The Trial.
Mr. Kent was a very able magistrate. He had sat on the bench for many
years and was considered a man of great legal attainments and skill. He
very seldom erred in his judgment, and being gifted with a natural
shrewdness, he saw the difference at once between a guilty and an
innocent man.
He rarely erred; long practice had made him an adept in reading faces.
But on this morning, the fourteenth of May, he was puzzled. Many cases
had been brought before him. Drunken men dismissed with a fine and a
reprimand, thieves sentenced to weeks or months of imprisonment, wives
with pale faces and bruised arms had given reluctant evidence against
husbands who had promised to love and cherish them until death.
It was a bright May morning, and the sun did his best to pour through
the dusky windows of the police court; a faint beam fell on the stolid
faces of the policemen and ushers of the court, the witnesses and the
lookers-on; a faint beam that yet, perhaps, brought many messages of
bright promise to those present.
A little boy had been sent on an errand with sixpence and had stolen the
money; with many sobs and tears he confessed that he had spent it in
cakes. Mr. Kent looked at the tear-stained face; the untidy brown head
scarcely reached to the table, and the good magistrate thought, with
something like pain at his heart, of a fair-haired boy at home. So he
spoke kindly to the poor, trembling prisoner, and while he strongly
reprimanded, still encouraged him to better ways. The boy was removed,
and then Mr. Kent was puzzled by the prisoner who took his place.
A tall, handsome young man, apparently not more than twenty, with a
clear-cut aristocratic face, and luminous dark gray eyes. A face that no
one could look into without admiration--that irresistibly attracted man,
woman and child. He was a gentleman--there could be no mistake about it.
That clear-cut Norman face had descended to him from a long line of
ancestors; the well-built, manly figure, with its peculiar easy grace
and dignity told of ancient lineage and noble birth.
His hands were white, slender and strong, with almond-shaped
nails--hands that had never been soiled with labor, and surely never
stained with crime.
He carried his handsome head high; it was proudly set on a firm,
graceful neck, and covered with clusters of dark hair. He would have
looked in his place near the throne of a queen, or, on the back of a war
horse, leading a forlorn hope; but no one could understand his being
prisoner in a dock. Mr. Kent looked at him, wondering with what he was
charged. Surely, with that noble face and gentlemanly bearing, he had
never been guilty of a common assault. Magistrate as he was, Mr. Kent
listened to the recital of the charge, with some curiosity.
Jules St. Croix, Count of the French Empire, charged the prisoner at the
bar with having broken into his rooms for the purpose of robbery. He had
been discovered in the count's drawing-room, where he had forced open an
ivory casket and stolen the contents, which were an ancient and valuable
gold watch and a gold ring, also of considerable value. At the moment
that the count, followed by his servant, entered the room, the prisoner
had these articles in his hand. He dropped them immediately, but the
count, hastily calling for the police, gave him in charge.
There was a smell of burned paper in the room and it was nearly eleven
at night.
The magistrate asked if the prisoner had made any resistance. Policeman
C. No. 14, answered, "No, he gave in at once; and came straight away."
Mr. Kent asked again: "Was there anything in the casket beside the
jewelry?"
It seemed to be a very insignificant question, but the prisoner and the
count looked steadfastly at each other and both answered: "No."
There were two witnesses. Robert Bolton, the count's servant, and C. No.
14, the policeman. The evidence of the servant was taken first. He said
that the prisoner had called several times to see his master, always
coming when the count was from home; that he had, before, made one or
two efforts to get into the count's room, but that he, the servant, had
always refused him permission.
On this evening the count went out early, and Robert Bolton having some
errands to do, followed his master. About ten o'clock the prisoner
called at the house, No. 24 Cambridge Terrace, and asked to speak to
Count St. Croix. The landlady of the house told him the count was from
home; then the prisoner said:
"I know. I will go to his room and wait there for him."
The landlady, believing him to be a perfect gentleman, allowed him to
go up to the count's room. Robert Bolton returned home just as his
master was at the door; when the landlady told him a gentleman was
waiting there, it flashed instantly into his mind there was something
wrong. He hastily told his suspicions to the count and they ran upstairs
together. Opening the door quickly, they found the prisoner with the
casket in one hand and the watch in the other. There was an odor of
burnt paper in the room.
The count immediately opened the window and called for the police. C.
No. 14 was just passing, and in marvelously quick time he ran upstairs.
"This man has gotten into my room on false pretences," said the count.
"He is a stranger to me. I give him in charge for breaking open my
casket and stealing a watch and ring from it."
"What did the prisoner say."
"He pointed to the watch and ring, and said: 'There they are;' then he
looked at the count with a smile."
"Did he seem frightened?"
"Not the least in the world," was the answer; "just the contrary."
"What happened next?"
"The prisoner told him he must consider himself a prisoner on the charge
of stealing a watch. He laughed aloud and walked away."
The landlady of the house, the policeman and the count all gave the same
evidence. It seemed very clear against him.
"What have you to say?" asked, the magistrate of the prisoner.
He raised his luminous gray eyes.
"Not one word," he replied, in a clear, refined voice.
"What is your name? I see you have refused to give any."
For the first time the prisoner's face flushed crimson, and the count
smiled malignantly.
"My name is--John Smith," he replied, and again the count smiled.
"Your address?"
He gave some number and street which every one knew to be false.
"Your occupation?" asked the magistrate again.
"I have none--that is, no settled occupation," he replied.
"Have you no lawyer to defend you?" asked Mr. Kent.
"I require none," said the prisoner; "I have no defense. All that Count
Jules St. Croix says is true; he found me in his room with the open
casket in my hand."
"You had gone there for the purpose of robbery?"
"I have not a word to answer."
"You can surely give some account of your presence there?"
The prisoner smiled again.
"I refuse to do so," he replied, with great firmness, yet courtesy of
manner.
"Then I must commit you for trial," said the magistrate. "Have you no
witnesses to bring forward in your own defense now, as to character--no
referees?" he continued.
"None," was the quiet reply.
"I am sorry," said Mr. Kent; "to see one who is so evidently a
gentleman and a man of education in such a position."
But there was no shame in the handsome face; none in the proud eyes. He
raised his head with haughty grace and made no reply.
"I can take bail," said Mr. Kent, but the prisoner said, "I have none to
offer."
Then was the good magistrate puzzled. He had no resource but to commit
the young man to take his trial at the Sessions. Yet looking at the
clear, aristocratic face, and the firm, proud lips, he could have sworn
that the prisoner was perfectly innocent of the theft.
He read pride, honesty, loyalty and chivalry in the face, yet there was
nothing left for him to do but to commit him.
He looked very grave as he did so, and then John Smith was taken away by
the policeman. As he left the dock he turned to his accuser, the Count
St. Croix, who stood there with a dark frown on his face; he looked at
him for one moment, then waved his hand, as one who had won a great
victory.
"I have conquered," he said, and the count's sallow face grew pale with
rage,
"Curse you," he said, between his teeth, "I should like to stand with my
foot on your neck."