A TORTURED WITNESS.
There is a profound sensation in the court room.
Constance Wardour catches her breath, and bends forward to look at her
lover, the color coming and going hotly in her cheeks. She had chosen to
hear nothing of his past, and so Mr. O'Meara has introduced the
Honorable George Heathercliffe, that morning, saying only: "A most
important witness, Constance; a _strong_ witness."
"He is Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, and my elder brother."
Mr. Rand, the prosecuting attorney, moves uneasily in his seat, and
begins to wonder what small shot O'Meara holds back of this big shell.
Without seeming to notice the sensation created by his self-possessed
witness, O'Meara goes on rapidly.
"How long has your brother, Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, been in
America?"
"For more than three years."
"Until you received the telegram calling you to his aid, did you know
where to find your brother?"
"I did not."
"Mr. Heathercliffe, have you that telegram in your possession?"
"I have."
"Will you permit his honor, the judge, to see that telegram?"
"Assuredly." He draws forth a morocco letter case, and taking therefrom
a slip of paper hands it to O'Meara. That astute gentleman passes it
carelessly on to the clerk, saying: "Read it please."
Rising to receive the paper, the clerk reads:
_Honorable George Heathercliffe,
Cliffe Towers, etc., etc.,_
Come at once to W----, R---- County.---- Sir Clifford is in deep
trouble.
BATHURST.
"Bathurst!" the name falls involuntarily from the lips of Mr. Rand; he
knows the expert by reputation, and this is the first intimation he has
received, that so shrewd a man is at work in the interest of Clifford
Heath.
"Is this the only message you received?"
"No, later in the day this came."
He produced and passed over a second dispatch, which is read like the
first.
_Honorable George Heathercliffe, etc._
Before starting find out everything you can concerning one John, or
Jonathan Burrill, once in the employ of your father.
BATHURST.
The two Lamottes glance uneasily at each other. Whither is this
examination tending?
"Did you follow the instructions in this last telegram?" asks O'Meara.
"I did."
A bland smile widens the mouth of the little Irish lawyer. He waves his
hand magisterially.
"That is all, for the present, Mr. Heathercliffe," he says, suavely, and
amazement sits on every countenance.
And now Mr. Rand bends forward and flings himself into the arena, while
O'Meara leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling maliciously.
"Mr. Heathercliffe," begins the cross-examiner, "Your two dispatches are
signed 'Bathurst.' Who is this Bathurst?"
"Mr. Bathurst, sir, is a very able detective."
"Ah! He is known to you, I presume?"
"He is," bowing gravely.
"Now, Mr. Heathercliffe, it strikes me as singular that an English
gentleman should be on such familiar terms with a Yankee detective; and
still more strange that an English nobleman should be masquerading in
America, as a country physician. I should like an explanation of these
things."
"My brother came to America on account of family troubles, sir. Is it
_necessary_ that I make a fuller statement?"
He asks this hesitatingly, and Mr. Rand fancies that he sees a point to
be gained. He does not see that O'Meara is struggling to conceal the
smile of satisfaction that _will_ creep into his face.
"_I_ consider it necessary, sir. It is high time that we knew why we
have been honored by this _incognito_--nobleman."
The witness turns an unruffled countenance towards the judge.
"If the Court will permit me to tell my brother's story in my own way,
(it will take some time,) I shall be glad to enlighten this legal
gentleman."
The Court gives its gracious permission; Attorney Rand resumes his seat;
O'Meara fairly grins his delight; Constance leans forward, breathlessly;
the prisoner casts one look about him, and then rests his head upon his
hand; there is breathless silence in the court, as the Honorable George
Heathercliffe begins:
"I have said that the prisoner at the Bar, is my elder brother; three
years ago he was not _Sir_ Clifford Heathercliffe, not my eldest
brother.
"The name of Sir Herbert Heathercliffe is, no doubt, unknown to all here
present--except Mr. Bathurst, if that gentleman is here--but England has
rung with that name, and the Heathercliffe pride has been lowered to the
dust, because of it.
"Sir Herbert was the pet and favorite of our father, and possessed over
him a strong magnetic influence. He was less than two years older than
Clifford, and the two closely resembled each other.
"From their academic days, Herbert was an idler, a spendthrift, a squire
of dames, _par excellence_. Clifford was devoted to study, and not
enamored of society.
"It is not my purpose to follow step by step the downward career of my
brother Herbert, only such of his misdeeds as affected Clifford need be
brought forward here.
"I have said that Herbert was a spendthrift. He was perpetually
borrowing of Clifford, and always in debt.
"When Clifford, who had a monomania for the medical profession,
announced his intention to go to Germany and pursue his studies there,
the first trouble came.
"Herbert, who for his own selfish ends, wished to keep Clifford and his
purse nearer Cliffe Towers, incited my father to oppose the scheme. This
was easy. Lord Heathercliffe did not believe in the dignity of labor,
and the two voted this new departure a family disgrace. They said so
much, and in such offensive language, that Clifford, in open defiance of
his father's commands, turned his back upon us all, and went to
Heidelberg.
"But, Herbert's career had only began. In a little while, it was
discovered that our father's name had been forged for a large amount,
and suspicion pointed to my brother Clifford. He came in hot haste on
receipt of a telegram, and he did not come alone. He brought with him,
Detective Bathurst, whom he was so fortunate as to find at Scotland
Yards.
"I need not dwell on what followed; Bathurst is a keen detective; he
vindicated my brother, Clifford, and placed the guilt where it belonged.
It was Herbert who had forged my father's name.
"There was a terrible scene at the Towers. Herbert swore eternal enmity
toward Clifford, and Clifford predicted then and there the downfall of
all our pride, through Herbert's follies. I remember his words
distinctly:
"'Let me tell you how this will end, Lord Heathercliffe,' he said; 'I
have not grown up beside Herbert, not to know him. Our name has
heretofore been stainless; we shall keep it so no longer; it will be
dragged in the mud, smirched, hissed, disgraced utterly. But I will
never permit myself to go down with the fall of the Heathercliffes; I
renounce all claims upon you; I renounce my succession; I renounce a
name already contaminated; the world is my heritage; I shall leave
England; I shall leave Europe; I will make me a new name, and build my
own fortune. When Herbert has broken your heart, and ruined your
fortunes, as he surely will, and when his debaucheries have brought him
to an early grave, as they must, then let the title fall to George; he
is younger; he can not feel this shame so keenly; as for me, I will
never wear the title; I will never be pointed out as the peer whose
elder brother was a rake, a seducer, a forger, and Herbert is all
these.'
"Clifford went back to Heidelberg; Herbert remained at the Towers,
whining, pleading, shamefully fawning upon a doting and half imbecile
old man.
"He feigned illness; he feigned penitence, and finally he held my father
more than ever his adoring slave.
"I can not prolong this recital. It is needless. Herbert ran his race of
infamy. My father died broken hearted. Clifford searched all England to
bring Herbert, then a fugitive, to his father's death bed; but the
officers of justice were before him. They ran him down in an obscure
provincial village, and, to escape the consequences of his misdeeds,
Herbert Heathercliffe crowned his life of mad folly by dying a suicide's
death.
"And now I must turn a page in my own personal history:
"Prior to my father's death, I had formed an attachment for the only
daughter of a proud and wealthy country gentleman, our neighbor. But I
was a younger son, and by my father's will, made upon his death-bed,
Clifford was his heir. Herbert had squandered half our father's fortune,
but a handsome sum still remained.
"Realizing the hopelessness of my suit, I was preparing to quit England,
taking with me my mother's legacy, which would amply suffice for a
bachelor's wants, but was too meager a sum to lay at the feet of a
beauty and an heiress. To make my departure more bitter, I had learned
that the woman of my choice returned my affections.
"Then Sir Clifford swooped down upon me. Before I could guess his
intent, he had sought and gained the consent of my wife's father; had
transferred to me all his fortune, reserving only his mother's legacy,
which was the same as mine. He forced me to accept by the strength of
his splendid will. He installed me as master of Cliffe Towers. He
hastened the marriage preparations. He remained long enough to dance at
our wedding, and then he left us--proud as a king, independent as a
gypsy, blameless, fearless, high-souled.
"He came to America, and never permitted us to know his whereabouts. At
regular intervals, we received his letters--many whimsical descriptions
of his new life and new pursuits, but we always addressed him in New
York, and our letters, bearing the English seal, came to him under an
American disguise. We did not so much as know the name he had assumed.
"This, gentlemen, is the true reason why Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, the
truest, the noblest of English gentlemen, came among you as one of
yourselves.
"I have one more word to say. Sir Clifford never saw the man, John
Burrill; but our brother Herbert knew him well. Burrill was his tool and
accomplice in many shameful escapades. They came to grief together;
quarreled fearfully, and, when Herbert fled for his life, Burrill with
his wife made his escape to America. All that I have said concerning
this Burrill will be verified by Detective Bathurst."
Then turning toward Mr. Rand: "Is my explanation sufficient, sir?"
The lawyer only bows his head, and the handsome Englishman takes his
seat while the house rings with applause. Evidently his tersely told
story of brotherly sacrifice has touched the "humanness" of that
strangely-mixed audience.
During the moment of clamor and confusion, Doctor Benoit enters the
court room, and almost unobserved seats himself beside the New York
medical experts.
A smile of gratification comes to O'Meara's face at sight of this late
arrival, and when the court is restored to quiet, he says:
"Let Doctor Benoit be sworn."
The doctor testifies as follows:
Being called to examine the wounds upon the person of John Burrill, he
found that they could not have been made with the knife found with the
body. The identical knife being put into his hands, he explains how a
cut made by such a keen, heavy weapon, must appear, and describes the
knife that must have been used upon the body.
"It was a smaller weapon," he says, "thinner bladed and much lighter. It
must have been shorter by two or three inches."
Then he adds that the surgeon's knife has never been used upon a body;
the blood has been smeared on by an inartistic hand.
"It would be impossible," he says, "to withdraw this knife from a
bleeding wound with no other blood marks than those it bears."
Doctor Gaylor and Professor Harrington corroborate his every statement,
and when their testimony is done there is another sensation in the court
room.
As Doctor Benoit passes by O'Meara, in returning from the witness stand,
he tosses over a piece of paper, which the lawyer seizes, scans eagerly,
and stows carefully away.
He consults some papers for a moment, and then says:
"I wish to recall Francis Lamotte."
Frank comes again upon the stand; his eyes seem fixed on vacancy; his
face is white and rigid; his answers come in a dry monotone.
"Mr. Lamotte," begins O'Meara, briskly. "It is understood that you have
been a student in Doctor Heath's office."
"That is true."
"During the time you studied there, had you free access to the office at
all hours?"
"I had."
"I judge, then, that you must have possessed a pass key?"
"I did."
"Is that key still in your possession?"
"No."
"How did you dispose of that key?"
"I think it was lost; it has been out of my possession for some time."
"Where did you lose this key?"
"I do not remember; possibly at home, possibly at the office. It has
been out of my possession for some time."
"Since losing your key, how did you gain access to the office in the
doctor's absence?"
"I have visited the office very seldom of late, and not once since
losing the key, in the absence of Doctor Heath."
"Mr. Lamotte, was there any way to distinguish your lost key from that
used by my client?"
"Yes; my key was newer than his, and brighter."
"It was my client's custom to keep an extra suit of clothes in his
office closet, was it not?"
"Yes."
"And it would be very natural that, in exchanging one garment for
another, a glove or handkerchief should be sometimes left in the
discarded garment?"
"Quite natural."
"Now let us suppose that, on the night of the murder, my client,
returning from a visit to Mapleton, where he was called to attend upon
the wife of the murdered man, halted at his office, hung up his outer
coat, and sat for a little time, writing or reading, or perhaps
meditating.
"Let us suppose that on preparing to face the wind, that was rising
rapidly, and blowing chill, he substituted a heavy overcoat for the one
he had worn earlier in the evening; and that he discovered, when half
way home, that he had left his much needed handkerchief with his
discarded coat.
"Would it not be quite an easy matter for some one who had obtained
possession of your key, _and was sufficiently familiar with the bearings
of the office to move about in the dark_, or by the dim fire-light, to
enter that office, remove the surgeon's knife from its case, pilfer a
handkerchief from the coat pocket, and escape unseen?"
"It would--I should think."
"If this person having the key, the knife, and the handkerchief, all in
his possession, should go and fling them all into the old cellar on the
Burns' place, you would call that singular?"
"Yes," from lips white and parched.
O'Meara turns suddenly and takes something from the table.
"Mr. Lamotte, take this key, examine it well. Does it at all resemble
the one you--_lost_?"
Frank takes the key, mechanically, turns it about with nerveless
fingers, scarcely glances at it.
"I think--it is--the same," he mutters, hoarsely.
"You think it is your lost key. Mr. Lamotte, do you know where this key
was found?"
"No," stolidly.
"I will tell you. It was found in the old cellar, embedded in the mud,
_close beside the dead body of John Burrill_."
[Illustration: "It was found beside the body of John Burrill."]
Frank Lamotte's hands go up to his head, his pale face becomes livid,
his eyes seem starting from their sockets; he gasps, staggers, falls
heavily in a dead faint.