My deed’s upon my head! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
_Shylock._
The eyes of Dunscomb were fastened intently on the female stranger, as
she advanced to the place occupied by the witnesses. Her features
denoted agitation, certainly; but he saw no traces of guilt. It seemed
so improbable, moreover, that a young woman of her years and appearance
should be guilty of so dark an offence, and that for money, too, that
all the chances were in favour of her innocence. Still, there were
suspicious circumstances, out of all question, connected with her
situation; and he was too much experienced in the strange and
unaccountable ways of crime, not to be slow to form his conclusions.
The face of Mary Monson was now fully exposed; it being customary to
cause female witnesses to remove their hats, in order that the jurors
may observe their countenances. And what a countenance it was! Feminine,
open, with scarce a trace of the ordinary passions about it, and
illuminated from within, as we have already intimated. The girl might
have been twenty, though she afterwards stated her age to be a little
more than twenty-one—perhaps the most interesting period of a female’s
existence. The features were not particularly regular, and an artist
might have discovered various drawbacks on her beauty, if not positive
defects; but no earthly being could have quarrelled with the expression.
That was a mixture of intelligence, softness, spirit, and feminine
innocence, that did not fail to produce an impression on a crowd which
had almost settled down into a firm conviction of her guilt. Some even
doubted, and most of those present thought it very strange.
The reporters began to write, casting their eyes eagerly towards this
witness; and John Dunscomb, who sat near them, soon discovered that
there were material discrepancies in their descriptions. These, however,
were amicably settled by comparing notes; and when the accounts of that
day’s examination appeared in the journals of the time, they were
sufficiently consistent with each other; much more so, indeed, than with
the truth in its severer aspects. There was no wish to mislead,
probably; but the whole system has the capital defect of making a trade
of news. The history of passing events comes to us sufficiently clouded
and obscured by the most vulgar and least praiseworthy of all our lesser
infirmities, even when left to take what may be termed its natural
course; but, as soon as the money-getting principle is applied to it,
facts become articles for the market, and go up and down, much as do
other commodities, in the regular prices-current.
Mary Monson trembled a little when sworn; but she had evidently braced
her nerves for the trial. Women are very capable of self-command, even
in situations as foreign to their habits as this, if they have time to
compose themselves, and to come forward under the influence of
resolutions deliberately formed. Such was probably the state of mind of
this solitary and seemingly unfriended young woman; for, though pale as
death, she was apparently composed. We say unfriended—Mrs. Jones,
herself, having given all her friends to understand that she had invited
the stranger to her house under a sense of general duty, and not on
account of any private or particular interest she felt in her affairs.
She was as much a stranger to her, as to every one else in the village.
“Will you be so good as to tell us your name, place of ordinary
residence, and usual occupation?” asked the coroner, in a dry, cold
manner, though not until he had offered the witness a seat, in
compliment to her sex.
If the face of Mary Monson was pale the instant before, it now flushed
to scarlet. The tint that appears in the August evening sky, when
heat-lightning illuminates the horizon, is scarce more bright than that
which chased the previous pallid hue from her cheeks. Dunscomb
understood her dilemma, and interposed. She was equally unwilling to
tell her real name, and to give a false one, under the solemn
responsibility of an oath. There is, probably, less of deliberate,
calculated false-swearing, than of any other offence against justice;
few having the nerve, or the moral obtuseness, that is necessary to
perjury. We do not mean by this, that all which legal witnesses say is
true, or the half of it; for ignorance, dull imaginations working out
solutions of half-comprehended propositions, and the strong propensity
we all feel to see things as we have expected to find them, in a measure
disqualifies fully half of those on whom the law has devolved a most
important duty, to discharge it with due intelligence and impartiality.
“As a member of the bar, I interfere in behalf of the witness,” said
Dunscomb, rising. “She is evidently unacquainted with her true position
here, and consequently with her rights. Jack, get a glass of water for
the young lady;” and never did Jack obey a request of his uncle with
greater alacrity. “A witness cannot, with propriety, be treated as a
criminal, or one suspected, without being apprised that the law does not
require of those thus circumstanced, answers affecting themselves.”
Dunscomb had listened more to his feelings than to his legal knowledge,
in offering this objection, inasmuch as no very searching question had,
as yet, been put to Mary Monson. This the coroner saw, and he did not
fail to let it be understood that he was aware of the weakness of the
objection.
“Coroners are not governed by precisely the same rules as ordinary
committing magistrates,” he quietly observed, “though we equally respect
the rules of evidence. No witness is obliged to answer a question before
an inquest, that will criminate himself, any more than at the Oyer and
Terminer. If the lady will say she does not wish to tell her real name,
_because it may criminate her_, I shall not press the question myself,
or allow it to be pressed by others.”
“Very true, sir; but the law requires, in these preliminary proceedings,
no more than such accuracy as is convenient in making out the records. I
conceive that in this particular case the question might be varied by
asking, ‘You are known by the name of Mary Monson, I believe?’”
“What great harm can it be to this young female to give her real name,
Mr. Dunscomb, as I understand you are that distinguished counsellor, if
she be perfectly innocent of the death of the Goodwins?”
“A perfectly innocent person may have good reasons for wishing to
conceal her name. These reasons obtain additional force when we look
around us, and see a committee of reporters, who stand ready to transmit
all that passes to the press;—but, it might better serve the ends of
justice to allow me to confer with the witness in private.”
“With all my heart, sir. Take her into one of the jury rooms, and I will
put another physician on the stand. When you are through with your
consultation, Mr. Dunscomb, we shall be ready to proceed with your
client.”
Dunscomb offered his arm to the girl, and led her through the crowd,
while a third medical man was sworn. This witness corroborated all of
Dr. Coe’s opinions, treating the supposition that both the skeletons
were those of women with very little respect. It must be admitted that
the suspected stranger lost a great deal of ground in the course of that
half-hour. In the first place, the discussion about the name was
received very much as an admission of guilt; for Dunscomb’s argument
that persons who were innocent might have many reasons for concealing
their names, did not carry much weight with the good people of Biberry.
Then any doubts which might have been raised by McBrain’s suggestion
concerning the nature of the skeletons, were effectually removed by the
corroborating testimony of Dr. Short, who so fully sustained Dr. Coe. So
much are the Americans accustomed to refer the decision of nearly all
questions to numbers, it scarcely exaggerates the truth to say that, on
the stand, the opinion of half-a-dozen country surveyors touching a
problem in geometry, would be very apt to overshadow that of a professor
from West Point, or old Yale. Majorities are the primum mobile of the
common mind, and he who can get the greatest number on his side is very
apt to be considered right, and to reap the benefits of being so.
A fourth and a fifth medical man were examined, and they concurred in
the opinions of Dr. Coe and his neighbours. All gave it as the result of
their enquiries, that they believed the two skulls had been broken with
the same instrument, and that the blow, if it did not cause immediate
death, must have had the effect to destroy consciousness. As regards the
sex, the answers were given in a tone somewhat supercilious.
“Science is a very good thing in its place,” observed one of these last
witnesses; “but science is subject to known facts We all know that Peter
Goodwin and his wife lived in that house; we all know that Dorothy
Goodwin was a large woman, and that Peter Goodwin was a small man,—that
they were about of a height, in fact,—and that these skeletons very
accurately represent their respective statures. We also know that the
house is burnt, that the old couple are missing, that these bones were
found in a wing in which they slept, and that no other bones have been
found there. Now, to my judgment, these facts carry as much weight, ay,
even more weight, than any scientific reasoning in the premises. I
conclude, therefore, that these are the remains of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin—have no doubt that they are, indeed.”
“Am I permitted to ask this witness a question, Mr. Coroner?” demanded
Dr. McBrain.
“With all my heart, sir. The jury wishes to ascertain all they can, and
our sole object is justice. Our inquests are not very rigid as to forms,
and you are welcome to examine the witness as much as you please.”
“You knew Goodwin?” asked McBrain, directly of the witness.
“I did, sir; quite well.”
“Had he all his teeth, as you remember?”
“I think he had.”
“On the supposition that his front upper teeth were all gone, and that
the skeleton you suppose to be his _had_ all the front upper teeth,
would you still regard the facts you have mentioned as better, or even
as good proof, as the evidence of science, which tells us that the man
who has lost his teeth cannot possess them?”
“I scarcely call that a scientific fact, at all, sir. Any one may judge
of that circumstance, as well as a physician. If it were as you say, I
should consider the presence of the teeth pretty good proof that the
skeleton was that of some other person, unless the teeth were the work
of a dentist.”
“Then why not put any other equally sure anatomical fact in opposition
to what is generally supposed, in connection with the wing, the presence
of the men, and all the other circumstances you have mentioned?”
“If there were any other sure anatomical fact, so I would. But, in the
condition in which those remains are, I do not think the best anatomist
could say that he can distinguish whether they belonged to a man or to a
woman.”
“I confess that the case has its difficulties,” McBrain quietly
answered. “Still I incline to my first opinion. I trust, Mr. Coroner,
that the skeletons will be carefully preserved, so long as there may be
any reason to continue these legal enquiries?”
“Certainly, sir. A box is made for that purpose, and they will be
carefully deposited in it, as soon as the inquest adjourns for the day.
It is no unusual thing, gentlemen, for doctors to disagree.”
This was said with a smile, and had the effect to keep the peace.
McBrain, however, had all the modesty of knowledge, and was never
disposed to show off his superior attainments in the faces of those who
might be supposed to know less than himself. Nor was he, by any means,
certain of his fact; though greatly inclined to believe that both the
skeletons were those of females. The heat had been so powerful as to
derange, in some measure, if not entirely to deface, his proofs; and he
was not a man to press a fact, in a case of this magnitude, without
sufficient justification. All he now wanted, was to reserve a point that
might have a material influence hereafter, in coming to a correct
conclusion.
It was fully an hour before Dunscomb returned, bringing Mary Monson on
his arm. John followed the latter closely, for, though not admitted to
the room in which this long private conference had been held, he had not
ceased to pace the gallery in front of its door during the whole time.
Dunscomb looked very grave, and, as McBrain thought, and he was very
expert in interpreting the language of his friend’s countenance,
disappointed. The girl herself had evidently been weeping, and that
violently. There was a paleness of the face, and a tremor in the frame,
too, that caused the observant physician to suppose that, for the first
time, she had been made to comprehend that she was the object of such
dire distrust. No sooner were the two in their old seats, than the
coroner prepared to renew the suspended examination.
“Witness,” repeated that functionary with marked formality, “what is
your name?”
The answer was given in a tremulous voice, but with sufficient
readiness, as if previously prepared.
“I am known, in and around Biberry, by the name of Mary Monson.”
The coroner paused, passed a hand over his brow, mused a moment, and
abandoned a half-formed determination he had made, to push this
particular enquiry as far as he could. To state the truth, he was a
little afraid of Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, whose reputation at the bar was of
too high a character to have escaped his notice. On the whole,
therefore, he decided to accept the name of Mary Monson, reserving the
right of the state to enquire further, hereafter.
“Where do you reside?”
“At present, in this place—lately, in the family of Peter Goodwin, whose
remains are supposed to be in this room.”
“How long had you resided in that family?”
“Nine weeks, to a day. I arrived in the morning, and the fire occurred
at night.”
“Relate all that you know concerning that fire, if you please, Miss—I
call you Miss, supposing you to be unmarried?”
Mary Monson merely made a slight inclination of her head, as one
acknowledges that a remark is heard and understood. This did not more
than half satisfy the coroner, his wife, for reasons of her own, having
particularly desired him to ask the “Monson girl,” when she was put on
the stand, whether she was or was not married. But it was too late, just
then, to ascertain this interesting fact, and the examination proceeded.
“Relate all that you know concerning the fire, if you please, ma’am.”
“I know very little. I was awakened by a bright light—arose, and dressed
myself as well as I could, and was about to descend the stairs, when I
found I was too late. I then went to a window, and intended to throw my
bed out, and let myself down on it, when two men appeared, and raised a
ladder, by which I got safely out.”
“Were any of your effects saved?”
“All, I believe. The same two persons entered my room, and passed my
trunks, box, and carpet-bag, writing-desk, and other articles, out of
the room, as well as most of its furniture. It was the part of the
building last on fire, and it was safe entering the room I occupied, for
near half an hour after I escaped.”
“How long had you known the Goodwins?”
“From the time when I first came to live in their house.”
“Did you pass the evening of the night of the fire in their company?”
“I did not. Very little of my time was passed in their company, unless
it was at meals.”
This answer caused a little stir among the audience, of whom much the
larger portion thought it contained an admission to be noted. Why should
not a young woman who lived in a house so much apart from a general
neighbourhood, not pass most of her time in the company of those with
whom she dwelt? “If they were good enough to live with, I should think
they might be good enough to associate with,” whispered one of the most
active female talkers of Biberry, but in a tone so loud as to be heard
by all near her.
This was merely yielding to a national and increasing susceptibility to
personal claims; it being commonly thought aristocratic to refuse to
associate with everybody, when the person subject to remark has any
apparent advantages to render such association desirable. All others may
do as they please.
“You did not, then, make one of the family regularly, but were there for
some particular purpose of your own?” resumed the coroner.
“I think, sir, on reflection, that you will see this examination is
taking a very irregular course,” interposed Dunscomb. “It is more like
an investigation for a commitment, than an inquest.”
“The law allows the freest modes of enquiry in all such cases, Mr.
Dunscomb. Recollect, sir, there have been arson and murder—two of the
highest crimes known to the books.”
“I do not forget it; and recognise not only all your rights, sir, but
your duties. Nevertheless, this young lady has rights, too, and is to be
treated distinctly in one of two characters; as a witness, or as a party
accused. If in the latter, I shall at once advise her to answer no more
questions in this state of the case. My duty, as her counsel, requires
me to say as much.”
“She has, then, regularly retained you, Mr. Dunscomb?” the coroner
asked, with interest.
“That, sir, is a matter between her and myself. I appear here as
counsel, and shall claim the rights of one. I know that you can carry on
this inquest without my interference, if you see fit; but no one can
exclude the citizen from the benefit of advice. Even the new code, as
extravagant and high-flying an invention as ever came from the misguided
ingenuity of man, will allow of this.”
“There is no wish, Mr. Dunscomb, to put any obstacles in your way. Let
every man do his whole duty. Your client can certainly refuse to answer
any questions she may please, on the ground that the answer may tend to
criminate herself; and so may any one else.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; the law is still more indulgent in these
preliminary proceedings. A party who knows himself to be suspected, has
a right to evade questions that may militate against his interests; else
would the boasted protection which the law so far throws around every
one, that he need not be his own accuser, become a mere pretence.”
“I shall endeavour to put my questions in such a way, as to give her the
benefit of all her rights. Miss Monson, it is said that you have been
seen, since the fire, to have some gold in your possession; have you any
objection to let that gold be seen by the jury?”
“None in the world, sir. I have a few gold pieces—here they are, in my
purse. They do not amount to much, either in numbers or value. You are
at liberty to examine them as much as you please.”
Dunscomb had betrayed a little uneasiness at this question; but the
calm, steady manner in which the young woman answered, and the coolness
with which she put her purse into the coroner’s hand, reassured, or
rather surprised him. He remained silent, therefore, interposing no
objection to the examination.
“Here are seven half-eagles, two quarter-eagles, and a strange coin that
I do not remember ever to have seen before,” said the coroner. “What do
you call this piece, Mr. Dunscomb?”
“I cannot tell you, sir; I do not remember ever to have seen the coin
before, myself.”
“It is an Italian coin, of the value of about twenty dollars, they tell
me,” answered Mary, quietly. “I think it is called after the reigning
sovereign, whoever he may be. I got it, in exchange for some of our own
money, from an emigrant from Europe, and kept it as a thing a little out
of the common way.”
The simplicity, distinctness, not to say nerve, with which this was
said, placed Dunscomb still more at his ease, and he now freely let the
enquiry take its course. All this did not prevent his being astonished
that one so young, and seemingly so friendless, should manifest so much
coolness and self-possession, under circumstances so very trying. Such
was the fact, however; and he was fain to await further developments, in
order better to comprehend the character of his client.
“Is Mrs. Pope present?” enquired the coroner. “The lady who told us
yesterday she had seen the specie of the late Mrs. Goodwin, during the
life-time of the latter?”
It was almost superfluous to ask if any particular person were present,
as nearly all Biberry were in, or about, the court-house. Up started the
widow, therefore, at this appeal, and coming forward with alacrity, she
was immediately sworn, which she had not been the previous day, and went
on the stand as a regular witness.
“Your name?” observed the coroner.
“Abigail Pope—folks write ‘relict of John Pope, deceased,’ in all my law
papers.”
“Very well, Mrs. Pope; the simple name will suffice for the present
purposes. Do you reside in this neighbourhood?”
“In Biberry. I was born, brought up, married, became a widow, and still
dwell, all within half-a-mile of this spot. My maiden name was Dickson.”
Absurd and forward as these answers may seem to most persons, they had
an effect on the investigation that was then going on in Biberry. Most
of the audience saw, and felt, the difference between the frank
statements of the present witness, and the reserve manifested by the
last.
“Now, why couldn’t that Mary Monson answer all these questions, just as
well as Abigail Pope?” said one female talker to a knot of listeners.
“She has a glib enough tongue in her head, if she only sees fit to use
it! I’ll engage no one can answer more readily, when she wishes to let a
thing out. There’s a dreadful history behind the curtain, in my
judgment, about that same young woman, could a body only get at it.”
“Mr. Sanford _will_ get at it, before he has done with her, I’ll
engage,” answered a friend. “I have heard it said he is the most
investigating coroner in the state, when he sets about a case in good
earnest. He’ll be very apt to make the most of this, for we never have
had anything one-half so exciting in Biberry, as these murders! I have
long thought we were rather out of the way of the rest of the world,
until now; but our time has come, and we shan’t very soon hear the last
of it!”
“It’s all in the papers, already!” exclaimed a third. “Biberry looks as
grand as York, or Albany, in the columns of every paper from town, this
morning! I declare it did me good to see our little place holding up its
head among the great of the earth, as it might be——”
What else, in the way of local patriotism, may have escaped this
individual, cannot now be known, the coroner drawing off her auditors,
by the question next put to the widow.
“Did you ever see any gold coins in the possession of the late Mrs.
Goodwin?” asked that functionary.
“Several times—I don’t know but I might say often. Five or six times, at
least. I used to sew for the old lady, and you know how it is when a
body works, in that way, in a family—it’s next thing, I do suppose, to
being a doctor, so far as secrets go.”
“Should you know any of that coin were you to see it again, Mrs. Pope?”
“I think I might. There’s one piece, in partic’lar, that I suppose I
should know, anywhere. It’s a wonderful looking piece of money, and true
Californy, I conclude.”
“Did any of Mrs. Goodwin’s gold coins bear a resemblance to this?”
showing a half-eagle.
“Yes, sir—that’s a five-dollar piece—I’ve had one of them myself, in the
course of my life.”
“Mrs. Goodwin had coins similar to this, I then understand you to say?”
“She had as many as fifty, I should think. Altogether, she told me she
had as much as four hundred dollars in that stocking! I remember the
sum, for it sounded like a great deal for anybody to have, who wasn’t a
bank, like. It quite put me in mind of the _place ers_.”
“Was there any coin like this?” showing the widow the Italian piece.
“That’s the piece! I’d know it among a thousand! I had it in my hands as
much as five minutes, trying to read the Latin on it, and make it out
into English. All the rest was American gold, the old lady told me; but
this piece she said was foreign.”
This statement produced a great sensation in the court-room. Although
Mrs. Pope was flippant, a gossip, and a little notorious for meddling
with her neighbours’ concerns, no one suspected her of fabricating such
a story, under oath. The piece of gold passed from juror to juror; and
each man among them felt satisfied that he would know the coin again,
after an interval of a few weeks. Dunscomb probably put less faith in
this bit of testimony, than any other person present; and he was curious
to note its effect on his client. To his great surprise, she betrayed no
uneasiness; her countenance maintaining a calm that he now began to
apprehend denoted a practised art; and he manifested a desire to examine
the piece of gold for himself. It was put in his hand, and he glanced at
its face a little eagerly. It was an unusual coin; but it had no defect
or mark that might enable one to distinguish between it and any other
piece of a similar impression. The coroner interpreted the meaning of
his eye, and suspended the examination of the widow, to question Mary
Monson herself.
“Your client sees the state of the question, Mr. Dunscomb,” he said;
“and you will look to her rights. Mine authorize me, as I understand
them, to enquire of her concerning a few facts in relation to this piece
of money.”
“I will answer your questions, sir, without any hesitation,” the accused
replied, with a degree of steadiness that Dunscomb deemed astonishing.
“How long has this piece of gold been in your possession, if you please,
Miss?”
“About a twelvemonth. I began to collect the gold I have, very nearly a
year since.”
“Has it been in your possession, uninterruptedly, all that time?”
“So far as I know, sir, it has. A portion of the time, and a large
portion of it, it has not been kept in my purse; but I should think no
one could have meddled with it, when it has been elsewhere.”
“Have you anything to remark on the testimony just given?”
“It is strictly true. Poor Mrs. Goodwin certainly had the store of gold
mentioned by Mrs. Pope, for she once showed it to me. I rather think she
was fond of such things; and had a pleasure in counting her hoards, and
showing them to other persons. I looked over her coins; and finding she
was fond of those that are a little uncommon, I gave her one or two of
those that I happened to own. No doubt, Mrs. Pope saw the counterpart of
this piece, but surely not the piece itself.”
“I understand you to say, then, that Mrs. Goodwin had a gold coin
similar to this, which gold coin came from yourself. What did Mrs.
Goodwin allow you in the exchange?”
“Sir?”
“How much did you estimate the value of that Italian piece at, and in
what money did Mrs. Goodwin pay you for it? It is necessary to be
particular in these cases.”
“She returned me nothing for the coin, sir. It was a present from me to
her, and of course not to be paid for.”
This answer met with but little favour. It did not appear to the people
of Biberry at all probable that an unknown, and seemingly friendless
young woman, who had been content to dwell two months in the
“garret-room” of the “old Goodwin house,” faring none of the best,
certainly, and neglecting so many superior tenements and tables that
were to be met with on every side of her, would be very likely to give
away a piece of gold of that unusual size. It is true, we are living in
a marvellous age, so far as this metal is concerned; but the Californian
gold had not then arrived in any great quantity, and the people of the
country are little accustomed to see anything but silver and paper,
which causes them to attach an unwonted value to the more precious
metal. Even the coroner took this view of the matter; and Dunscomb saw
that the explanation just made by his client was thought to prove too
much.
“Are you in the habit, Miss, of giving away pieces of gold?” asked one
of the jurors.
“That question is improper,” interposed Mr. Dunscomb. “No one can have a
right to put it.”
The coroner sustained this objection, and no answer was given. As Mrs.
Pope had suggested that others, besides herself, had seen Mrs. Goodwin’s
stocking, four more witnesses were examined to this one point. They were
all females, who had been admitted by the deceased, in the indulgence of
her passion, to feast their eyes with a sight of her treasure. Only one,
however, of these four professed to have any recollection of the
particular coin that had now become, as it might be, the pivoting point
in the enquiry; and her recollections were by no means as clear as those
of the widow. She _thought_ she had seen such a piece of gold in Mrs.
Goodwin’s possession, though she admitted she was not allowed to touch
any of the money, which was merely held up, piece by piece, before her
admiring eyes, in the hands of its proper owner. It was in this stage of
the enquiry that Dunscomb remarked to the coroner, that “it was not at
all surprising a woman who was so fond of exposing her treasure should
be robbed and murdered!” This remark, however, failed of its intended
effect, in consequence of the manner in which suspicion had become
riveted, as it might be, through the testimony of Mrs. Pope, on the
stranger who had so mysteriously come to lodge with the Goodwins. The
general impression now appeared to be that the whole matter had been
previously arranged, and that the stranger had come to dwell in the
house expressly to obtain facilities for the commission of the crime.
A witness who was related to the deceased, who was absent from home, but
had been told, by means of the wires, to return, and who had intimated
an intention to comply, was still wanting; and the inquest was again
adjourned for an hour, in order to allow of the arrival of a stage from
town. During this interval, Dunscomb ascertained how strongly the
current was setting against his client. A hundred little circumstances
were cited, in confirmation of suspicions that had now gained a firm
footing, and which were so nearly general as to include almost every
person of any consequence in the place. What appeared strangest to
Dunscomb, was the composure of the young girl who was so likely to be
formally accused of crimes so heinous. He had told her of the nature of
the distrust that was attached to her situation, and she received his
statement with a degree of emotion that, at first, had alarmed him. But
an unaccountable calmness soon succeeded this burst of feeling, and he
had found it necessary to draw confidence in the innocence of his
client, from that strangely illuminated countenance, to study which was
almost certain to subdue a man by its power. While thus gazing at the
stranger, he could not believe her guilty; but, while reflecting on all
the facts of the case, he saw how difficult it might be to persuade
others to entertain the same opinion. Nor were there circumstances
wanting to shake his own faith in expression, sex, years, and all the
other probabilities. Mary Monson had declined entering at all into any
account of her previous life; evaded giving her real name even to him;
carefully abstained from all allusions that might furnish any clue to
her former place of abode, or to any fact that would tend to betray her
secret.
At the appointed hour the stage arrived, bringing the expected witness.
His testimony went merely to corroborate the accounts concerning the
little hoard of gold that his kinswoman had undeniably possessed, and to
the circumstance that she always kept it in a particular drawer of her
bureau. The bureau had been saved, for it did not stand in the
sleeping-room of the deceased, but had formed a principal embellishment
of her little parlour, and the money was not in it. What was more, each
drawer was carefully locked, but no keys were to be found. As these were
articles not likely to be melted under any heat to which they might have
been exposed, a careful but fruitless search had been made for them
among the ruins. They were nowhere to be seen.
About nine o’clock in the evening, the jury brought in the result of
their inquest. It was a verdict of murder in the first degree,
committed, in the opinion of the jurors, by a female who was known by
the name of Mary Monson. With the accusation of arson, the coroner’s
inquest, as a matter of course, had no connection. A writ was
immediately issued, and the accused arrested.
[Illustration]