"CONFESSED!"
The sombre, battlemented walls of the jail looked grim and merciless
through the gray of the day. To Scanlon they seemed of appalling
thickness and hardness; the turrets, which occurred at regular
intervals, he knew held men, armed and sleepless, who watched
tirelessly. Hundreds and hundreds of dingy souls drooped inside; guilt
hung over the whole place like a palpable thing.
"Crime will never be cured by placing criminals in institutions like
this," said Ashton-Kirk, as they waited at the gate. "Instead, it breeds
here. Prison-keepers are a race of themselves; as a rule they are
bullies and grafters. And men placed for terms of years at the mercy of
these can't be expected to grow, except toward the shadows. A youth,
who, because of idleness, impulse or dissipation, offends society in
some way, is thrown into this pit of moral filth to cleanse himself.
Very few men have the fibre of the true criminal; and when a casual
lawbreaker sees this dreadful blow leveled at his soul, he is at first
bewildered and afraid; then, if he has any spleen, he arrays himself
against the force which struck the blow. And, so, society has gained
another enemy."
They were admitted by a uniformed guard, and in a few moments were in
the office. A white-haired man in a formal frock coat of a decade ago
greeted Ashton-Kirk warmly.
"I am delighted to see you," said he, as they shook hands. "I doubt if
you have been here since that forgery case of Hamilton & Durbon. Old
Clark had reason to be thankful for your visit that day, sir, for it
saved him a long term of undeserved imprisonment."
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"It was rather a simple matter, and took only a few minutes to
demonstrate," said he. "The firm was struck by panic, and frightened
people usually want a victim. If this had not been so in their case--if
they had used the ordinary intelligence of the day's work--they would
have seen the truth themselves."
Here Ashton-Kirk presented Scanlon to the warden. The latter put on his
eye-glasses and bowed with old-fashioned courtesy.
"We should like to see Frank Burton, the young man accused of murdering
his father," said the investigator, after a little.
"Ah, yes!" The warden nodded, sadly. "That is a very dreadful case. I am
told there is little doubt he is guilty. And a very prepossessing boy.
It is a great pity."
He went to the other side of the office to ring a bell, and Bat took the
opportunity to say:
"What name did you give him?"
"Eastabrook! You may have heard of him. He has written books on
penology, and goes about lecturing on prison conditions."
Scanlon looked dubious.
"I hope it won't depend on his say-so," said he. "He don't sound like a
heavyweight to me."
"He's as easily deceived as a child--and I rather think that is why he
is here. His great obsession is loyalty; every guard in the place may be
a grafter and a rascal, but as long as there is an effusive display of
loyalty to him, his eyes are closed. One honest man of his type is more
of a clog to reform than all the scoundrels combined."
Here the old warden returned; at the same time a guard entered the
office.
"Healey will show you the way, Mr. Ashton-Kirk," as he shook hands with
the investigator. "And I trust your interest in this unfortunate young
man will have happy results."
He also shook Scanlon's hand and expressed much gratification at having
met him; then the two followed the guard out into the courtyard and into
the gloomy corridors of the jail. There was a stale, confined smell in
the place; a chill was in the air--the sort of thing that comes from
continued damp. The blank steel doors with their rows of rivet heads,
and the criminal history of the cell's inhabitant hanging beside them on
a neat card, oppressed Bat.
"There is a movement on foot to do away with capital punishment," said
he, to Ashton-Kirk. "What makes them think life imprisonment isn't as
bad?"
The investigator shrugged his shoulders.
"They _don't_ think that," said he. "They merely present the
indisputable fact that a legal murder cannot in any way make amends for
an illegal one. When that is acted upon, I'm of the opinion that the
jailing of men will get more attention."
The guard was a heavy-faced man, who walked with a limp. He had
overheard these remarks, and now spoke.
"We hear lots of things like that," said he, resentfully. "People come
here in gangs sometimes and talk their heads off, pitying men who can be
handled only when they're locked up. If sheep could talk they'd say
things just like these people; and these people, if the criminals
weren't jailed, would be just as helpless among them as the sheep."
Bat Scanlon looked somewhat impressed.
"You've said something," said he, with a shake of the head, "but you
haven't said it all."
"There was a woman here this morning," said the guard. "Was also in to
see this fellow, Burton," as an afterthought. "And she talked that
stuff, too."
"Came to see Burton, did she?" Ashton-Kirk looked interested. "Who was
she?"
"Some kind of a relative, I think. It was Miss Cavanaugh, the actress."
Just then they came to a cell before which the guard stopped.
"Here you are," said he. "This is the man you want."
There was a shooting of bolts and the pressure of an opening door. The
inner door was of close bars; they saw a narrow cell with unrelieved
walls and a grated opening through which came a small trickle of
daylight. A figure arose from the cot at the far end and stood looking
uncertainly at the doorway.
"Want to go inside?" asked the guard. "The warden said it'd be all
right."
"Thanks," said Ashton-Kirk; "if you please."
The barred door was unlocked and opened; the two entered, and stood face
to face with young Burton.
"How are you?" said Scanlon, holding out a ready hand. "Remember me? I
saw you at your place at Stanwick one day."
"The day I was arrested," said the young man. "I remember you."
Scanlon waved the hand, which the other had neglected to take, toward
his friend.
"This is Mr. Ashton-Kirk. You may have heard of him. He's interested in
this case."
The young artist made a weary gesture.
"That can be said of a great many people," he said. His face was white
and had a harassed look; his eyes shone feverishly. "I have been, to
speak frankly, plagued to death by their interest. It isn't a pleasant
thing to feel that almost every one is consumed with the desire to place
a brand of some sort upon a fellow creature."
Ashton-Kirk regarded him without resentment.
"I understand the feeling, I think," said he, quietly. "It comes from
the shock of the charge laid against you, and the depression of the
jail. But consider this," and the singular eyes held the young man
steadily; "if the truth is to come out in this matter, interest must be
taken by some one. If you are to be freed of this charge it will be very
likely, by placing the weight of it upon some one else."
A look of despair was in the hot eyes of the prisoner; his hands
clenched tightly.
"All his life," he said, as though speaking to himself, "all his life he
did evil; and now that he is dead, the evil continues." He pointed to a
bench at one side and added: "Will you sit down?" The two having seated
themselves, he sank down weakly upon the edge of the cot. "I've been in
poor shape since I came here," said he. "I can't sleep, and my nerves
are gone."
"That's bad," said Bat Scanlon. "Nothing wears a man out like loss of
sleep. Try to quit thinking of this affair; if you don't----"
"Quit thinking of it!" Young Burton laughed in a high pitched fashion
that was very disagreeable to hear. "Quit it? You might as well ask me
to stop the sun from coming up. I could do it just as easily."
There was a short silence; young Burton picked at the coverings of his
bed with nervous fingers; and then he resumed:
"They say that any good thing brought into the world remains; that good
can never be destroyed. I wonder if the same cannot be said of evil. He
is dead; and yet what he did is living after him."
"That is probably one of the things that will oppress mankind forever.
The persistence of evil is the thought behind many ancient religions.
Indeed, one might include modern creeds as well," added Ashton-Kirk,
"for Christianity teaches that evil clings from generation to
generation, from age to age."
"I recall _him_ first as a man whom I felt to be a stranger, but whom I
was told to call father," said young Burton. "He did not live with us,
only appealing now and then and making my mother very unhappy. Even
then, small boy as I was, I hated him; and I know he detested me."
The young man was in that queerly relaxing state which causes men to
tell their private griefs to even casual acquaintances.
"Very often," he went on, "we were rather happy, but that was always
when my father was away. I remember a little white house on the
outskirts where we lived unmolested for several years. My sister was at
school; I was employed by an old wood engraver, one of the last of his
kind; my mother earned a good living and we were quite comfortable and
happy. My father had been away for so long that I had almost forgotten
him; when a thought of him did come into my mind, it was as of an old
trouble--and one that would never come again.
"But one evening when I reached home I found him there. My mother's face
was white and she was trembling. But he was smiling! I would rather,"
and young Burton raised a shaking hand, "have heard another man curse
than see him smile."
"I know the feeling," said Bat Scanlon. "I've felt something like it
myself."
"He wanted money," proceeded the young artist. "I knew my mother had a
little store somewhere, which she had put away, for the winter was
coming on. He was cunning and must have divined this--it was the kind of
thing she would do. When she refused, he smiled and insisted. And
finally--the smile still on his mouth, remember--he struck her! I had
been silent until that; but when I saw the blow fall, I became a
maddened young animal. I flew at him blindly, and he beat me like a dog.
A half hour later he went away, and with him went what money my mother
had saved."
"Bad!" said Bat Scanlon. "Very bad!"
"And now," said the young man, "he's dead. But the evil which his life
brought into the world still lives!" Oddly, his mind seemed to cling to
this thought; his eyes, looking straight ahead, were filled with
apprehension; his fingers picked nervously at the edge of a blanket.
"Evil is fear, and fear can be conquered," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly;
"if a man wills it, he can stamp it out."
"Evil is fear!" The prisoner looked at Ashton-Kirk in sudden inquiry.
"In what way?"
"In every way," replied the investigator. "No matter what its form, evil
has its base in fear. And it is one of the plain offices of man to
destroy this monster which has ridden him from the beginning. For when
the race was young, the world was filled with unnamed dread--the
darkness was peopled with unseen things. From this fear sprang
superstition. The future held the first men cowed; the past had left the
marks of trials and the memory of pain. And the fear of life has since
made more criminals than perhaps any other thing; while dread of
repeating the past has broken countless lives."
Ashton-Kirk paused for a moment, his eyes still fixed upon the young
man; then he went on:
"This evil which oppresses you so has its roots in a fear, has it not?"
Again there was a pause; the prisoner's eyes met those of the
investigator, fixedly.
"Don't allow it to crush you. You are in deadly danger; you need your
mind to save yourself."
He arose and stood before the other; one hand went out and touched the
prisoner's shoulder.
"I have brought you news. New clues have been found. Before this, the
police have worked only along lines which led to you. Now they've gone
off on another track. There is a woman in the case," and he patted the
drooping shoulder, "and they hope to fasten the crime upon her."
Young Burton came to his feet with a jerk.
"A woman!" he cried. "They are crazy! A woman!" Once more he uttered the
high pitched laugh which had affected Bat so disagreeably. "What can
they be thinking of!" He stared with excited eyes at the investigator,
then at Scanlon, then back again to Ashton-Kirk. "I will not allow it,"
he cried. "Do you hear? I'll not allow it. No woman did this thing. Tell
them I said so. I will not permit an innocent person to be blamed. I did
it! I did it--alone!"