that passage most clearly indicates to you the task which the
prosecution have undertaken. Upon what do they rely for the
accomplishment of their purpose? Two things mainly. Circumstantial
evidence, and expert testimony. And now, if I may hope for your close
attention, I will say a few words upon both of these classes of
evidence, in general.
"Circumstantial evidence, I need hardly tell you, is most delusive in
its character. Analyzed, what do we find it to be? It has been truly
argued that there is, and can be, no cause without an effect. In
considering circumstantial evidence, the mind of the investigator is
presented with the relation of a number of facts, or effects, and he
is asked to deduce that they are all attributable to a stated cause.
For example, a peddler is known to have started out upon a lonely
road, and to have in his pack certain wares, a given amount of money
in specified coins and bills, wearing a watch and chain, and he is
subsequently found murdered, by the wayside. Later, a tramp is
arrested upon whose person is found the exact missing money, and many
of the articles which were known to have been in the pack. He is
charged with the crime, and the evidence against him is
circumstantial. His possession of these articles is an effect, which
is said to be attributable to a cause, to wit, the killing of the
peddler. But strong as such evidence may appear, as I have said, it is
delusive. For just as the prosecution ask you to believe that a number
of effects are traceable to a single cause, the crime charged, so also
it is possible that all of the effects may have resulted from various
causes. Thus in the case cited, the tramp may have been a thief, and
may have stolen the articles from the peddler after some other person
had killed him. And if it could be shown that the watch and chain were
missing, and yet were not found upon the tramp, that would be as good
evidence in his favor, as the other facts are against him. So that in
circumstantial evidence the chain must be complete. If a single link
be missing, or have a flaw, the argument is inconclusive, and a doubt
is created, the benefit of which must invariably be given in favor of
the accused.
"If this be true where there is a single link that has a flaw, what
are we to say when we find that the entire chain is composed of links
which are faulty? You are asked to decide that from this fact, and
that fact, and the other fact, the accused is guilty of a crime!
Suppose that we show that from either the first, or the second, or the
third fact, we can trace back to other causes as producing the result?
Why, then, the prosecution's case is rendered so fragile that the
gentlest breath of a zephyr must blow each separate link to a
different quarter of the globe. Now, that is what I shall endeavor to
demonstrate; that, from the chief facts claimed by the prosecution,
you may deduce innocence rather than guilt.
"First, we have the accuser, Dr. Meredith. He aids the prosecution's
claim of poison by relating the symptoms of poisoning, which he says
he observed before death. Now, even granting that this is a true
statement of facts, observed by an unprejudiced mind,--of which,
gentlemen, you can readily judge, when you recall the abundant
testimony as to an existing animosity,--but, even granting its
absolute truth, what does it show? Simply that morphine had been
administered, in a dose large enough to have produced _ante-mortem_
evidences of its presence. But what of that? Does it show that the
drug was administered by any particular person? By Dr. Medjora, as the
prosecution have claimed? If so then I am ignorant, and ill informed
as to all the rules of logic. It shows that morphine was present, and
it shows no more, and no less. Now that fact we freely admit. The
Doctor himself told you how the drug was taken, and there has been
nothing whatever offered, that even tends to disprove his assertion.
Thus, as his testimony is all that we have upon the subject, and as it
has been unimpeached, you are bound to accept it as the only evidence
available. I may also remind you at this point, that in this country,
where the God-given liberty of one man is as much cherished as that of
the whole people, a man is to be considered innocent until after he
has been adjudged guilty. He therefore goes upon the witness stand, as
unsullied as any other witness, and his evidence is entitled to the
same credence. I may also interject a momentary remark as to the
difference between juridical and common judgment. You may see a man
commit a crime and if accepted upon the jury which tries him, although
you know that he is guilty, you are bound to bring him in innocent,
unless the evidence introduced against him proves his guilt, entirely
aside from your own prejudices or prejudgment. You must give a
juridical opinion only. So that if you have imbibed any prejudices
against Dr. Medjora,--which is scarcely probable, for he must have
impressed you as favorably as he has every one else who has seen him
in court,--but if so, you are to set that all aside, and accept his
unimpeached evidence upon this point, relative to the administration
of the morphine, as the only available evidence upon which to base an
opinion. And if you do adopt that, and decide, as you necessarily
would, that self-administered morphine cannot implicate Dr. Medjora in
this crime, why the case is ended at once, and need scarcely go any
further.
"However, merely as a matter of form, I will take up one or two more
points. The second link in this circumstantial chain is that evidences
of morphine were found at the autopsy. But, gentlemen, what of that?
You and I know how it entered the system, and of course we expect that
eminent specialists, such as the gentlemen who performed the autopsy,
must necessarily recognize the recent presence of the drug. It forms
no particle of proof whatever against Dr. Medjora. That we see clearly
enough, when we eliminate the bare facts from the fog of
misinterpretation. But I may casually remind you of another fact,
which these same eminent specialists told us about. They found that
the kidneys were atrophied, an evidence of disease, and later we
learned that if the kidneys are diseased morphine is retained in the
system, until a poisonous dose may accumulate. So we see that even if
the deceased was poisoned to death, it was only by the retention of
many doses, due to a diseased condition, and in no way attributable to
criminal interference.
"The next link is the actual presence of the drug, as testified by the
expert chemists. They tell us that they found morphine. Why of course
they did. It was in the system; we knew that it was there; and we are
not at all shocked by the discovery.
"But I need not take up any other of these forged links, for, as you
plainly see, the principal ones are so very faulty that as they are
the mainstay of the bonds that bind our client, we break them asunder
with scarcely an effort.
"Now, I will say a few words relative to expert testimony, and I beg
of you to understand throughout, that however I may attack this sort
of evidence as a class, I speak in general terms only, and in no way
cast any imputations against the scientific gentlemen who have
appeared upon the stand, except as they come within the limitations of
their class, as I am about to explain to you.
"When expert testimony was first introduced it was received with
marked respect. The expert witness was counted as a professor in his
specialty, and his word was almost final. Experience, however, has
materially altered all this. The field from which the expert may be
cited has been vastly broadened, whilst at the same time his testimony
is accepted with much more caution, and less credence. The causes
which have operated towards this state of things are manifold, but I
need not explain them here. Wherever there is any sort of specialty,
from the blacking of boots, to the highest scientific pursuits, we now
have experts who go upon the stand, and dogmatically inform us that
their opinions are the true and only accepted finality upon the
subject presented. But we have found, that however positive one, or
two, or three experts may be in asseverating what they claim to be a
fact, an equal number, of equally scientific, equally experienced, and
equally trustworthy experts, may be found whose testimony will be
equally as positive, though diametrically opposed. Indeed, so true is
this, that I may quote the wise words of that eminent jurist Lord
Campbell, who says: 'Skilled witnesses come with such a bias on their
minds to support the cause in which they are embarked, that hardly any
weight should be given to their evidence.' These are strong words, but
what does Lord Campbell mean? That an eminent scientist would go upon
the witness stand, and perjure himself merely because he has been
engaged to substantiate a given proposition? Not at all. Of all
experts, I may be permitted to say perhaps, that the most eminent are
those connected with the professions, for we must rank the professions
higher than the arts, just as the arts are above the trades. We have
three great professions, to wit, the Ministry, Medicine, and Law. If
we could have before us the most prominent Minister, the most
celebrated Physician, and the most eminent Lawyer, we would probably
have three men standing equally high in public esteem. Then let us
suppose that this most eminent lawyer were engaged as counsel in some
great suit. Suppose that some intricate technicality of law should
arise, upon which the presiding judge should ask for argument and
precedents. Suppose, then, that associate counsel should place this
most eminent lawyer upon the stand as an expert witness? Remembering
that he had been paid for advocating the cause in behalf of which he
was testifying, how much weight would his evidence have? I think you
will agree that it would be very slight indeed! Yet is it not the same
with the expert physician? Is not the skilled medical witness hired,
and paid for his advocacy, just as that eminent lawyer was? Then why
should we discard the evidence of the one, and accept the other?
Neither of these gentlemen commits perjury. What they tell, is
honestly told. But--and, gentlemen of the jury, I now come to the
vital point of this argument--the expert does not give us an unbiased
opinion. The reason is plain. As experts can be found with varying
opinions, so those are sought whose opinions agree with the position
which they are called to sustain. To be more definite, the experts
called by the prosecution in this case, were called, because it was
known in advance what they would testify, and because said testimony
would be favorable to the hypothesis of the prosecution. Though, I may
say parenthetically, in this case it has proven otherwise. But, stated
on general principles, that is the fact. The prosecution chooses
experts, whose views can be relied upon to support the charge against
the prisoner. And I must candidly confess that the defence is actuated
similarly. Surmising in advance what the opposing experts would tell
us, we went about amongst equally eminent men, and found no difficulty
in selecting those who could with equal positiveness, with equal
authority, and with equal experience and knowledge, support our
hypothesis. Had we found a gentleman who entertained views similar to
those of the prosecution's witnesses, do you suppose, for one moment,
that we would have engaged such a man to aid us? Of course not! Then
are the lawyers for the prosecution any more human than we? Do you
suppose that they would call an expert, if they knew that his honest
opinions would controvert their claims? Certainly not. Were they not
loath to call Dr. Fisher? Thus, gentlemen, have we discovered, by
analytical reasoning, the cause of the bias existing in the mind of an
honest man. His opinion is sought in advance. If favorable he is
engaged. When engaged he becomes a hired advocate, as much as the
lawyer. Moreover, unlike the witness of facts, his testimony is tinged
by a personal interest. He knows that celebrated experts will oppose
his views. His reputation is on trial, as it were. If the verdict is
for his side, it is a sort of juridical upholding of his position. He
is therefore arrayed against his antagonists, as much as the lawyers
of the opposing sides. In short, having once expressed an opinion, he
will go to any extreme almost, to prove that he is right. The
questions asked by the counsel for his side, the majority of which he
prepares or dictates himself, are glibly and positively answered. But
when the cross-examination begins, what do we see? An interesting
spectacle from a psychological standpoint. We see a man, honest in his
intentions, standing between two almost equal forces; the love of
himself and of his own opinions, on the one side, and upon the other
the love of scientific truth which is inherent in all truly
professional men. When a question is asked, to which he can reply
without injury to his pronounced opinion, how eagerly he answers. But
when a query is propounded, which his knowledge shows him in a moment,
indicates a reply which his quick intelligence sees will be against
his side, what does he do? We find that he fences with the question.
As anxious not to state what he knows to be false, as he is not to
injure his side of the case, he parries. He tells you in hesitating
tones, 'It may be so, in rare cases,' 'Other men have seen and
reported such instances, but I have not met them,' 'It might be
possible under extraordinary circumstances, but not in this case,' and
so on, and so on, reluctant to express himself so that he may be cited
afterwards. You have witnessed this very kind of evasion in this case,
so that you readily grasp my meaning. When I asked Professor Orton,
whether the action of morphine is modified by disease, his answer was,
'It might be'; and when I asked him whether, from continual dosage, it
could accumulate in the system, he said, 'The records contain reports
of such cases.' When I asked him if morphine would not be so retained
where Bright's disease were present, he tried evasion again by saying,
'I have never seen such a case,' after which he admitted that he had
read of them in good authorities.
"As I have told you, speaking generally, this sort of evasion under
cross-examination is a peculiarity common to nearly all experts, so
that in singling out Professor Orton as an example, I do so with no
intention of attacking his honesty of purpose. He was simply defending
himself, and upholding the side which pays him for his advocacy. But I
choose this testimony because if we analyze it I think we will find
more, much more than appears at a glance; and I can at the same time
show you how all expert testimony should be received. I will exemplify
the amount of caution to be displayed in accepting what a skilled
witness tells. I will show you principally, that what the expert
testifies under cross-examination is more likely to be true, than what
he tells the friendly lawyer on his own side.
"Now, when I asked Professor Orton whether Bright's disease would act
as a cause to facilitate the accumulation of morphine in the system,
he answered, 'I have never seen such a case.' That, gentlemen, is the
set of words which I beg of you to analyze. Why did the Professor use
just this language? For, mark you, it is a well-studied answer. Let us
suppose that this eminent toxicologist had made an exhaustive series
of experiments, which had proved, beyond all cavil, that the commonly
accepted idea among physicians is wrong, and that Bright's disease
will not effect an accumulation of morphine. How gladly would he have
said 'No' to my question! How positively would he have asserted that
Bright's disease would not have the effect which we claim! Therefore,
that he does not use any such dogmatic denial shows logically and
conclusively that he has no such knowledge. He does not know, beyond
all doubt, that Bright's disease will not modify the action of this
poison. But we can see more in this answer. Suppose that, lacking
absolute knowledge, he had still a firm conviction. He would then most
probably have said, 'It is my opinion that Bright's disease does not
modify the drug's action.' But, gentlemen, he had not even a
conviction of this kind. On the contrary, he must either have known,
or else have leaned towards the belief that such an accumulation is
possible, otherwise he would not have said just what he did say: 'I
have not seen such a case.' 'I have not seen such a case'! Why, the
very words suggest that such a case has existed. More--that the
Professor had heard of such cases, and believed in them. Perhaps he
hoped that this evasive answer would be accepted as final. In that
case, gentlemen, it might have served, in your minds, as well as a
negative reply. But, gentlemen, a lawyer's mind is necessarily trained
to the quick appreciation of situations like this. As soon as he had
said that he had never seen such a case, I was prompted by intuition
to ask if he had not heard of them. Then the fat was in the fire, and
we had an admission, however reluctantly given, that he had heard of
them, and from competent authority. But the very attempt on the part
of this witness to parry the question, and evade a full and truthful
reply, carries a conviction with it, that he recognized immediately
the importance of our claim, and the possibility that it is a true
explanation of the sad death of this young wife. He saw at once that
all the damning evidences of the presence of poison, are explainable
by this simple hypothesis, that Bright's disease might cause otherwise
proper doses of morphine to accumulate until a lethal dose be present,
and then act to destroy life. He therefore attempted to belittle the
hypothesis. He could not refute it; he scarcely dared to deny it as a
possibility, and therefore he essayed evasion.
"Thus we may deduce more from the reluctant admission of an expert,
than from their glibly-told tales which have been rehearsed in the
office of the District Attorney. So that, after all, expert testimony
is valuable--most valuable--if we but consider it with caution, and
analyze it, until bereft of bias and prejudice, the grain of truth
stands out, as truth ever will, conspicuous midst the mass of
extraneous matter surrounding it, much of which is introduced for the
express purpose of befogging your minds, and leading you away from the
facts.
"Thus, gentlemen, upon closer examination we find that just as their
circumstantial evidence was faulty, so the prosecution's experts prove
a boomerang. For it is upon their evidence that we mainly rely for
acquittal. Dr. McDougal, the Coroner's physician, examined the kidneys
at the autopsy, and freely expressed the opinion that Bright's disease
had been present. Of course he denied that this disease had caused
death, but there we have the opinion of an advocate. Next we have
Professor Orton, who, as I have shown, practically testifies that
Bright's disease may cause morphine to accumulate in the system until
a poisonous dose has resulted. Is not that enough, gentlemen, to
satisfy you that, if this girl died of morphine, she died a natural
death, and was not murdered? At least, does it not raise a doubt in
your minds, which must be credited to Dr. Medjora, and which would
deter you from sending him to the hangman? I am so positive that it
must, that I will close this appeal, without calling your attention to
the evidence, which has been abundant, and which indicates that death
was not the result of poisoning at all, but of diphtheria, as indeed
was certified in the burial permit. I could go over all the evidence
in greater detail, but I am so strongly impressed with the innocence
of our client, and so firmly confident that you are as capable as I am
of reaching a proper conclusion in considering the evidence, that I
will not take up more of your time, but leave our cause now in your
care, satisfied that, regardless of the able rhetorical ability of the
gentleman on the other side, you will be guided by Providence, and
your own hearts, to aid the cause of justice and release Dr. Medjora
from his present trying situation. And as you deal justly with him
now, so may you receive your reward in the life hereafter."
CHAPTER XI.
TERMINATION OF THE GREAT CASE.
The District Attorney himself arose to speak for the commonwealth.
"May it please your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," he began, "you
have just heard an able argument in behalf of the prisoner. Counsel
has told you truly, that in this free Republic, which has become the
refuge and asylum for the oppressed of all nations, the liberty of one
man is as sacred as the rights of the whole people. He has also used
the well-worn argument that the prisoner should have your sympathy,
because of the weakness of his position. By this is meant, that the
State; having wealth, can engage prosecuting officers of ability,
whilst the prisoner, thrown upon his private resources, may be
compelled to intrust his cause to the care of inferior counsel. But,
gentlemen, you must see at a glance that our learned opponent has
weakened his own argument by the unusual display of ability which he
has exhibited in this case. Surely in his hands the cause of the
prisoner is eminently safe! The commonwealth, with all its resources,
cannot summon greater legal ability to its aid. Therefore you may
relieve your minds of any idea of pity for the prisoner, and omitting
all thought of him personally, decide this case entirely on the
evidence.
"But if you find it difficult to disregard the fact that here is a
man, whose liberty or life is at stake, then I bid you remember, that
whilst it is true that his rights are equal to those of the State,
they are no greater. The commonwealth must have equal place, in your
judgment, with the prisoner.
"As the prosecuting attorney I stand in a somewhat peculiar position.
In ordinary lawsuits, opposing counsel are retained by the various
sides, and are arrayed against each other solely. Under such
circumstances the able arguments of Mr. Bliss would hold sway. I am
alluding now to his attack upon expert witnesses. Let us suppose that
a suit is brought to overthrow a will, the plaintiff arguing that the
signature has been forged. Experts in chirography are called by both
sides. It is manifest, as Mr. Bliss has said, that the opinions of
experts will be sought by the contending counsel, and at the trial we
would have those favoring the theory, forgery, testifying to that
effect, whilst the others would support the genuineness of the
signature. Undoubtedly, also, had either of these gentlemen expressed
a different opinion prior to the trial, he would have been found upon
the opposite side. Or, in plainer words, the men are hired to testify,
because, previous to the trial, they hold an opinion favorable to the
side which pays them. Thus, as has been shown to you at some length,
eminent jurists now accord but cautious credence to expert testimony,
because of the bias which must attend paid advocacy. But, gentlemen of
the jury, as logical as all this is, when applied to a civil suit, it
becomes but the most specious reasoning when introduced into a
criminal case, such as this.
"We are often led astray by arguments, which contain analogies which
are but apparently analogous. In this case there is a flaw at the very
root of the argument, and therefore the very flower and fruit of the
whole beautiful array of words must wilt and fail.
"This flaw is easily pointed out. In the civil case, as I have said,
and as you know, opposing counsel defend but the side that pays them.
In a criminal case it is entirely different. The District Attorney is
engaged, not for a special case, against a special prisoner, but by
the whole community, for the protection of all the people. Now the
prisoner is himself one of these, and his rights are ever in the minds
of the very men who prepare the arguments against him. Let us glance
for a moment at the _modus operandi_. Suspicion is aroused against a
man. If sufficiently grave, the first bits of evidence attainable are
presented to the Grand Jury, and perhaps they find an indictment. This
gives the State authority to hold the prisoner by arrest, until such
time when he may be tried. But, gentlemen of the jury, are all
indicted men tried? Not at all. The District Attorney not
infrequently, in the course of preparing a case, finds that an error
has been made: that the man is the victim of circumstances: in short
that he is innocent. What occurs then? Does he act the part of the
hired lawyer and proceed, merely that he may collect a fee? Not at
all. He protects the rights of the prisoner, as one of the people, and
by due process of law the man is released from custody, free from even
a stain upon his character.
"Now let us for a moment suppose that the charge is one of murder; of
murder by poisoning, let us say. The first step is to place the
medical investigation of the facts into the hands of eminent experts.
Here we find that the very resources of the commonwealth become the
prisoner's greatest safeguard. The State having abundance of money,
places this investigation into the care of the very ablest men to be
obtained. It is not at all true, that these experts are retained
because of their known opinions. When they are retained, they have no
opinions whatever, because they are engaged to pursue an
investigation, and their opinions are non-existent until after the
conclusion of their analyses. Now, gentlemen, imagine that the
commonwealth's counsel would be base enough to dispense with an expert
witness, because his testimony would be detrimental to the hypothesis
of the prosecution, would such a course be possible? Not at all. In
the first place, the autopsy and the chemical analyses have been made
upon the tissues of the body of the deceased. In the course of this
work these tissues are rendered useless for any further analyses.
Therefore, the only investigation possible is the original one, and
the only expert opinions obtainable are those of the men, who, as I
have shown, are engaged long before they have any opinion to express.
If these men were omitted from the case then no experts could be
called to replace them; but what would be worse, these very witnesses,
discarded by the prosecution, would immediately be retained by the
defence. For, as Mr. Bliss has candidly admitted, the defence only
engages experts whose opinions are known to be favorable. That is the
difference between the paid experts of the defence, and those engaged
by the prosecution. The one is an advocate for a fee, whilst the other
is merely an independent outsider, who relates the medical facts which
he has found upon examination of the body of the deceased, and then
explains the scientific deductions which he makes from these facts.
The witness of the defence is biased; the witness of the prosecution
is not. No, gentlemen of the jury, when the experts for the
prosecution form opinions which oppose the idea of a crime, the
District Attorney has but one course which he can pursue. He must
protect the prisoner, as it is his sworn duty to do, and obtain his
release.
"But _per contra_, when these eminent medical men discover, within the
tissues of the deceased, plain evidences of the fact that a crime has
been consummated, it then becomes the duty of the District Attorney to
prosecute the accused, and to produce, before a jury of his
countrymen, the evidence which these gentlemen of science have
discovered. And this class of evidence is not only valuable, and
pertinent, but it is indispensable. Without the assistance of experts,
it would be almost impossible to convict a man of murder, by the use
of poison. The pistol, the knife, and other weapons, all leave wounds
discernible by the eyes of all. But poison works insidiously, and is
unseen. As deadly as the bullet, it operates not only without noise,
but in skilful hands the death may simulate that caused by known
diseases, so that even eminent physicians might sign a burial permit,
as did Dr. Fisher in this case, without a suspicion of the presence of
the poison. But suspicion having been aroused, by the aid of science
it is now possible to search microscopically into the tissues of the
victim, and find every trace of poison if one has been used. And if,
gentlemen, able men of science, prominent in their specialties, and
honored by their professional brethren as well as by the community in
which they dwell, make an impartial investigation of this nature, and
report to you that they have found poison actually present, and in
quantities which would have proved fatal, I submit it to your
intelligence, gentlemen, is not that expert testimony of the most
important character? Can we assail such evidence with the cry of bias,
merely because it comes within the general category of expert
testimony? Certainly not. You will therefore forget entirely the
anathema which Mr. Bliss has delivered against experts, for though
true enough against the class, it does not apply in this instance.
"Before dismissing this phase of the subject, I must say a few words
in defence of Professor Orton. Mr. Bliss pointed out to you that when
an expert is replying to direct examination he answers readily,
whereas, when answering the cross-examining lawyer, he is more
cautious. This is true; but, gentlemen, what does that signify? Simply
that having told the truth, the witness is compelled to defend himself
against the traps that will be set for him by the opposite side. He
knows in advance that he will be assailed by hypothetical and
ambiguous questions, worded to confuse him, and to mystify the jury.
Under these circumstances, therefore, he must necessarily think well,
before replying. He is in a court of law, under oath, and his
professional reputation is at stake. If he were not cautious in his
replies he would be worthless as a witness. He is justified, too, in
parrying questions which he knows are introduced merely to disguise
the truth, or to lead the minds of the jury into wrong channels. Mr.
Bliss has made much, or thinks that he has made much, of the answers
which Professor Orton gave. By specious reasoning he tries to prove
that Professor Orton believed that this woman died of an accumulation
of morphine, caused by a diseased condition of the kidneys. Mr. Bliss
tells us that he rests his case upon the evidence of our witnesses,
and largely upon this admission from Professor Orton. Now, as a matter
of fact, what Professor Orton did say cannot help the prisoner. He
admitted that other men have held the opinion that diseased kidneys
may cause an accumulation of morphine. But, gentlemen, how does that
effect this case? This very witness, upon whom Mr. Bliss is willing to
rely, tells us that whatever the possibilities might be in other
cases, it is his positive belief that this particular woman did not
die as claimed by the defence. He found poison in the stomach in
considerable quantities, whereas, where death occurs by a slow
accumulation, the drug would have passed beyond that organ, and none
would have been found there. So that we see, that what might be, and
what perhaps has been in the past, has no bearing on this case even
inferentially, because the same expert who says it is possible in
other cases, tells us plainly that it did not occur in this instance.
"And now, before speaking of the actual evidence in this case, let me
say a few words in regard to circumstantial evidence. It has been
common practice for counsel defending criminal cases to inveigh
against circumstantial evidence, until a suspicion has been engendered
in the public mind, that it is of dubious value. Indeed, the people,
knowing a little law, and understanding that all reasonable doubt must
be accorded to the prisoner, and, further, having imbibed the idea
that all circumstantial evidence contains a doubt, have come almost to
feel that a conviction obtained by such means is a miscarriage of
justice.
"This is entirely erroneous. All evidence is divided arbitrarily into
two great classes, direct and circumstantial. I do not here allude to
documentary evidence, which is somewhere between the two, the validity
of the document being necessarily proved by one or the other. This
classification, as I say, is arbitrary, for he would indeed be a wise
man who could tell us exactly where direct evidence ceases to be
direct, or where circumstantial evidence becomes solely
circumstantial. The two are so interdependent, that it is only by
extreme examples that we can dissociate them. All direct evidence must
be sustained by circumstances, whilst all circumstantial evidence is
dependent upon direct facts.
"Let me give you an example of each, that this may be more clear to
your minds. Let us suppose that several boys go to a pool of water to
swim. One of these is seen by his companions to dive into the water,
and he does not arise. His death is reported, and the authorities,
later, drag the pool and find a body. This is called direct evidence.
The boy was seen to drown, you are told, and your judgment concedes
the fact readily. But is the proposition proved, even though you have
these several witnesses to the actual drowning? Let us see. The body
is taken to the morgue, and the keeper there, an expert in such
matters, makes the startling assertion that instead of a few hours, or
let us say a day, the body must have been immersed for several days.
This is circumstantial evidence. The keeper has no positive knowledge
that this particular body has been under water so long. Still he has
seen thousands of bodies, and none has presented such an appearance
after so short an interval. How shall we judge between such
conflicting evidence? On the one side we have direct evidence which is
most positive. On the other we have circumstantial evidence which is
equally so. Is the original hypothesis proven? Does not the
circumstantial evidence raise a doubt? Certainly. Now let us take
another step. The witnesses to the drowning are called again, and view
the body, and now among ten of them, we find one who hesitates in his
identification. At once we find another circumstance wanting in
substantiation of the original claim. Now we see, that all that was
really proved was, that a boy was drowned, and not at all that it was
this particular boy who was found. But is this even proved? How can it
be, in the absence of the drowned body? Now suppose that, at the last
hour, the original boy turns up alive, and reports that he had been
washed ashore down the stream and subsequently recovered. We find that
our direct evidence, with numerous witnesses to the actual fact, was
entirely misleading after all, because we had jumped to a conclusion,
without duly considering the attendant circumstances of the case. So
it is always. This is no case manufactured to point an argument. There
is no such thing as positive proof, which does not depend upon
circumstances. The old example may be cited briefly again. If you see
one man shoot at another and see the other fall and die, can you say
without further knowledge, that one killed the other? If you do, you
may find later that the pistol carried only a blank cartridge, and
that the man died of fright.
"It is equally true of circumstantial evidence, that without some
direct fact upon which it depends it is worthless. As an example of
this, I may as well save your time by introducing the case at issue.
If we could show you that the prisoner desired the death of this girl;
that he profited by her death; that he had a secret in connection with
her child which he can keep from the world better, now that she is
dead; that she died under circumstances which made the attending
physician suspect morphine poisoning; that as soon as the suspicion
was announced, the prisoner mysteriously disappeared, and remained in
hiding for several days; that he had the opportunity to administer the
poison; that he understood the working of the drug; and other
circumstances of a similar nature, the argument would be entirely
circumstantial. All this might be true and the man might be innocent.
But, selecting from this array of suspicious facts, the one which
indicates morphine as the drug employed, and then add to it the fact
that expert chemists actually find morphine in the tissues of the
body, and you see, gentlemen, that at once this single bit of direct
evidence gives substantial form to the whole. The circumstantial is
strengthened by the direct, just as the direct is made important by
the circumstantial. The mere finding of poison in a body, though
direct evidence as to the cause of death, neither convicts the
assassin, nor even positively indicates that a murder has been
committed. The poison might have reached the victim by accident. But
consider the attendant circumstances, and then we see that a definite
conclusion is inevitable. It is from the circumstantial evidence only
that we can reach the true meaning of what the direct testimony
teaches.
"So we come at last to find that evidence is evidence, and that all
evidence is important, and may prove convincing. This is true, without
regard to the technical classification. Leave classification to the
lawyers, gentlemen. You have but to weigh all that has been offered to
you as relevant, and bearing upon the issue. Be assured, the Recorder
would not have admitted any extraneous matter. You are not to cast
aside anything that you have heard, merely because Mr. Bliss tells you
that it is delusive. It is not delusive. On the contrary, all is very
clear, as I shall now demonstrate to you.
"I will take up the chain of evidence much in the same order as did
Mr. Bliss. First, then, we have Dr. Meredith. Mr. Bliss hints to you
that he is a prejudiced witness, but whilst I might argue that a man
must be more than a villain to falsely accuse another of murder, I
need go into no defence of this witness, because it has been freely
admitted that his testimony is true. Mr. Bliss argues that all that
can be deduced from what Dr. Meredith tells us, is that morphine was
present in quantity sufficient to show toxic symptoms. Now that is all
that we care to claim from this witness. He recognized morphine
poisoning prior to death, but Mr. Bliss attempts to belittle the value
of this by the hypothesis that the drug was self-administered. He
calls your attention to the statements of the prisoner to this effect,
and tells you to believe him. On this subject I will speak again in a
moment. The principal thing at this point is, do they ask us to
believe that the girl died from diphtheria, or did she die of poison,
regardless of how she received it? They do not choose between these
two queries, but ask you to say either that she died of diphtheria,
or, if of poison, that it was self-administered. It rests with you,
gentlemen, then, to decide this weighty point. As to diphtheria, we
have the report of the experts against it. Dr. Meredith declared, even
before her death, that she was dying from poison. The autopsy showed
that the cause of death was poison. The chemical analysis shows
morphine in a poisonous dose, which is declared to be more than three
grains. True, Dr. Fisher, a witness who was forced upon the
prosecution, declares that diphtheria caused the death, but this is in
contradiction to the opinion of all the others, and though honestly
offered, no doubt, may be accounted for by the natural desire to
substantiate the statement made in the death certificate. But this
same witness tells us later that exactly three and a half grains of
morphine is missing from his medicine-case, the one from which the
defence admits that the morphine was taken. We find also that the
defence seem to lay more stress upon explaining the death by morphine,
than upon any effort to prove that diphtheria killed this girl.
"I think, then, that, with no injustice to the accused, you may adopt
the pet theory of the defence, and conclude that this girl died of
morphine poisoning. But, gentlemen, I shall now even admit more than
that. Let us grant that a diseased kidney will cause accumulation of
morphine, and that this girl had such a disease. More than that, let
us admit that she had taken a considerable quantity of morphine prior
to her illness, and that a large portion of it was held secreted in
some part of her body. Now, what is the situation on that last evening
of her life? She has been ill for several days with diphtheria, but
she is recovering. She is so far convalescent that the senior
physician deems it unnecessary for him to see her again that night.
She also has slight kidney trouble, and she has some morphine stored
up in her system; an amount, however, which has been tolerated
throughout the attack of diphtheria, when vitality was at its lowest
ebb, but which has neither acted fatally, nor even affected her so
that symptoms of its presence attracted the attention of the doctors.
"Gentlemen of the jury, now follow me closely if you please. We can
often bring witnesses to a murder where a weapon is used, but rare
indeed is it that the poisoner is actually seen at his deadly work.
But, by a singular act of Providence, that is what happened here. The
prisoner arrived at that house that night, and dismissed the trained
nurse. Observe that this occurs precisely upon the night when the
patient has been declared to be convalescent. Here, then, is this man,
a physician himself, alone in the presence of a weak woman. Does not
this surely indicate to you that he had the opportunity to commit the
foul deed? Supposing that he wished to rid himself of this girl, how
gladly would he have awaited for her death by natural causes? How
willingly have seen the dread diphtheria remove her from his path, and
save his soul from the stain of crime? But no! It was not to be! On
this night, his skilled eye saw what the other doctors had seen. The
girl would recover! If she was to die, it must be by his hand. Now how
should he accomplish it? By what means rid himself of the girl, and be
safe from the hangman himself. Here the diabolical working of a
scientific mind reveals itself. As he has told us he well knew her
condition. He knew that she had kidney disease. He knew that she had
been taking morphine, and readily guessed that some of the deadly drug
was still stored up in her system. If he administered morphine to this
poor woman, infatuated alike with the drug and with him, she would not
offer the slightest remonstrance. No cry would escape her lips as the
deadly needle punctured her fair flesh. Loving him and trusting him,
she would yield to his suggestion, and so go into the last sleep. But
what of the after effects? He certainly would think of that? Why,
certainly! The girl would die of coma, and the attending physicians,
if summoned in time, would say that she died of anaemia caused by
diphtheria. Or, even if suspicion were aroused, it might be claimed
afterwards, just, gentlemen, as it has been claimed, that the drug was
self-administered, and was not enough in itself to have proven fatal.
He knew that the autopsy would substantiate his claim of kidney
trouble, and that the toxicologists would admit the effect upon
morphine. But more than all, being himself something of an expert in
all branches of medical science, and especially in chemistry, he could
almost to a nicety gauge the quantity of the drug which would be
required, which of itself might not prove fatal to a morphine
_habitue_, but which would compass her death when added to what was
already in her system. Chance seemed to favor his horrible design, for
Dr. Fisher had left his syringe and a supply of the drug. See this
fiend, this scientific wife murderer, measure out and prepare the
lethal dose! See him pierce the yielding flesh and inject the deadly
drug, and then, lo! Providence brings upon the scene a witness to the
deed! The nurse returns unexpectedly and sees, gentlemen, mark my
words, actually sees this man in the act of using the hypodermic
syringe!
"What can he do? He knows that it would be hazardous to deny the
testimony of this trained nurse. Therefore he admits what she tells
us, and then ingeniously invents the explanation that he was removing
the syringe, but had not made the injection. But I submit it to you,
gentlemen, is that a probable tale? If this girl had time to prepare
the drug, to fill the syringe, to pierce her flesh, to inject the
drug, would she not have been able to remove it herself? Does it take
ten minutes to withdraw a needle? Or five minutes, or one minute? Or
one second, gentlemen? Can you even compute the brief moment of time
in which the withdrawal could have been effected? Mr. Bliss told you
that the testimony of the accused must be final on this point. That
until he is convicted of crime his word is as acceptable as that of
any other witness. This may be a presumption of law, gentlemen, but it
is a still greater presumption on the part of counsel to ask such
intelligent men as you are, to believe that a murderer, or even an
innocent man, would not perjure himself to save his life! Such things
are told in romance, but we know that in actual life the most
scrupulous of us all, will lie unhesitatingly if life itself be the
stake.
"Thus, gentlemen, the whole thing comes to this. It matters not how
much morphine this woman had taken herself, prior to her illness; it
matters not how diseased were her kidneys: the cause of her death was
that last dose of morphine, and you have to decide whether this man
administered it as the nurse tells us, or whether the weak
convalescent mixed and prepared the drug, and then injected it
herself. We claim that Dr. Medjora administered that last dose, and
that by that act he committed the crime of murder. And remember this,
that if you decide that he administered that morphine, your verdict
must be murder in the first degree, for having denied that he gave the
drug at all, he cannot claim now that he gave it with no intention to
destroy life. Gentlemen, you are the final arbiters in this matter."
The Recorder immediately charged the jury, but though he spoke at
considerable length, I need scarcely give his speech here, as it was
chiefly an explanation of the law. He was eminently impartial in all
that he said, and it was surprising, therefore, how many objections
and exceptions were entered by the defence. At last the jury was sent
out, and the long wait began. The hours passed slowly and still those
present remained in their seats, loath to risk being absent when the
verdict should be announced.
It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and the jury had been out five
hours, when word was sent in, that a verdict had been found. The
Recorder a few moments later resumed his seat, and the jury filed in.
After the usual formalities, the foreman arose and announced the
following verdict:
"We find the prisoner, Dr. Emanuel Medjora, not guilty."
The words were received almost in silence by all present. Above the
stillness a deep sob was heard at the farther end of the room. This
had escaped from the tightly compressed lips of Madame Cora Corona.
BOOK SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
ONE NIGHT.
"Leon! Leon!"
The cry was low and weak, and the suffering woman fell back upon her
pillow. The youth, though asleep, heard, and quickly responded to the
call. He had been sitting in the large arm-chair, beside a rude wooden
table, upon which stood a common glass lamp, with red wick, whose
flickering flame shed but a dim ray across the well-thumbed pages of a
book which lay open. While reading under such unfavorable
circumstances, the boy had slumbered, his mind drifting slowly toward
dream-land, yet not beyond the voice of the sufferer. She had scarcely
repeated his name, when he was kneeling beside her, speaking in a
voice that was tender and solicitous.
"What is it, mother?" he asked.
"Nothing," was the reply.
"Do you wish to drink?"
"No."
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes. But no matter."
"Will you take your medicine?"
"No. Leon, I want to tell you something."
"Not to-night, mother. You must sleep to-night. To-morrow you may
talk."
"Leon, when I sleep to-night, it will be forever."
"Do not talk so, mother. You are nervous. Perhaps the darkness
oppresses you. I will turn up the light."
He did so, but the lamp only spluttered, flaring up brighter for a
moment, only to burn as dull as before.
"You see," said the old woman, with a ghastly smile, "there will be no
more light in my life."
"Indeed there will be."
"I tell you no!" She spoke fiercely, and summoned all her waning
energy to her aid, as she struggled to raise herself upon her elbow.
Then, extending a bony finger in his direction and shaking it in
emphasis of her words, she continued: "I tell you I am dying. Death is
here; in this room; I see his form, and I feel his cold fingers on my
forehead. Sh! Sh! Listen! Do you not hear? A voice from the darkness
is calling--'Confess! Confess!'" Then with a feeble cry she dropped
back, moaning and groaning as in anguish.
"Mother! Mother! Lie still! Do not talk so." Leon was much agitated by
the scene which had just transpired. The woman was quiet for a time,
except that she sobbed, but presently she addressed him again.
"Leon, I must talk. I must tell. But don't call me mother."
"Why not?
How frequently in life do we thus rush ruthlessly upon unsuspected
crises in our fates? Leon said these words, with no thought of their
import, and with no foreboding of what would follow. How could he
guess that from the moment of their utterance his life would be
changed, and his boyhood lost to him forever, because of the
momentousness of the reply which he invited?
When the woman spoke again, her voice was so low that the youth leaned
down to hear her words. She said:
"Leon, you have been a good son to me. But--I am not your mother."
Having spoken the words with a sadness in her heart, which found echo
in the cadence of her voice, she turned her face wearily away from the
youth, and waited for his reply. And he, though astounded by what he
had heard, did not at the time fully connect the words with himself,
but recognized only the misery which their utterance had caused to the
suffering woman. With gentleness as tender as a loving woman's, he
turned her face to his, touched her lips with his, and softly said:
"You are my mother! The only mother that I have ever known!" Oh! The
weakness of human kind, which, at the touch of a loving hand, the
sound of a loving voice, yields up its most sacred principles! This
dying woman had lived from birth till now in a secluded New England
village, and, imbibing her puritanical instincts from her ancestry,
she almost deemed it a sin to smile, or show any outward sign of
happiness. She had been a mother to this boy, according to her bigoted
ideas; she had been good to him in her own way; but she had kissed him
but once, and then he was going upon a journey. Yet now, as overcome
by his intense sympathy, his long-suppressed love welled out from his
heart toward her, with a happy cry she nestled close within his arms,
and cried for joy, a joy that was hers for the first time, yet which
might have illumined all her declining days, had she not brushed it
away from her.
A long silence ensued, presently broken by the woman, as she slowly
related the following story.
"Years ago, no matter how many, I was a pretty woman, and a vain one.
I had admirers, but I loved none as I loved myself. But at last one
came, and then my life was changed. I loved him, and I began to
despise myself. For the more I saw and loved him, the less likely it
seemed that he could love me. I used all my arts in vain. My prettiest
frocks, my most coquettish glances, were all wasted on him. It seemed
to me that I had not even made him see that I might be won, if he
would woo. He went away, and I thought that I would never meet him
again, for he had been but a summer visitor. My heart was broken, and
besides my pride was hurt, for I suffered the bitterness of being
taunted with my failure by my sisters. A year later, he came to me
again. Several months before, I had gone to live in Boston, but in
some way he had found me out. To my surprise, he told me that he knew
that I loved him. He said that he had not offered me his love, because
he was already married. Then he asked me to do him a favor. I gladly
assented, without knowing what he would ask, for I would have
sacrificed anything for him, I loved him so. The next day he brought
me a beautiful baby boy. He told me it was his, that his wife was ill,
and that he wished me to care for the baby for a year, whilst he went
to Europe. I undertook the charge, without considering the
consequences. I returned to the farm, bound to secrecy as to the
child's parentage. Very soon I discovered that my friends shunned me,
and then I learned that by taking you, Leon, I had lost my good name.
Well! I did not care. You were his baby! You had his eyes, and so my
heart grew hard against the world, but I determined to keep the baby
whose fingers had already gripped my heart. Then, shut out from all
friendships, scorned even by my sisters to whom I had refused to make
any explanation, I began to pray that something, anything, would
happen so that you should not be taken from me. My wicked prayer was
answered, for later I learned that the young mother had died, and I
was to continue caring for you. At first my joy was very great, but
soon I recognized, that you were mine only because I had prayed for
the death of your mother. The Lord had granted my wish, as an
everlasting punishment for my sinful longing. Thenceforward, however
much I yearned to press you to my heart, I have not dared to do so. I
have tried to accept the chastisement of the Lord with meekness of
spirit. And so I have had my wish! I have kept you with me, ever to be
a reproach for my sin. But I thank the Lord, that at the end he has
allowed me to have one full moment of happiness. He has granted me the
boon to see that my boy has learned to love me in spite of all my
harshness. You have kissed me, Leon, and called me mother. Oh! God!
Thy will be done!"
Then with a smile almost of beatitude, she sank down lower, and
nestled closer to her long-denied love. Leon stooped and kissed her
again, but did not speak. His heart was full, and his emotions rose
within his breast, so that he felt a curious sensation of fulness in
his throat, which warned him not to essay speech.
In silence they remained so for a time, not computed by either. She
was lost in thoughts such as have been aroused in many hearts by the
poet's magic words, "It might have been!" This boy was his, and might
have been hers, if----! Ah! What chasms have been bridged by these two
letters, which form this little, mighty word!
Leon began to grasp, but slowly, all that the future would hold for
him with the added knowledge granted to him this night. He pondered
over the past, and remembering how stern had been his life, and how
austere had been the manner of this woman who had been his mother, and
adding up the sum of all, he wondered that he had found such love for
her within his heart. For his love had been recognized by himself as
suddenly as he had given fervent expression to it, when he embraced
that mother who denied her motherhood. If the poet's words which I
have quoted conceal a thought of sadness within their meaning, what
woe resides within the thought encompassed by those other words, "Too
late!" To both of these, the woman and the boy, the recognition of the
joys of love, had come too late. As this thought at last penetrated
the mind of the dreaming youth, he started, awakening from his
abstraction. At the same moment, the lamp flared up, flickered, and
went out. Then as darkness enshrouded him, so deep that he almost felt
it touch his brow, he shivered, and a long moan escaped him followed
by an anguished cry:
"Mother!"
At last he realized what he had heard. In two ways was he to lose what
all good men hold dearest on this earth: a mother. First, she denied
the relationship; second, she had told him that she was dying. No
answer came back to his cry. The woman in his arms made no sound. She
did not stir. He leaned his ear against her heart. It had ceased to
beat. She was dead. Her spirit had slipped away, unnoticed by the
loving boy whose arms encircled her shrivelled form, but whose love
full surely lighted her way up among the stars! Up, to that mysterious
realm, too vast for human thought, too limitless for human mind; where
the sinning and the sinless meet their deserts. However much of wrong
or of error there had been in her life, in the moment of death she
found true happiness; and I am grateful to her for arousing the
thought, that we may all end our lives in peace. And so I leave her.
But the boy? The youth now left to buffet with the world alone? I will
ask you to follow him as, with a heart crowded with anguish and
resentment, he rushed bareheaded out into the night, and swiftly sped
through the wood. For he is well worth following. He has reached an
important epoch in his life, a turning point at which he abandons his
boyish past and becomes a man.
Could he have been asked why he ran, or whither, he would have found
himself bewildered and at a loss for a reply. Yet it is easily
explainable. His home-life had never been attractive to him, nor in
any way satisfying to his temperament, which, indeed, as we shall see,
was such that he was ever in ill-concealed rebellion against the
restraints of his surroundings, which threatened to crush his
intellectual yearnings. Nevertheless, it was his home, so endeared to
him by long association, that the sudden realization of the complex
idea, first, that he did love this home, and second that he would now
lose it forever, coming to him instantaneously, overwhelmed him.
He felt a dull pain in his breast, which made him almost imagine that
some heavy body had been thrust within his bosom, and weighed heavily
against his heart, interfering with that vital organ, so that the
blood coursed sluggishly, and the lungs were loath to do their duty.
Thus stifling, though only in imagination, he was instinctively
compelled to rush out into the air, which cooled the fever in his
veins. He ran, impelled by a mysterious feeling akin to fear, yet not
fear, which exists within the breasts of all mankind, however loudly
one individual may declare himself exempt, and which is aroused when
one is suddenly brought into the presence of the dead, alone, and for
the first time. Leon had never seen death before, although he had of
course seen the dead, coffined and made ready for the grave. But he
now passed through an entirely new experience. In one moment he held
within his arms a living, breathing being whom he loved; and in the
next he gazed upon a voiceless, senseless, shocking thing, and loathed
it. It was from this thing, and from the house where this thing now
lay, that he was running. But, as I have said, he did not know it at
the time, and probably would have spurned the suggestion a day later.
But, the fact remains that it was true.
Where he was going, is explainable by a simpler course of analysis. He
was going to the lake. He was going to his boat. He was going out upon
the water away from the companionship of that dead thing on land. He
was going out upon the water, to be alone, and to find solace in his
loneliness. In this, he but followed involuntarily a habit which he
had practised for several years. When his home-life had pressed most
hardly upon him at times, he had slipped away from the little farm,
and rowed his boat out upon the lake, for self-communion and comfort.
So now, without realizing that he had chosen any special direction in
his flight, or that he had any fixed purpose in his mind, he ran
swiftly along the wood-choppers' path, until at length he stopped
panting on a bit of narrow beach. He stood silent for a moment, and
then concluded to get his boat and go out upon the lake. Or rather, he
thought that he formed this decision at that moment, but really it
originated when he turned towards the lake, rather than towards the
next neighbor. It was therefore not companionship, but solitude which
he sought.
Within five minutes he was rowing lustily across the mirror-like
surface of Massabesic, out towards the widest portion. The day had
been insufferably warm, it being mid-summer, but in this region the
nights are usually cool. This night was balmy. Mars had appeared, a
glowing red ball, above the eastern horizon, early in the evening, and
an hour later the almost full moon had climbed up high enough to shed
her silver rays across the waters. Later still the breeze had died
away, and slowly the bosom of the lake grew quiet, as though even the
waters had drifted into slumberous repose. When Leon started out in
his boat, almost immediately his ruffled soul recognized the influence
of the deadly calm surrounding him, for though at first he dipped his
oars deep, and rowed vigorously, making the light bark leap upward at
every pull, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he stroked his
oars with lessening vehemence, and presently, as though thoroughly
awed by the stillness, and fearful of creating the noise even of a
ripple, he was straining every nerve to dip and withdraw his oars, and
to move his boat along without a sound. After a few minutes of this,
he slowly raised both oars, letting them rest across the gunwales
until the last drop of water had dripped off, and the last series of
circles caused thereby had disappeared, and then, with the care and
delicacy of one who moves about a chamber where some loved one is
asleep who must not be disturbed, he placed his oars gently in the
boat, and sat motionless.
Already Mars had almost reached the tops of the trees along the
western banks, and, attracted by it, Leon gazed upon the planet until
it disappeared. He had been still for ten minutes, and having
recognized that all was quiet about him, and having abandoned his
rowing, he was now mildly surprised to observe that his boat was in a
totally different position; that in fact he had drifted a long
distance. This awakened him slightly from his reverie, for here was a
new bit of knowledge about a body of water with which he had been
acquainted since his earliest recollection. He had never known, nor
even suspected, that in a calm there could be a current. He endeavored
to calculate by observation how fast he was moving; but the task was
difficult. He could readily discern that since abandoning his oars he
had moved a hundred yards, but, however intently he gazed upon the
shores, he could not detect that he was moving. He pondered over this
for a time, and being of a philosophical turn of mind, and fond of
speculating, he likened his position at the moment, to life in
general. However little we suspect it, there is an unseen but potent
energy which urges us forward towards----the grave, and----whatever
follows death.
This idea pleased him for a moment, for the analogy was a new one and
original with himself, in so far, that he had never head it from
another. Quickly, however, returning to the more practical problem, he
determined to find a way to ascertain the rapidity with which his boat
was moving. Placing a fishing-rod upright before him, and then closing
one eye, gazing with the other at a conspicuous object along the
horizon, immediately he could see, not only that he was moving, but
that the motion was more rapid than he had suspected. Having thus
satisfied the immediate and momentary questioning of an inquiring
mind, his previous mental state, his loneliness and desolation,
returned upon him with redoubled force. A moment later, Nature offered
him another abstraction. Looking into the water he saw mirrored there
the reflection of the moon. Not the stream of undulating silver over
which poets have raved these many years, and which painters have
fruitlessly essayed to convey to canvass, but the glorious, full,
round orb itself. This he had never seen before, and he wondered why
it should be. Almost as though in answer to his thought, a faint
zephyr breathed across the surface of the waters, and beginning near
the shores, the ripples rolled towards him, and with them brought the
shimmering moonlight until all in a moment, the reflected orb had
disappeared, and the usual silvery line of light replaced it. Thus he
saw, that only water in motion will show the moonbeams, whilst a
mirror, whether it be of glass, or the still bosom of the lake,
reflects but the moon itself.
Again he returned to the bitterness of his night's experience, and
now, no longer attracted by the moon, and not caring how fast or
whither he drifted, he lay back in his boat, pillowing his head upon
a cushion on the seat in the stern, and gazed up into the sky thus
oblivious of the landscape and so without an indication of his
progress.
His mind reverted to the house, and the dead woman. She was not his
mother. Then who was she? Or rather who was he? She was, or had been,
Margaret Grath, and he had thought that he was entitled to the name
Leon Grath. But if she was not, or had not been, his mother, then
plainly he had no right to her name. On considering this, he concluded
that it was his privilege to call himself Leon, but the last name
Grath, being obtainable legally only by inheritance, he must abandon.
When the word "inheritance" crossed his thoughts, involuntarily a loud
mocking laugh escaped him. And when the sonorous echoes laughed with
him, he laughed again, and again. The drollery which aroused his
mirth, was that, if a name might be inherited, why might not Margaret
Grath have bequeathed hers to him? Perhaps she might have mentioned it
in her will? But no! A name is a heritage acquired at birth, whilst
only chattels are included in an inheritance which follows a death.
Evidently he was nameless, except that he might be called Leon, just
as his collie answered to the name Lossy. This made him laugh again.
For now he thought that his dog had fared better than himself, for he
was called "The Marquis of Lossy," after MacDonald's Malcolm. Thus the
collie was of noble blood, whilst he was----only Leon, the child of
nobody. As he reached this point, the moon dipped down below the
western hill, the upper edge shedding its last rays across the boy and
his boat, after which he was indeed enshrouded by the night. It seemed
colder too, now that the orb had gone, and insensibly he felt in some
way more alone. True, there were the stars, still twinkling in the
firmament, but they seemed far away, like his own future. Still Leon
dreamed on.
As he could not lift the veil which parted him from what was to be, he
wandered back in thought, recalling what had been.
The Theosophist says that man has lived before upon this planet,
inhabiting many corporeal forms, and drifting through many earthly
existences. The Sceptic cries: "Ridiculous! but, granting the
postulate, of what advantage is it to have lived before, or to live
again, if in each earth-life I cannot recall those that have gone
before?" Yet, without arguing for Theosophy, might I not remind this
sceptic that he enjoys his life to-day, even though he might find it
difficult to recall yesterday, or the day before, or a week, a month,
a year ago? How many of us in looking backward over life's path, can
summon up the phantoms of more than a few days? Days on which occurred
some events of special moment?
The first landmark along his life's path, which stood out conspicuous
among Leon's garnered memories, was his first visit to the church.
Margaret Grath had dressed him in his brightest frock, curled his
hair, and placed upon his head his newest bonnet. His heart had
swelled with pride, as he trotted beside the tall, gaunt, New England
woman, who walked with long strides, and held his hands, lest he
should lag behind. But though his legs grew tired, he offered no
rebellion, for he had often looked upon the red brick building, with
wondering eyes, and his ears had oft been mystified at the tolling of
the bell which swung and sounded, though moved by no hand that he
could see, nor means that he could understand. He marvelled at the
outside of the building, its steeple marking it a house apart from
every other in the village, and he long had yearned to see it from
within. On this day, to which his thought now turned, he had his wish.
He followed Miss Grath down the aisle, clinging to her skirts, a
little frightened at the people sitting straight and stiff, and he was
rejoiced when he found himself at last on a comfortable cushion in the
pew. The cushion was a treat; being his first experience with such
luxury, and confirmed his idea that the church was better than other
houses. Presently he began to be accustomed to his surroundings,
having viewed all the walls, the roof, the organ, and the pulpit,
until his active mind was satisfied so far as concerned the building
itself. Then he began to feel the silence, and he did not like it. He
longed to speak, but did not dare, because when he timidly looked up,
Miss Grath, catching his glance, scowled reproachfully, and looked
straight before her. Small and young as he was, he had learned to know
this woman with whom he lived, and he needed no more explicit warning
to hold his tongue. So he sat still, adding to the silence which
oppressed him.
It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the preacher rise, and heard
him speak; and it was with a throb of intense joy that his heart
warmed as the notes of the organ reached him for the first time in his
life. Thenceforward he was interested up to the point where the sermon
began. The tiresome monotone in which this was delivered, and the
impossibility of his comprehending what was said, soon fatigued his
little brain, and then lulled him to sleep.
I may mention parenthetically, what of course did not now enter Leon's
mind, for he never knew the subject of that first sermon which had
been preached at him. If it had been incomprehensible to the child,
the woman had understood well enough, for it had been aimed at her
especially. The preacher, I cannot call him a minister, for he truly
ministered unto none except himself, the preacher then, was a cold,
hard Scotchman, High Church of course. He firmly believed in the
damnation of infants, and a Hell of which the component parts would be
brimstone and fire in proper proportions. He also believed in the
efficacy of prayer, especially of his own. Therefore, it not
infrequently happened, that when any one incurred his ill will, which
was not difficult, he would offer up a prayer, consigning said
individual to the hottest tortures of the world below. He did this so
adroitly, that, while there were no plain personalities in his words,
his description of the sinner would be so specific, that the party of
the second part readily identified himself as the central figure of
the excoriation.
Now this saintly preacher had at one time demeaned himself, or so he
thought, sufficiently low to offer himself in marriage to Miss
Margaret Grath. She had declined the honor, and he had hated her ever
after. Like all true women, however, she had kept his secret, so that
none of the congregation knowing the relation which existed, or which
might have existed, between them, none could read between the lines of
his sermons, when he chose to lash her by a savage denunciation of any
mild backsliding, of which she might have been guilty, and himself
cognizant. Her return to the village with the child, who had no
visible father, and no mother, unless the guesses of the gossips were
correct, had afforded him opportunity for a most masterly peroration.
But he belched forth his greatest eloquence on that Sunday morning,
when she had the temerity to bring into the sacred confines of his
sanctuary this fatherless boy, for whose sake she had chosen to live a
lonely life. If his prayer of that morning proved efficacious, then
surely the infant was damned, and the woman's soul consigned to
endless Purgatory. Thus the day to which Leon recurred in thought, was
a landmark in another life beside his, and I have turned aside for a
moment to relate this incident, that the character of Miss Grath may
be better comprehended, for in spite of all that she had suffered
through the animosity of the preacher, she had never omitted
attendance at church, when it was a physical possibility for her to
get there. It must be true that some of her determination and will
descended from her to the boy, because association means more than
heredity.
The next occurrence in his life, which now occupied his thoughts, was
a day long after, when he was nearing his twelfth year. He was off on
a hunting expedition, and had climbed a mountain. Careless in leaping
from crag to crag, he landed upon a loose boulder, which rolled from
under his feet, so that he was thrown. In falling, his foot twisted,
and a moment later, intense pain made him aware that he could not walk
upon it. For four hours he slowly, but pluckily, dragged himself down
the mountain, and at last reached home. It so chanced that a
celebrated physician from New York was spending a vacation in the
neighborhood, attracted perhaps by the brooks, which were full of
fish. This man was Dr. Emanuel Medjora, and having heard of the boy's
hurt, he voluntarily visited the lonely farm-house, and attended upon
him so skilfully that Leon soon was well.
Just why the thought of Dr. Medjora should come to him at this time
was a problem to Leon, but one upon which he did not dwell. After that
summer, he had seen the Doctor again at various times, two or three
years apart, always at vacation-time. But it was now three years since
they had met.
Swiftly his thoughts passed along the years of his life, until they
stopped for a moment, arrested by an incident worthy of being
chronicled. I have said that Leon lay in his boat, face skyward, and
allowed his bark to drift whither it would. Thus he had not noted his
progress until a crunching sound startled him, and he became aware
that his boat had found a landing-place, having grounded amidst the
sands of a little cove, sheltered by a high rock and overhanging
shrubbery. Forced thus from his abstraction into some cognizance of
his whereabouts, Leon, without raising his head, merely became aware
of the branches and leaves overhead, and peered through them. Almost
in the midst of the green, he saw what seemed to be a brilliant but
monstrous diamond, pendent from a branch. In the next instant he
recognized that he was gazing upon Venus, the morning star, which had
risen during his reverie, and now shone resplendent and most
beautiful. It was just at this moment, that the incident occurred to
which I have alluded. Suddenly it seemed to him that the whole of his
surroundings were familiar. Everything had occurred before. His boat
drifting into the cove, the shrubbery overhead, and Venus in the sky;
all that he now realized, in the most minute detail, had held a place
in his experience before. Such a phenomenon is not uncommon. All of us
have been impressed similarly. Indeed, some Theosophists, trying to
prove a previous life for man, have reverted to this well-known
feeling, and have claimed that here is a recollection of a former
visit to this earth. But Leon, young philosopher though he was, would
have laughed in scorn at such an argument. He had considered this
problem, and had solved it satisfactorily for himself. His explanation
was thus. Man's brain is divided into two hemispheres. Usually they
act co-ordinately, but it is possible that, at least momentarily, they
may operate independently. It is a fact that the phenomenon under
consideration seldom, or never occurs, except when the mind is greatly
interested or occupied. Something, perhaps in itself the merest
trifle, diverts the mind from the intensity of its attention. This
diversion leads by a train of circumstances to a long-forgotten
memory, and one hemisphere of the brain reverts to a moment in the
past, the other continuing intent upon its surroundings. Within an
infinitesimal period of time, a period too brief to be calculable,
both hemispheres are again acting in unison. The abstraction has been
so brief, and the cause of it is so dimly defined, that the mind is
oblivious of what has occurred, except that, as the diverted
hemisphere again takes cognizance of its previous thoughts, and again
recognizes the environment of the present, the phenomenon of a dual
experience is noted. Of course the scene is identically the same as
that which is remembered, because it is the same scene. And the
previous experience will impress the individual as having occurred
long ago, in exact proportion to the date of that circumstance to
which one hemisphere has reverted.
Therefore, Leon did not, at this time, speculate upon the mystery,
which he thought he understood, but he welcomed the advent of a
long-sought opportunity, to trace out the cause of such an
abstraction, so fleeting in its nature.
He was occupied thus, for half an hour, but at length believed that he
had analyzed the experience. The turning-point, at which he had been
diverted, was when he first recognized Venus. And now he remembered
that occasion when he had gone upon a journey. Away from his home for
the first time in his life, he felt many sensations which I need not
record here. But one amusement had been to sit at night studying the
stars, and from them fixing the position of the buildings on the home
farm, in relation to those where he was then abiding. One evening,
when watching Venus, then the evening star, he was looking across a
pool of water, and trying to imagine himself back on Massabesic, with
the same planet setting behind the western hill, when, turning his
head, he saw a young and beautiful girl standing near him. As his eyes
abandoned the planet for the woman, he was startled by the thought
that the goddess had been re-embodied. A moment later, the girl asked
him for some information relating to the nearest way to her home,
which he gave, and she walked on. He had never seen her since, nor had
he thought of her again. But now, having analyzed his thoughts and
traced them back from the star to that girl, her face thus summoned
seemed to take the place of the planet in the heavens, and to gaze
down upon him with an assuring smile, which somehow made him feel that
the future might hold something for him after all.
What that something might be, he did not even try to guess. Therefore,
you must not adopt the conclusion that Leon thus suddenly fell in love
with a girl whose face had been seen by him but once. No idea within
his mind, connected with that face, was now coupled with a thought of
her as an earthly being. He merely summoned up the image of a lovely
being, and felt himself refreshed, and hope returning.
A few moments later the twilight brightened and the first red border
of the sun, peeping over the tops of the trees, shed a warming ray
upon Leon, thus awakened from his dreamy night into the first day of
his manhood.