The board of officers convened by Marshal Beresford to form the court
that was to try Captain Tremayne, was presided over by General Sir Harry
Stapleton, who was in command of the British troops quartered in Lisbon.
It included, amongst others, the adjutant-general, Sir Terence O’Moy;
Colonel Fletcher of the Engineers, who had come in haste from Torres
Vedras, having first desired to be included in the board chiefly on
account of his friendship for Tremayne; and Major Carruthers. The
judge-advocate’s task of conducting the case against the prisoner was
deputed to the quartermaster of Tremayne’s own regiment, Major Swan.
The court sat in a long, cheerless hall, once the refectory of the
Franciscans, who had been the first tenants of Monsanto. It was
stone-flagged, the windows set at a height of some ten feet from the
ground, the bare, whitewashed walls hung with very wooden portraits of
long-departed kings and princes of Portugal who had been benefactors of
the order.
The court occupied the abbot’s table, which was set on a shallow dais at
the end of the room--a table of stone with a covering of oak, over which
a green cloth had been spread; the officers--twelve in number, besides
the president--sat with their backs to the wall, immediately under the
inevitable picture of the Last Supper.
The court being sworn, Captain Tremayne was brought in by the
provost-marshal’s guard and given a stool placed immediately before and
a few paces from the table. Perfectly calm and imperturbable, he saluted
the court, and sat down, his guards remaining some paces behind him.
He had declined all offers of a friend to represent him, on the grounds
that the court could not possibly afford him a case to answer.
The president, a florid, rather pompous man, who spoke with a faint
lisp, cleared his throat and read the charge against the prisoner from
the sheet with which he had been supplied--the charge of having violated
the recent enactment against duelling made by the Commander-in-Chief
of his Majesty’s forces in the Peninsula, in so far as he had fought:
a duel with Count Jeronymo de Samoval, and of murder in so far as that
duel, conducted in an irregular manner, and without any witnesses, had
resulted in the death of the said Count Jeronymo de Samoval.
“How say you, then, Captain Tremayne?” the judge-advocate challenged
him. “Are you guilty of these charges or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
The president sat back and observed the prisoner with an eye that was
officially benign. Tremayne’s glance considered the court and met the
concerned and grave regard of his colonel, of his friend Carruthers and
of two other friends of his own regiment, the cold indifference of three
officers of the Fourteenth--then stationed in Lisbon with whom he was
unacquainted, and the utter inscrutability of O’Moy’s rather lowering
glance, which profoundly intrigued him, and, lastly, the official
hostility of Major Swan, who was on his feet setting forth the case
against him. Of the remaining members of the court he took no heed.
From the opening address it did not seem to Captain Tremayne as if this
case--which had been hurriedly prepared by Major Swan, chiefly that
same morning would amount to very much. Briefly the major announced his
intention of establishing to the satisfaction of the court how, on the
night of the 28th of May, the prisoner, in flagrant violation of an
enactment in a general order of the 26th of that same month, had
engaged in a duel with Count Jeronymo de Samoval, a peer of the realm of
Portugal.
Followed a short statement of the case from the point of view of the
prosecution, an anticipation of the evidence to be called, upon which
the major thought--rather sanguinely, opined Captain Tremayne--to
convict the accused. He concluded with an assurance that the evidence of
the prisoner’s guilt was as nearly direct as evidence could be in a case
of murder.
The first witness called was the butler, Mullins. He was introduced by
the sergeant-major stationed by the double doors at the end of the hall
from the ante-room where the witnesses commanded to be present were in
waiting.
Mullins, rather less venerable than usual, as a consequence of agitation
and affliction on behalf of Captain Tremayne, to whom he was attached,
stated nervously the facts within his knowledge. He was occupied with
the silver in his pantry, having remained up in case Sir Terence, who
was working late in his study, should require anything before going to
bed. Sir Terence called him, and--
“At what time did Sir Terence call you?” asked the major.
“It was ten minutes past twelve, sir, by the clock in my pantry.”
“You are sure that the clock was right?”
“Quite sure, sir; I had put it right that same evening.”
“Very well, then. Sir Terence called you at ten minutes past twelve.
Pray continue.”
“He gave me a letter addressed to the Commissary-general. ‘Take that,’
says he, ‘to the sergeant of the guard at once, and tell him to be
sure that it is forwarded to the Commissary-General first thing in the
morning.’ I went out at once, and on the lawn in the quadrangle I saw a
man lying on his back on the grass and another man kneeling beside him.
I ran across to them. It was a bright, moonlight night--bright as day
it was, and you could see quite clear. The gentleman that was kneeling
looks up, at me, and I sees it was Captain Tremayne, sir. ‘What’s this,
Captain dear?’ says I. ‘It’s Count Samoval, and he’s kilt,’ says he,
‘for God’s sake, go and fetch somebody.’ So I ran back to tell Sir
Terence, and Sir Terence he came out with me, and mighty startled he
was at what he found there. ‘What’s happened?’ says he, and the captain
answers him just as he had answered me: ‘It’s Count Samoval, and he’s
kilt. ‘But how did it happen?’ says Sir Terence. ‘Sure and that’s just
what I want to know,’ says the captain; ‘I found him here.’ And then Sir
Terence turns to me, and ‘Mullins,’ says he, ‘just fetch the guard,’ and
of course, I went at once.”
“Was there any one else present?” asked the prosecutor.
“Not in the quadrangle, sir. But Lady O’Moy was on the balcony of her
room all the time.”
“Well, then, you fetched the guard. What happened when you returned?”
“Colonel Grant arrived, sir, and I understood him to say that he had
been following Count Samoval...”
“Which way did Colonel Grant come?” put in the president.
“By the gate from the terrace.”
“Was it open?”
“No, sir. Sir Terence himself went to open the wicket when Colonel Grant
knocked.”
Sir Harry nodded and Major Swan resumed the examination.
“What happened next?”
“Sir Terence ordered the captain under arrest.”
“Did Captain Tremayne submit at once?”
“Well, not quite at once, sir. He naturally made some bother. ‘Good
God!’ he says, ‘ye’ll never be after thinking I kilt him? I tell you I
just found him here like this.’ ‘What were ye doing here, then?’ says
Sir Terence. ‘I was coming to see you,’ says the captain. ‘What about?’
says Sir Terence, and with that the captain got angry, said he refused
to be cross-questioned and went off to report himself under arrest as he
was bid.”
That closed the butler’s evidence, and the judge-advocate looked across
at the prisoner.
“Have you any questions for the witness?” he inquired.
“None,” replied Captain Tremayne. “He has given his evidence very
faithfully and accurately.”
Major Swan invited the court to question the witness in any manner it
considered desirable. The only one to avail himself of the invitation
was Carruthers, who, out of his friendship and concern for Tremayne--and
a conviction of Tremayne’s innocence begotten chiefly by that friendship
desired to bring out anything that might tell in his favour.
“What was Captain Tremayne’s bearing when he spoke to you and to Sir
Terence?”
“Quite as usual, sir.”
“He was quite calm, not at all perturbed?”
“Devil a bit; not until Sir Terence ordered him under arrest, and then
he was a little hot.”
“Thank you, Mullins.”
Dismissed by the court, Mullins would have departed, but that upon being
told by the sergeant-major that he was at liberty to remain if he chose
he found a seat on one of the benches ranged against the wall.
The next witness was Sir Terence, who gave his evidence quietly from his
place at the board immediately on the president’s right. He was pale,
but otherwise composed, and the first part of his evidence was no more
than a confirmation of what Mullins had said, an exact and strictly
truthful statement of the circumstances as he had witnessed them from
the moment when Mullins had summoned him.
“You were present, I believe, Sir Terence,” said Major Swan, “at an
altercation that arose on the previous day between Captain Tremayne and
the deceased?”
“Yes. It happened at lunch here at Monsanto.”
“What was the nature of it?”
“Count Samoval permitted himself to criticise adversely Lord
Wellington’s enactment against duelling, and Captain Tremayne defended
it. They became a little heated, and the fact was mentioned that Samoval
himself was a famous swordsman. Captain Tremayne made the remark that
famous swordsmen were required by Count Samoval’s country to, save it
from invasion. The remark was offensive to the deceased, and although
the subject was abandoned out of regard for the ladies present, it was
abandoned on a threat from Count Samoval to continue it later.”
“Was it so continued?”
“Of that I have no knowledge.”
Invited to cross-examine the witness, Captain Tremayne again declined,
admitting freely that all that Sir Terence had said was strictly true.
Then Carruthers, who appeared to be intent to act as the prisoner’s
friend, took up the examination of his chief.
“It is of course admitted that Captain Tremayne enjoyed free access
to Monsanto practically at all hours in his capacity as your military
secretary, Sir Terence?”
“Admitted,” said Sir Terence.
“And it is therefore possible that he might have come upon the body of
the deceased just as Mullins came upon it?”
“It is possible, certainly. The evidence to come will no doubt determine
whether it is a tenable opinion.”
“Admitting this, then, the attitude in which Captain Tremayne was
discovered would be a perfectly natural one? It would be natural that he
should investigate the identity and hurt of the man he found there?”
“Certainly.”
“But it would hardly be natural that he should linger by the body of
a man he had himself slain, thereby incurring the risk of being
discovered?”
“That is a question for the court rather than for me.”
“Thank you, Sir Terence.” And, as no one else desired to question him,
Sir Terence resumed his seat, and Lady O’Moy was called.
She came in very white and trembling, accompanied by Miss Armytage,
whose admittance was suffered by the court, since she would not be
called upon to give evidence. One of the officers of the Fourteenth
seated on the extreme right of the table made gallant haste to set a
chair for her ladyship, which she accepted gratefully.
The oath administered, she was invited gently by Major Swan to tell the
court what she knew of the case before them.
“But--but I know nothing,” she faltered in evident distress, and Sir
Terence, his elbow leaning on the table, covered his mouth with his hand
that its movements might not betray him. His eyes glowered upon her with
a ferocity that was hardly dissembled.
“If you will take the trouble to tell the court what you saw from your
balcony,” the major insisted, “the court will be grateful.”
Perceiving her agitation, and attributing it to nervousness, moved
also by that delicate loveliness of hers, and by deference to the
adjutant-generates lady, Sir Harry Stapleton intervened.
“Is Lady O’Moy’s evidence really necessary?” he asked. “Does it
contribute any fresh fact regarding the discovery of the body?”
“No, sir,” Major Swan admitted. “It is merely a corroboration of what we
have already heard from Mullins and Sir Terence.”
“Then why unnecessarily distress this lady?”
“Oh, for my own part, sir--” the prosecutor was submitting, when Sir
Terence cut in:
“I think that in the prisoner’s interest perhaps Lady O’Moy will not
mind being distressed a little.” It was at her he looked, and for
her and Tremayne alone that he intended the cutting lash of sarcasm
concealed from the rest of the court by his smooth accent. “Mullins has
said, I think, that her ladyship was on the balcony when he came into
the quadrangle. Her evidence therefore, takes us further back in point
of time than does Mullins’s.” Again the sarcastic double meaning was
only for those two. “Considering that the prisoner is being tried for
his life, I do not think we should miss anything that may, however
slightly, affect our judgment.”
“Sir Terence is right, I think, sir,” the judge-advocate supported.
“Very well, then,” said the president. “Proceed, if you please.”
“Will you be good enough to tell the court, Lady O’Moy, how you came to
be upon the balcony?”
Her pallor had deepened, and her eyes looked more than ordinarily large
and child-like as they turned this way and that to survey the members
of the court. Nervously she dabbed her lips with a handkerchief before
answering mechanically as she had been schooled:
“I heard a cry, and I ran out--”
“You were in bed at the time, of course?” quoth her husband,
interrupting.
“What on earth has that to do with it, Sir Terence?” the president
rebuked him, out of his earnest desire to cut this examination as short
as possible.
“The question, sir, does not seem to me to be without point,” replied
O’Moy. He was judicially smooth and self-contained. “It is intended
to enable us to form an opinion as to the lapse of time between her
ladyship’s hearing the cry and reaching the balcony.”
Grudgingly the president admitted the point, and the question was
repeated.
“Ye-es,” came Lady O’Moy’s tremulous, faltering answer, “I was in bed.”
“But not asleep--or were you asleep?” rapped O’Moy again, and in answer
to the president’s impatient glance again explained himself: “We should
know whether perhaps the cry might not have been repeated several times
before her ladyship heard it. That is of value.”
“It would be more regular,” ventured the judge-advocate, “if Sir Terence
would reserve his examination of the witness until she has given her
evidence.”
“Very well,” grumbled Sir Terence, and he sat back, foiled for the
moment in his deliberate intent to torture her into admissions that must
betray her if made.
“I was not asleep,” she told the court, thus answering her husband’s
last question. “I heard the cry, and ran to the balcony at once.
That--that is all.”
“But what did you see from the balcony?” asked Major Swan.
“It was night, and of course--it--it was dark,” she answered.
“Surely not dark, Lady O’Moy? There was a moon, I think--a full moon?”
“Yes; but--but--there was a good deal of shadow in the garden, and--and
I couldn’t see anything at first.”
“But you did eventually?”
“Oh, eventually! Yes, eventually.” Her fingers were twisting and
untwisting the handkerchief they held, and her distressed loveliness was
very piteous to see. Yet it seems to have occurred to none of them that
this distress and the minor contradictions into which it led her were
the result of her intent to conceal the truth, of her terror lest it
should nevertheless be wrung from her. Only O’Moy, watching her and
reading in her every word and glance and gesture the signs of her
falsehood, knew the hideous thing she strove to hide, even, it seemed,
at the cost of her lover’s life. To his lacerated soul her torture was a
balm. Gloating, he watched her, then, and watched her lover, marvelling
at the blackguard’s complete self-mastery and impassivity even now.
Major Swan was urging her gently.
“Eventually, then, what was it that you saw?”
“I saw a man lying on the ground, and another kneeling over him, and
then--almost at once--Mullins came out, and--”
“I don’t think we need take this any further, Major Swan,” the president
again interposed. “We have heard what happened after Mullins came out.”
“Unless the prisoner wishes--” began the judge-advocate.
“By no means,” said Tremayne composedly. Although outwardly impassive,
he had been watching her intently, and it was his eyes that had
perturbed her more than anything in that court. It was she who must
determine for him how to proceed; how far to defend himself. He had
hoped that by now Dick Butler might have been got away, so that it would
have been safe to tell the whole truth, although he began to doubt how
far that could avail him, how far, indeed, it would be believed in the
absence of Dick Butler. Her evidence told him that such hopes as he may
have entertained had been idle, and that he must depend for his life
simply upon the court’s inability to bring the guilt home to him. In
this he had some confidence, for, knowing himself innocent, it seemed
to him incredible that he could be proven guilty. Failing that, nothing
short of the discovery of the real slayer of Samoval could save him--and
that was a matter wrapped in the profoundest mystery. The only man who
could conceivably have fought Samoval in such a place was Sir Terence
himself. But then it was utterly inconceivable that in that case Sir
Terence, who was the very soul of honour, should not only keep silent
and allow another man to suffer, but actually sit there in judgment
upon that other; and, besides, there was no quarrel, nor ever had been,
between Sir Terence and Samoval.
“There is,” Major Swan was saying, “just one other matter upon which I
should like to question Lady O’Moy.” And thereupon he proceeded to do
so: “Your ladyship will remember that on the day before the event in
which Count Samoval met his death he was one of a small luncheon party
at your house here in Monsanto.”
“Yes,” she replied, wondering fearfully what might be coming now.
“Would your ladyship be good enough to tell the court who were the other
members of that party?”
“It--it was hardly a party, sir,” she answered, with her unconquerable
insistence upon trifles. “We were just Sir Terence and myself, Miss
Armytage, Count Samoval, Colonel Grant, Major Carruthers and Captain
Tremayne.”
“Can your ladyship recall any words that passed between the deceased and
Captain Tremayne on that occasion--words of disagreement, I mean?”
She knew that there had been something, but in her benumbed state of
mind she was incapable of remembering what it was. All that remained in
her memory was Sylvia’s warning after she and her cousin had left the
table, Sylvia’s insistence that she should call Captain Tremayne away to
avoid trouble between himself and the Count. But, search as she would,
the actual subject of disagreement eluded her. Moreover, it occurred to
her suddenly, and sowed fresh terror in her soul, that, whatever it was,
it would tell against Captain Tremayne.
“I--I am afraid I don’t remember,” she faltered at last.
“Try to think, Lady O’Moy.”
“I--I have tried. But I--I can’t.” Her voice had fallen almost to a
whisper.
“Need we insist?” put in the president compassionately. “There are
sufficient witnesses as to what passed on that occasion without further
harassing her ladyship.”
“Quite so, sir,” the major agreed in his dry voice. “It only remains for
the prisoner to question the witness if he so wishes.”
Tremayne shook his head. “It is quite unnecessary, sir,” he assured the
president, and never saw the swift, grim smile that flashed across Sir
Terence’s stern face.
Of the court Sir Terence was the only member who could have desired to
prolong the painful examination of her ladyship. But he perceived from
the president’s attitude that he could not do so without betraying the
vindictiveness actuating him; and so he remained silent for the present.
He would have gone so far as to suggest that her ladyship should be
invited to remain in court against the possibility of further evidence
being presently required from her but that he perceived there was no
necessity to do so. Her deadly anxiety concerning the prisoner must in
itself be sufficient to determine her to remain, as indeed it proved.
Accompanied and half supported by Miss Armytage, who was almost as pale
as herself, but otherwise very steady in her bearing, Lady O’Moy made
her way, with faltering steps to the benches ranged against the side
wall, and sat there to hear the remainder of the proceedings.
After the uninteresting and perfunctory evidence of the sergeant of the
guard who had been present when the prisoner was ordered under arrest,
the next witness called was Colonel Grant. His testimony was strictly in
accordance with the facts which we know him to have witnessed, but when
he was in the middle of his statement an interruption occurred.
At the extreme right of the dais on which the table stood there was a
small oaken door set in the wall and giving access to a small ante-room
that was known, rightly or wrongly, as the abbot’s chamber. That
anteroom communicated directly with what was now the guardroom, which
accounts for the new-comer being ushered in that way by the corporal at
the time.
At the opening of that door the members of the court looked round in
sharp annoyance, suspecting here some impertinent intrusion. The next
moment, however, this was changed to respectful surprise. There was a
scraping of chairs and they were all on their feet in token of respect
for the slight man in the grey undress frock who entered. It was Lord
Wellington.
Saluting the members of the court with two fingers to his cocked hat,
he immediately desired them to sit, peremptorily waving his hand, and
requesting the president not to allow his entrance to interrupt or
interfere with the course of the inquiry.
“A chair here for me, if you please, sergeant,” he called and, when it
was fetched, took his seat at the end of the table, with his back to the
door through which he had come and immediately facing the prosecutor.
He retained his hat, but placed his riding-crop on the table before
him; and the only thing he would accept was an officer’s notes of the
proceedings as far as they had gone, which that officer himself was
prompt to offer. With a repeated injunction to the court to proceed,
Lord Wellington became instantly absorbed in the study of these notes.
Colonel Grant, standing very straight and stiff in the originally red
coat which exposure to many weathers had faded to an autumnal brown,
continued and concluded his statement of what he had seen and heard on
the night of the 28th of May in the garden at Monsanto.
The judge-advocate now invited him to turn his memory back to the
luncheon-party at Sir Terence’s on the 27th, and to tell the court
of the altercation that had passed on that occasion between Captain
Tremayne and Count Samoval.
“The conversation at table,” he replied, “turned, as was perhaps quite
natural, upon the recently published general order prohibiting duelling
and making it a capital offence for officers in his Majesty’s service
in the Peninsula. Count Samoval stigmatised the order as a degrading
and arbitrary one, and spoke in defence of single combat as the only
honourable method of settling differences between gentlemen. Captain
Tremayne dissented rather sharply, and appeared to resent the term
‘degrading’ applied by the Count to the enactment. Words followed, and
then some one--Lady O’Moy, I think, and as I imagine with intent
to soothe the feelings of Count Samoval, which appeared to be
ruffled--appealed to his vanity by mentioning the fact that he was
himself a famous swordsman. To this Captain Tremayne’s observation was
a rather unfortunate one, although I must confess that I was fully in
sympathy with it at the time. He said, as nearly as I remember, that at
the moment Portugal was in urgent need of famous swords to defend her
from invasion and not to increase the disorders at home.”
Lord Wellington looked up from the notes and thoughtfully stroked his
high-bridged nose. His stern, handsome face was coldly impassive, his
fine eyes resting upon the prisoner, but his attention all to what
Colonel Grant was saying.
“It was a remark of which Samoval betrayed the bitterest resentment.
He demanded of Captain Tremayne that he should be more precise, and
Tremayne replied that, whilst he had spoken generally, Samoval was
welcome to the cap if he found it fitted him. To that he added a
suggestion that, as the conversation appeared to be tiresome to the
ladies, it would be better to change its topic. Count Samoval consented,
but with the promise, rather threateningly delivered, that it should be
continued at another time. That, sir, is all, I think.”
“Have you any questions for the witness, Captain Tremayne?” inquired the
judge-advocate.
As before, Captain Tremayne’s answer was in the negative, coupled
with the now usual admission that Colonel Grant’s statement accorded
perfectly with his own recollection of the facts.
The court, however, desired enlightenment on several subjects. Came
first of all Carruthers’s inquiries as to the bearing of the prisoner
when ordered under arrest, eliciting from Colonel Grant a variant of the
usual reply.
“It was not inconsistent with innocence,” he said.
It was an answer which appeared to startle the court, and perhaps
Carruthers would have acted best in Tremayne’s interest had he left the
question there. But having obtained so much he eagerly sought for more.
“Would you say that it was inconsistent with guilt?” he cried.
Colonel Grant smiled slowly, and slowly shook his head. “I fear I could
not go so far, as that,” he answered, thereby plunging poor Carruthers
into despair.
And now Colonel Fletcher voiced a question agitating the minds of
several members of the count.
“Colonel Grant,” he said, “you have told us that on the night in
question you had Count Samoval under observation, and that upon word
being brought to you of his movements by one of your agents you yourself
followed him to Monsanto. Would you be good enough to tell the court why
you were watching the deceased’s movements at the time?”
Colonel Grant glanced at Lord Wellington. He smiled a little
reflectively and shook his head.
“I am afraid that the public interest will not allow me to answer your
question. Since, however, Lord Wellington himself is present, I
would suggest that you ask his lordship whether I am to give you the
information you require.”
“Certainly not,” said his lordship crisply, without awaiting further
question. “Indeed, one of my reasons for being present is to ensure that
nothing on that score shall transpire.”
There followed a moment’s silence. Then the president ventured a
question. “May we ask, sir, at least whether Colonel Grant’s observation
of Count Samoval resulted from any knowledge of, or expectation of, this
duel that was impending?”
“Certainly you may ask that,” Lord Wellington, consented.
“It did not, sir,” said Colonel Grant in answer to the question.
“What grounds had you, Colonel Grant, for assuming that Count Samoval
was going to Monsanto?” the president asked.
“Chiefly the direction taken.”
“And nothing else?”
“I think we are upon forbidden ground again,” said Colonel Grant, and
again he looked at Lord Wellington for direction.
“I do not see the point of the question,” said Lord Wellington, replying
to that glance. “Colonel Grant has quite plainly informed the court that
his observation of Count Samoval had no slightest connection with this
duel, nor was inspired by any knowledge or suspicion on his part that
any such duel was to be fought. With that I think the court should be
content. It has been necessary for Colonel Grant to explain to the court
his own presence at Monsanto at midnight on the 28th. It would have been
better, perhaps, had he simply stated that it was fortuitous, although
I can understand that the court might have hesitated to accept such
a statement. That, however, is really all that concerns the matter.
Colonel Grant happened to be there. That is all that the court need
remember. Let me add the assurance that it would not in the least
assist the court to know more, so far as the case under consideration is
concerned.”
In view of that the president notified that he had nothing further to
ask the witness, and Colonel Grant saluted and withdrew to a seat near
Lady O’Moy.
There followed the evidence of Major Carruthers with regard to the
dispute between Count Samoval and Captain Tremayne, which substantially
bore out what Sir Terence and Colonel Grant had already said,
notwithstanding that it manifested a strong bias in favour of the
prisoner.
“The conversation which Samoval threatened to resume does not appear to
have been resumed,” he added in conclusion.
“How can you say that?” Major Swan asked him.
“I may state my opinion, sir,” flashed Carruthers, his chubby face
reddening.
“Indeed, sir, you may not,” the president assured him. “You are upon
oath to give evidence of facts directly within your own personal
knowledge.”
“It is directly within my own personal knowledge that Captain Tremayne
was called away from the table by Lady O’Moy, and that he did not have
another opportunity of speaking with Count Samoval that day. I saw the
Count leave shortly after, and at the time Captain Tremayne was still
with her ladyship--as her ladyship can testify if necessary. He spent
the remainder of the afternoon with me at work, and we went home
together in the evening. We share the same lodging in Alcantara.”
“There was still all of the next day,” said Sir Harry. “Do you say that
the prisoner was never out of your sight on that day too?”
“I do not; but I can’t believe--”
“I am afraid you are going to state opinions again,” Major Swan
interposed.
“Yet it is evidence of a kind,” insisted Carruthers, with the tenacity
of a bull-dog. He looked as if he would make it a personal matter
between himself and Major Swan if he were not allowed to proceed. “I
can’t believe that Captain Tremayne would have embroiled himself
further with Count Samoval. Captain Tremayne has too high a regard for
discipline and for orders, and he is the least excitable man I have ever
known. Nor do I believe that he would have consented to meet Samoval
without my knowledge.”
“Not perhaps unless Captain Tremayne desired to keep the matter secret,
in view of the general order, which is precisely what it is contended
that he did.”
“Falsely contended, then,” snapped Major Carruthers, to be instantly
rebuked by the president.
He sat down in a huff, and the judge-advocate called Private Bates, who
had been on sentry duty on the night of the 28th, to corroborate the
evidence of the sergeant of the guard as to the hour at which the
prisoner had driven up to Monsanto in his curricle.
Private Bates having been heard, Major Swan announced that he did not
propose to call any further witnesses, and resumed his seat. Thereupon,
to the president’s invitation, Captain Tremayne replied that he had no
witnesses to call at all.
“In that case, Major Swan,” said Sir Harry, “the court will be glad to
hear you further.”
And Major Swan came to his feet again to address the court for the
prosecution.