since his fear of the law was as rock-ribbed as his respect for it. He
was not unfamiliar with courts, though never before had he appeared in
the character of a witness; and he had told himself many times that day
that the business in which he had allowed Mr. Gilmore to involve him
carried him far behind his depths. Now his small blue eyes slid round in
their sockets somewhat fearfully until they rested on Mr. Gilmore, who
had just taken up his position at Marshall Langham's elbow. The gambler
frowned and the handy-man instantly shifted his gaze. But the
prosecuting attorney's first questions served to give Joe a measure of
ease; this was transitory, however, as he seemed to stand alone in the
presence of some imminent personal danger when Moxlow asked:
"Where were you on the night of the twenty-seventh of November at six
o'clock?"
Joe stole a haunted glance in the direction of Gilmore. Moxlow repeated
his question.
"Boss, I was in White's woodshed," answered Montgomery.
"Tell the jury what you saw," said Moxlow.
"Well, I seen a good deal," evaded the handy-man, shaking his great
head.
"Go on!" urged Moxlow impatiently.
"It was this way," said Joe. "I was lookin' out into the alley through a
crack in the small door where they put in the coal; right across the
alley is the back of McBride's store and the sheds about his yard--"
the handy-man paused and mopped his face with his ragged cap.
At the opposite end of the room Gilmore placed a hand on Langham's arm.
The lawyer had uttered a smothered exclamation and had made a movement
as if about to quit his seat. The gambler pushed him back.
"Sit tight, Marsh!" he muttered between his teeth.
Mr. Montgomery, taking stock of his courage, prepared to adventure
further with his testimony.
"All at once as I stood by that door lookin' out into the alley, I heard
a kind of noise in old man McBride's yard. It sounded like something
heavy was bein' scraped across the frozen ground, say a box or barrel.
Then I seen a man's derby hat come over the edge of the shed, and next
the man who was under that hat drawed himself up; he come up slow and
cautious until he was where he could throw himself over on to the roof.
He done that, squatted low, and slid down the roof toward the alley.
There was some snow and he slid easy. He was lookin' about all the time
like he wasn't anxious to be seen. Well, boss, he never seen me, and he
never seen no one else, so he dropped off, kind of givin' himself a
shove out from the eaves, and fetched up against White's woodshed. He
was pantin' like he'd run a mile, and I heard him say in a whisper, 'Oh,
my God!'--just like that,--'Oh, my God!'" The handy-man paused with this
grotesque mimicry of terror.
"And then?" prompted Moxlow, in the breathless silence.
"And then he took off up the alley as if all hell was whoopin' after
him!"
Again Montgomery's ragged cap served him in lieu of a handkerchief, and
as he swabbed his blotched and purple face he shot a swift furtive
glance in Gilmore's direction. So far he had told only the truth, but he
was living in terror of Moxlow's next question.
"Can you describe the man who crossed the roof,--for instance, how was
he dressed?" said Moxlow, with slow deliberation.
"He had on a derby hat and a dark overcoat," answered Montgomery after a
moment's pause.
He was speaking for Gilmore now, and his grimy lists closed convulsively
about the arms of his chair.
"Did you see his face?" asked Moxlow.
"Yes--" the monosyllable was spoken unwillingly, but with a kind of
dogged resolution.
"Was it a face you knew?"
Montgomery looked at Gilmore, whose fierce insistent glance was bent
compellingly on him. The recollection of the gambler's threats and
promises flashed through his mind.
"Was it a face you knew?" repeated Moxlow.
The handy-man gave him a sudden glare.
"Yes," he said in a throaty whisper.
"How could you tell in the dark?"
[Illustration: "Then I seen a man's derby hat come over the edge of the
shed."]
"It wasn't so terrible dark, with the snow on the ground. And I was
so close to him I could have put an apple in his pocket," Joe explained.
"Who was the man?" asked Moxlow.
"I thought he looked like John North," said Montgomery.
There was the silence of death in the room.
"You thought it was John North?" began Moxlow.
"Yes."
"When he spoke, you thought you recognized North's voice?"
"Yes."
"Were you sure?"
"I was pretty sure, boss--"
"Only pretty sure?"
"I thought it was Mr. North,--it looked like Mr. North, and I thought it
was him,--I thought so then and I think so now," said Montgomery
desperately.
"Are you willing to swear positively that it was John North?" demanded
Moxlow.
"No--" said the handy-man, "No,--I only say I thought it was John North.
He looked like John North, and I thought it was John North,--I'd have
said it was John North, but it all happened in a minute. I wasn't
thinkin' I'd ever have to say who it was I seen on the shed!"
"But your first distinct impression was that it was John North?"
"Yes."
"You have known John North for years?"
"All his life."
"Had you seen him recently?"
"I seen him Thanksgiving day along about four o'clock crossing the
Square."
"How was he dressed, did you notice?"
"He was dressed like the man in the alley,--he had on a black derby hat
and a dark brown overcoat."
"That's all," said Moxlow quietly.
The coroner and the jury drew aside and began a whispered consultation.
In the vitiated atmosphere of that overcrowded room, heavy as it was
with the stifling heat and palpably dense with the escaping smoke from
the cracked wood-stove, men coughed nervously with every breath they
drew, but their sense of physical discomfort was unheeded in their tense
interest in the developments of the last few moments. The jury's
deliberation was brief and then the coroner announced its verdict.
North heard the doctor's halting words without at once grasping their
meaning. A long moment of silence followed, and then a man coughed, and
then another, and another; this seemed to break the spell, for suddenly
the room buzzed with eager whisperings.
North's first definite emotion was one of intense astonishment. Were
they mad? But the faces turned toward him expressed nothing beyond
curiosity. His glance shifted to the official group by the table. These
good-natured commonplace men who, whether they liked him or not, had
invariably had a pleasant word for him, instantly took on an air of grim
aloofness. Conklin, the fat jolly sheriff; the coroner; Moxlow, the
prosecuting attorney in his baggy trousers and seam-shining coat,--why,
he had known these men all his life, he had met them daily,--what did
they mean by suspecting him! The mere suspicion was a monstrous wrong!
His face reddened; he glanced about him haughtily.
Now at a sign from the coroner, Conklin placed his fat hands on the arms
of his chair and slowly drew himself out of its depths, then he crossed
to North. The young fellow rose, and turned a pale face toward him.
"John," said the sheriff gently, "I have an unpleasant duty to perform."
In spite of himself the pallor deepened on North's face.
"I understand," he said in a voice that was low and none too steady.
During this scene Moxlow's glance had been centered on North in a fixed
stare of impersonal curiosity, now he turned with quick nervous decision
and snatching up his shabby hat from the table, left the room.
Langham had preceded him by a few moments, escaping unobserved when
there were eyes only for North.
"I am ready, Conklin."
And a moment later North and the sheriff passed out into the twilight.
Neither spoke until they came to the court-house Square.
"We'll go in this way, John!" said the sheriff in a tone that was meant
to be encouraging, but failed.
They ascended the court-house steps, and went down the long corridor to
the rear of the building. Here they passed out through wide doors and
into a narrow yard that separated the court-house from the jail.
Crossing this sandy strip they entered the sheriff's office. Conklin
paused; North gazed at him inquiringly.
"It's too bad, John," said the sheriff.
Then without further words he led North to a door opposite that by which
they had entered. It opened on a long brick-paved passageway, at the end
of which was a flight of narrow stairs. Ascending these North found
himself in another long hall. Conklin paused before the first of three
doors on the right and pushed it open.
"I guess this will do, John!" he said.
North stepped quickly in and glanced about him. The room held an iron
bedstead, a wooden chair and, by the window which overlooked the jail
yard and an alley beyond, a wash-stand with a tin basin and pitcher.
"Say, ain't you going to see a lawyer?" asked the sheriff. "He may be
able to get you out of this, you can't tell--"
"Can you send a message to young Watt Harbison for me?" interrupted
North.
"Certainly, but you don't call him much of a lawyer, do you? I tell you,
John, you want a _good_ lawyer; what's the matter with Marsh Langham?"
"Watt will do for the present. He can tell me the one or two things I
need to know now," rejoined North indifferently.
"All right, I'll send for him then."
The sheriff quitted the room, closing and locking the door after him.
North heard his footsteps die out in the long passage. At last he was
alone! He threw himself down on the cot for manhood seemed to forsake
him.
"My God,--Elizabeth--" he groaned and buried his face in his hands.
The law had lifted a sinister finger and leveled it at him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LIGHT IN DARKNESS
The expression on General Herbert's face was one of mingled doubt and
impatience.
"You must be mistaken, Thompson!" he was saying to his foreman, who had,
with the coming of night, returned from an errand in town.
"General, there's no mistake; every one was talking about it! Looks like
the police had something to go on, too--"
He hesitated, suddenly remembering that John North had been a frequent
guest at Idle Hour.
"I had heard that Mr. North was wanted as a witness," observed the
general.
"No, they say Moxlow had his eye on him from the start!" rejoined the
foreman with repressed enthusiasm for Moxlow.
The general sensed the enthusiasm and was affected unpleasantly by it.
"It would be a great pity if Mr. Moxlow should be so unfortunate as to
make a fool of himself!" he commented with unusual acidity. "What else
did you hear?"
"Not much, General, only just what I've told you--that they've arrested
North, and that young Watt Harbison's been trying to get him out on
bail, but they've refused to accept bond in his case. Don't that look
like they thought the evidence was pretty strong against him--"
"Well, they, might have arrested you or me," said the general. "That
signifies nothing."
He moved off in the direction of the house, and Thompson, after a
backward glance at his retreating figure, entered the barn. Out of sight
of his foreman, the general's sturdy pace lagged. That young man had
been at Idle Hour entirely too often; he had thought so all along, and
now he was very sure of it!
"This comes of being too kind," he muttered.
Then he paused suddenly--but no, that was absurd--utterly absurd;
Elizabeth would have told him! He was certain of this, for had she not
told him all her secrets? But suppose--suppose--and again he put the
idea from him.
He found Elizabeth in the small, daintily furnished sitting-room which
Mrs. Herbert had called her "boudoir", and seated himself, none too
gently, in a fragile gilt chair which his bulk of bone and muscle
threatened to wreck. Elizabeth glanced up from _Their Wedding Journey_,
which she was reading for the second time.
"What is it, father?" she asked, for his feeling of doubt and annoyance
was plainly shown in his expressive face.
"Thompson has just come out from town--he says that John North has been
arrested for the McBride murder--"
The book slipped from Elizabeth's hand and fell to the floor; the smile
with which she had welcomed her father faded from her lips; she gazed at
him with pale face and wide eyes. The general instantly regretted that
he had spoken with such cruel abruptness.
"You don't think it is true?" she asked in a whisper.
"Thompson seemed to know what he was talking about."
"It's monstrous!" she cried.
"If North is innocent--" began the general.
"Father!" She regarded him with a look of horror and astonishment. "You
don't like him! It's that, isn't it?" she added after a moment's
silence.
"I don't like any one who gets into a scrape such as this!" replied the
general with miserable and unnecessary heat.
"But it wasn't _his_ fault--he couldn't help it!"
"I don't suppose he could," replied her father grimly.
She rose and came close to his side.
"Father!" she said in a tone of entreaty, placing a hand on his arm.
"What is it, dear?"
There was both tenderness and concern in his keen gray eyes as he
glanced up into her troubled face.
"I want you to go to him--to Mr. North, I mean. I want you to tell him
how sorry you are; I want him to know--I--" she paused uncertainly.
Perhaps for the first time in her life she was not quite sure of her
father's sympathy. She dreaded his man's judgment in this crisis.
"Now seriously, Elizabeth, don't you think I'd better keep away from
him? I can do nothing--"
"Oh, how cowardly that would be!" she cried. "How cowardly!"
The old general winced at this. He was far from being a coward, but
appearances had their value in his eyes; and even, in its least serious
aspect, young North's predicament was not pleasant to contemplate.
"But there is nothing I can do, Elizabeth; why should I become
involved?" he urged.
"Then you must go to him from me!" she cried.
"Child--child; what are you saying!" cried the general.
"Either you must go to him, or I shall go!" she said with fine firmness.
Her father groaned.
"Be frank with me, Elizabeth. Has North ever told you that he cared for
you?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Before he went away--I mean that last night he was here."
"I feared as much!" he muttered. "And you, dear?" he continued gently.
"He said we might have to wait a long time--or I should have told you!
He went away because he was too poor--"
There was a pause.
"Do you care for him, Elizabeth?" her father asked at length. "Do you
wish me to understand that you are committed--are--"
"Yes," she answered quite simply.
"You are sure it is not just pity--you are sure, Elizabeth? For you
know, right or wrong, he will probably come out of this with his
reputation smirched."
"But he is _innocent_!"
"That is not quite the point!" urged the general. "We must see things as
they are. You must understand what it may mean to you in the future, to
have given your love to a man who has fallen under such suspicion. There
will always be those who will remember this against him."
"But _I_ shall know!" she said proudly.
"And that will be enough--you will ask no more than that, Elizabeth?"
"If my faith in him has never been shaken, could I ask more?"
He looked at her wistfully. Her courage he comprehended. It was fine and
true, like her sweet unspoiled youth; in its presence he felt a sudden
sense of age and loneliness. He asked himself, had he lived beyond his
own period of generous enthusiasm?
"It would be a poor kind of friendship, a poorer kind of love, if we did
not let him know at once that this has not changed our--our, regard for
him!" she said softly.
"It is not your ready sympathy; you are quite certain it is not that,
Elizabeth?"
"I am sure, father--sure of myself as I am of him! You say he has been
arrested, does that mean--" and she hesitated.
"It means, my dear, that he is in jail," answered the general as he came
slowly to his feet.
She gave a little cry, and running to him hid her face against his arm.
"In jail!" she moaned, and her imagination and her ignorance clothed the
thought with indescribable horrors.
"Understand, dear, he isn't even indicted yet and he may not be! It's
bad enough, of course, but it might be a great deal worse. Now what am I
to tell him for you?"
"Wait," she said, slipping from his side. "I will write him--"
"Write your letter then," said her father. "I'll order the horses at
once," he added, as he quitted the room.
Ten minutes later when he drove up from the stables, Elizabeth met him
at the door.
"After you have seen him, father, come home at once, won't you?" she
said as she handed him her letter.
"Yes, I am only going for this," he replied.
It was plain that his errand had not grown less distasteful to him.
Perhaps Elizabeth was aware of this, for she reached up and passed an
arm about his neck.
"I don't believe any girl ever had such a father!" she whispered softly.
"I suppose I should not be susceptible to such manifest flattery," said
the general, kissing her, "but I find I am! There, you keep up your
courage! This old father of yours is a person of such excellent sense
that he is going to aid and abet you in this most outrageous folly; I
expect, even, that in time, my interest in this very foolish young man
will be only second to your own, my dear!"
As he drove away he turned in his seat to glance back at the graceful
girlish figure standing in the shelter of Idle Hour's stone arched
vestibule, and as he did so there was a flutter of something white,
which assured him that her keen eyes were following him and would follow
him until the distance and the closing darkness intervened, and hid him
from her sight.
"I hope it will come out all right!" he told himself and sighed.
If it did _not_ come out all right, where was his peace of mind; where
was the calm, where the long reposeful days he had so valued? But this
thought he put from him as unworthy. After all Elizabeth's happiness
was something he desired infinitely more than he desired his own. But
why could it not have been some one else? Why was it North; what unkind
fate had been busy there?
"She sees more in him than I could ever see!" he said aloud, as he
touched his horse with the whip.
Twenty minutes later he drove up before the court-house, hitched and
blanketed his horse, and passing around the building, now dark and
deserted, reached the entrance to the jail. In the office he found
Conklin at his desk. The sheriff was rather laboriously engaged in
making the entry in his ledger of North's committal to his charge, a
formality which, out of consideration for his prisoner's feelings, he
had dispensed with at the time of the arrest.
"I wish to see Mr. North. I suppose I may?" his visitor said, after he
had shaken hands with Conklin.
"Certainly, General! Want to go up, or shall I bring him down here to
you?"
"I'd prefer that--I'd much prefer that!" answered the general hastily.
He felt that it would be something to tell Elizabeth that the interview
had taken place in the sheriff's office.
"All right, just as you say; have a chair." And Conklin left the room.
The general glanced about him dubiously. Had it not been for his deep
love for Elizabeth he could have wished himself anywhere else and
charged with any other mission. He dropped heavily into a chair. North's
arrest, and the results of that arrest as he now saw them in that
cheerless atmosphere, loomed large before his mind's eye. He reflected
that a trial for murder was a horrible and soul-racking experience. He
devoutly and prayerfully hoped that it would not come to this in North's
case.
His meditation was broken in on by the sound of echoing steps in the
brick-paved passageway, and then North and Conklin entered the room. On
their entrance the general quitted his chair and advanced to meet the
young fellow, whose hand he took in silence. The sheriff glanced from
one to the other; and understanding that there might be something
intimate and personal in their relation, he said:
"I'll just step back into the building, General; when you and Mr. North
have finished your talk, you can call me."
"Thank you!" said General Herbert, and Conklin withdrew, leaving the two
alone.
There was an awkward pause as they faced each other. The older man was
the first to speak.
"I regret this!" he said at length.
"Not more than I do!" rejoined North, with a fleeting sense of humor.
He wondered what it was that had brought Elizabeth's father there.
"What's the matter with Moxlow, anyhow?" the general demanded.
He glanced sharply into North's face. He saw that the young fellow was
rather pale, but otherwise his appearance was unchanged.
"All the evidence seems to point my way," said North, and added a trifle
nervously: "I don't understand it--it isn't clear to me by any means! It
came so suddenly, and I was totally unprepared to meet the situation. I
had talked to Moxlow in the morning, but he had let drop nothing that
led me to suppose I was under suspicion. Of course I am not afraid. I
know that it will come out all right in the end--"
"Do you want anything, North? Is there anything I can do for you?" asked
General Herbert almost roughly.
"Thank you, but apparently there is nothing that any one can do just
now," said North quietly.
The color was creeping back into his face.
"Well, we can't sit idle! Look here, you tried for bail, I understand?"
"Yes, but it has been refused."
"Do you know when the grand jury sits?"
"Next week. Of course my hope is that it won't go beyond that; I don't
see how it can!"
"Why didn't you send for me at once?" asked the older man with
increasing bruskness. He took a turn about the room. "What does it all
mean? What do you know about McBride's death?" he continued, halting
suddenly.
"Absolutely nothing," said North.
And for an instant the two men looked straight into each other's eyes.
"You are sure you don't need anything--money, for instance?" the general
asked, shifting his glance.
"I am quite sure, but I am very grateful to you all the same--"
"Of course the evidence against you is purely circumstantial?"
"I believe so--yes," answered North. "But there are points I don't
understand."
"I am coming in to-morrow morning to see you, and talk the whole thing
over with you, North."
"I shall be very glad to talk matters over with you, General," said
North.
"I wish I could do something for you to-night!" the general said with
real feeling, for he realized the long evening, and the longer night
that were before the young fellow.
There was a pause. The general could not bring himself to speak of
Elizabeth, and North lacked the courage to ask concerning her.
"I heard through one of my men of your arrest. He brought word of it to
the farm," the farmer said at length.
"Miss Herbert knows--of course you told her--"
"Yes, North; yes, she knows!" her father replied. "She knows and she
urged me to come!"
He saw North's face light up with a sudden look of joy.
"She urged you to come?" repeated North.
"Yes--I think she would have come herself if I had not been willing."
"I am glad she did not!" said North quickly.
"Of course! I told her it would only distress you."
"It would only distress her--which is all that is worth considering,"
rejoined North.
"That's so!" said the general, approaching the young man and resting a
brown and muscular hand on his shoulder.
"She has told you?" asked North.
The older man nodded.
"Yes, she's told me," he said briefly.
"I can't ask if it was pleasant news at this time," said North. "What do
you wish me to do?" he continued. "She must forget what was said that
night, and I, too, will endeavor to forget--tell her that." He passed a
shaking hand before his face.
"I've a note here for you, North--" General Herbert was fumbling in his
pocket--"from Elizabeth. Don't you be too quick to decide!"
"With your permission," said North as he took the letter.
He tore it open, and Elizabeth's father, watching him, saw the
expression of his face change utterly, as the lines of tense repression
faded from it. It was clear that for the moment all else was lost in his
feeling of great and compelling happiness. Twice he read the letter
before he could bring himself to replace it in its envelope. As he did
so, he caught the general's eyes fixed on him. For a moment he
hesitated, then he said with the frankness that was habitual to him:
"I think you should know just what that letter means to me. It is brave
and steadfast--just as she is; no, you were right, I can't decide--I
won't!"
"I wouldn't," said the general. There was a pause and then he added,
"After all, it is not given to every woman to show just how deep her
faith is in the man she loves. It would be too bad if you could not know
that!"
"The situation may become intolerable, General Herbert! Suppose I am
held for the murder--suppose a long trial follows; think what she will
suffer, the uncertainty, the awful doubt of the outcome, although she
knows,--she must know I am innocent."
"Of course, of course!" cried the general hastily, for these were points
he did not wish to discuss.