"The most dramatic thing I remember? I need not pause to answer that
question," said my companion. "Do you recall the Lipski case? Ah,
well, you will know what a sensation it created. It occurred in the
hey-day of the great Stead at the _Pall Mall_. What a flair the
fellow had for a sensation, and what a frenzy he could communicate to
the public mind. Lipski had been sentenced to death for the murder
of his paramour, and doubtless would have been hanged quite quietly
but for the fact that Stead became interested in the case and
convinced that the man was innocent. There was enough ground for the
belief to warrant what would now be called a 'stunt,' and Stead
seized his opportunity in his own incomparable fashion, and a raging,
tearing propaganda followed in the Press. The public mind was lashed
into a fury of indignation. Petitions poured in for the reprieve of
the condemned man; demonstrations took place in the streets; crowds
assembled in front of Buckingham Palace to wring the Royal
prerogative out of the Queen.
"Day succeeded day, and still the storm rose, and still the Home
Secretary held his hand. The right of criminal appeal did not exist
in those days, and Henry Matthews, the Home Secretary, had no
guidance to rely on except that of the judge who had tried the case,
Fitzjames Stephen, and Stephen would commit himself to neither 'yea'
nor 'nay,' but took refuge behind the jury's verdict, and left the
matter there. The Home Secretary was in despair. Daily he saw
himself held up to execration as a murderer, daily the petitions
poured in, and the crowds gathered in the streets.
"Saturday came, and on Monday the execution was to take place.
Appeals to Stephen were in vain, and every detail of the evidence had
been examined again and again without a ray of new light. It was not
only the condemned man whose fate was involved. If he was guilty and
Matthews reprieved him, the latter would have yielded to an ignorant
clamour and disgraced his office; if he was not guilty, and Matthews
did not reprieve him, he would have executed an innocent man in the
face of an unprecedented public warning. The day passed in anxious
and ceaseless inquiry. In the afternoon he sent word to Stephen. He
must see him once more. They could meet at the Home Office the
following (Sunday) evening at five o'clock.
"I was then on the Home Office staff, and it was my duty to be in
attendance while this critical conference was in progress. Time
passed without a sound or sign coming from the room where the
argument of life or death was proceeding. In the quiet of the late
Sunday afternoon the chimes of Big Ben sounded the quarters from the
Clock Tower. Six o'clock struck. I was tired of sitting alone, and
opening the door of the Secretary's room quietly I entered and took a
seat in the shadow.
"It was a strange scene that I had broken in on. Absolute silence
prevailed; but both men were so engrossed in thought that my entrance
passed quite unnoticed. Matthews was seated in his chair, his elbows
on his knees, his head buried in his hands. Stephen, his eyes fixed
on the carpet before him, strode to and fro across the room.
"I sat and waited. Outside, the church bells had begun ringing for
the evening service, and their music alone broke the heavy silence of
the room. Then Matthews spoke briefly, raising a point that had been
hammered to weariness before. There was a brief answer from Stephen,
and the silence was resumed, Matthews with his head still resting in
his hands, Stephen still pacing the floor. Time passed. The bells
ceased ringing, seven o'clock struck, and we passed into a soundless
quiet. Now and then a question was put and an answer given, but
there was no discussion. It seemed that the strange scene might
continue until the hangman slipped his bolt next morning. I counted
the quarters--one--two--three--eight o'clock. Three hours had gone
by and no light had broken on the silent struggle.
"I had ceased to expect any change in this drama of indecision, and
resigned myself to an all-night vigil. I sat and speculated as to
the course of events. What seemed most probable to me was that the
silent drama would go on far into the night and that then in sheer
exhaustion there would be surrender. They would not be able to hold
out to daylight, and in despair of coming to a decision would choose
the way of safety. Presently my ears caught the sound of a step in
the corridor without. It paused at the door. A sudden thought
flashed in my mind as I waited for what should follow. There came a
low tap at the door, and I hastily opened it. As I did so a
messenger handed me a letter. I took it eagerly, raised the flap
sufficiently to catch the words, 'I, Lipski, hereby confess...' and
passed it to Matthews. As he read it he leapt to his feet with a cry
as of one who had himself escaped a sentence of death, and for a
moment the load lifted from the two men made them almost beside
themselves with joy. Then Matthews remembered the circumstances and
turned grave....
"The next morning Lipski was hanged, and all the world read the
confession. It was Matthews' moment of supreme triumph. He was the
minister who had defied the ragings of the Press and the mob and been
justified in his firm resistance to ignorant clamour. But none knew
the torture behind that firmness, or the misery of those silent hours
the night before. How would it have ended without that knock at the
door? Ah, who can say? But I think Lipski hanged himself."