A STORM ASHORE.[5] By James H. Connelly. (continued 3)

"Yes, uncle," repeated Mary with a shudder.

"Well, that's the way the law does with a man."

Mary covered her face with her hands, and wept softly, while he went on:

"If they still hold on to Dorn Hackett, it is because they hope to get proof enough against him to make him out guilty. I have heard lawyers say that the law presumes every man to be innocent until he is proved guilty; and when I was a younger man, I actually believed that; but as I have got older, I have learned that practically, in the administration of the law, when a crime is committed somebody has got to suffer for it, for the sake of the moral effect on the community; and it don't really make much difference who it is, so long as the poor devil who is caught cannot prove himself innocent, which is sometimes a mighty hard thing to do. He may not be guilty, but they will try to make him out so. Better hang him than admit having made a blunder in his arrest."

"Oh, but uncle! you don't believe Dorn could be guilty, do you?"

He looked at her pale anxious face with a feeling of deep pity,—for his eyes were keen enough to see that it was of her lover she spoke,—and replied with unwonted tenderness:

"No, my poor child. No, I don't; and I wouldn't if I knew nothing more about him than your trust in him."

Two low sounds mingled softly, and were doubtless duly noted by the recording angel on duty: a sigh from Uncle Thatcher, and a sniff of disgust from his lean and rancorous wife in the dark room behind him. He sighed to think, as he looked at Mary, and appreciated the worth of her full and perfect love, what a treasure his profligate son had lost in her, among all the good he had recklessly cast from him. Aunt Thatcher sniffed because she did not dare to express openly her contempt for his weakness in manifesting sympathy for the poor orphan who had won her hearty and unextinguishable hatred by rejection of Silas's advances.

"And if Dorn cannot, as you say it is difficult to do, prove himself innocent, what will they do with him?"

"They'll hang him," exclaimed Aunt Thatcher, in a tone of malicious triumph, unable longer to contain herself, and now appearing in the door to enjoy Mary's horror.

Uncle Thatcher turned upon her with a look of disgust and retorted:

"Sallie Thatcher, if the devil himself ain't ashamed of you, he's meaner than I take him for."

"Oh, indeed! I'm so bad, am I? Thank you, Mr. Thatcher. Just because I don't choose to take up for a murderer and a thief. I'm sure any body might have known what he'd come to when he commenced by nearly killing my poor boy."

"Your 'poor boy' deserved all he got, and more, too; and I've good reasons of my own for thinking that we'll both see the day we'll have to regret that Dorn Hackett didn't finish him then."

Aunt Thatcher's surprise and rage at hearing those words deprived her for a moment of the power of articulation, and she could only give vent to her feelings by a sort of wild beast howl of fury. But very soon her ready tongue loosened itself again, and she poured forth a torrent of reproach, vituperation, and malediction directed at random against her husband, against Mary, against Dorn, against the world, indeed, excepting only her "poor injured boy."

When Uncle Thatcher had had enough of this, he straightened himself up before her, and she, as if fearing the weight of his heavy hand, retreated into the dark room. But he did not seem to have any intention of personal violence. He simply pulled the door to, locked it on the outside, and sat down again. A moment afterward the door was tried and rattled from the inside.

"Stay in there and keep quiet, if you know what's good for you," growled Uncle Thatcher.

The rattling ceased, and all was again quiet.

"Uncle," said Mary, after a little pause, "I want to go and see Dorn."

"In jail?"

"Yes."

"Well," he replied, a little doubtfully, "people might talk."

"Let them, if they will. I don't care—or, at least, I don't care enough to prevent my going to him when he is in trouble. What can they say, but that we are lovers. Well, yes, we are, and it is no time for me to seek to hide it when others look coldly and cruelly on him. He loves me—I know he does; and I love him—with all my heart. And we were going to be married very soon, uncle. I would have told you before, but I was afraid. Now you are so kind to me that I'm not afraid to tell you any more. And oh, Uncle, I must go to him!"

"Forgive me, little Mary—and may God forgive me for having made poor Lottie's orphan child afraid to put confidence in me. You say you want to go and see him. You shall. I'll hitch up early to-morrow morning and take you over to Sag Harbor myself."

Long before daylight the next morning Mary, who had not closed her eyes during the seemingly interminable night, was up and had breakfast prepared. Whether Aunt Thatcher was still under the influence of the sullen fury that possessed her when the door was closed upon her the night before, or had fresh fuel added to the fire of her temper by overhearing the arrangement between her husband and niece, did not appear. At all events she spoke no word of question or remark, and was still abed when they took their departure.

The sun was not risen above the sea when Uncle Thatcher's old carryall creaked through the one long rambling street of the little village, and entered upon the Sag Harbor road; but his upward glinting beams already spread with gold and crimson the lower edges of the fleecy clouds on the eastern horizon. Diamonds of dew still clung to the long grass blades, and the points of the forest leaves and the morning breeze, heavy with the salt smell of the sea, was fresh and bracing. Robins flitted across the road with sharp notes, as of query why folks should be abroad so early, and a belated rabbit, homeward bound to his burrow in the brush, sat up-reared upon his haunches and seemed paralyzed by astonishment until the horses were almost upon him, when he bounded swiftly away. Higher and higher rose the sun, and as his ardent rays licked up the dew, light clouds of yellow dust swirled and spread behind the rapidly-moving wheels. Past orchards, where red winter apples glowed in the sunshine like balls of blood amid the foliage of the trees; past fields still golden with the stubble of the early ripened grain; past fallow lands, where the blue-bird carolled gayly on the hollow stump in which he and his mate had reared their springtime brood; past leafy woods, where nuts were ripening, the wheels rolled fast until they reached the quaint old town—their journey's end—and halted beneath the old-time tavern's venerable elms.

Leaving the horses hitched, after having carefully watered them, Uncle Thatcher accompanied his niece to the jail and asked permission for her to see Dorn Hackett, which the jailor, having no orders to the contrary, readily accorded. Mr. Thatcher did not enter. Though far from being a nervous man, he felt as if the close clammy atmosphere of that stone warehouse of sin and sorrow sent a chill to his heart. Besides, he had no business with Dorn Hackett. With a great breath of relief he turned his back upon the jail and wandered off down to the wharf to look at the shipping—for Sag Harbor had shipping in those days—to learn if there was any change in the oil and whalebone markets, and perhaps to ascertain what was coming to his share of that schooner in which he was part owner.

Dorn was just bidding adieu to his lawyer, when Mary appeared in the corridor.

"By jove! Here's a pretty girl come to see some prisoner!" exclaimed the lawyer at sight of her.

Dorn paid no attention to the remark. There was but one pretty girl in the world about whom he cared to think, and he did not expect her to come there. What, then, was his surprise when, the lawyer having stepped aside to give place to the visitor at his cell-door, he looked out and beheld the beautiful face of his own true-love, Mary. With a cry of surprise and joy he thrust his arms through between the bars, catching her in an embrace, and their lips met in a long and ardent kiss. The lawyer, who was a young man, and possessed of a very lively appreciation of feminine beauty, lingered a few moments and then quietly took his departure.

"I hardly know whether I am most glad or ashamed to see you here, darling," said Dorn, looking tenderly at his beloved.

"Glad, I hope, dearest. Should you feel ashamed of being unfortunate? It is only guilt of which one need be ashamed; and that, I well know, my dear Dorn has not."

"True. But it is very hard to wash the prison taint off, even from an innocent man."

"Do not think so, my love. Everybody will know yet how true and good you are, and will be all the kinder to you for the mistake that has given us so much pain and trouble."

"Ah, my dear girl, it is your love and not your reason that tells me so. Even people who have no other reason for hating the man who has been the victim of such a mistake, will find sufficient the consciousness that they have erred in supposing him guilty, and will always profess to view him with suspicion, whether they feel it or not. There is nothing that people generally abhor so much as a confession of fallibility. But, no matter. I have your love and confidence, dear Mary; I'm sure I have, or you would not be here; and for all beyond that I'd ask small odds from the world if I were free again."

"And you will be, dearest, I am sure of it. It can never be possible that a man should be punished by law for that of which he is not guilty."

"Ah, you think so? Then you have not read much about people who have been convicted upon circumstantial evidence. I have read a whole book about such cases, and I tell you it takes very little real proof to hang a man sometimes."

"Oh, Dorn! Don't talk so! You make me wild with horror and fear!"

"Well, there,—there,—darling. I won't say any more about it. I shouldn't have said so much, but somehow I have got into a bad way of talking back since I have had to make the acquaintance of a lawyer."

And kissing her tenderly, he sought to remove the terror that he had unthinkingly given her, making light even of what he had just said, and forcing himself to speak much more hopefully than he dared to feel.

"Lem, you know," he said, "has gone to New York to find a witness who will certainly clear me if we can bring him into court."

"Ruth told me that he had gone, and the object of his going, as far as she knew, but he did not give her any particulars."

"No? Then I'll tell you all about it."

Thereupon he proceeded to inform her of all the untoward events that had happened to him after his leaving her on the last night they were together; his running through the woods and falling into the new road; the aid given him by the little elderly gentleman; the missing of the boat he had hoped to catch; the opportune arrival of the old man, probably a smuggler, etc., etc., just as has already been narrated in his interview with Lem, but much more slowly, as this time the story was much broken by affectionate condolences and consequent digressions to love-making. He told her also of Lem's unsuccessful attempt to learn from Peter Van Deust who the little gentleman was.

"What a pity it is," she said, "that you did not think to ask him his name! Was there nothing about him that you can remember that might help to his identification—no personal peculiarity of look, or dress, or manner of speech?"

He shook his head regretfully, saying, "I was not much in the humor to notice peculiarities just then. But yes, come to think about it, there was one little incident that rather amused me at the time, badly as I felt; but I have not thought of it since until now. The little gentleman had a very slow, cautious, and precise way of speaking. I asked him what time it was, when we were down at the beach. He pulled out his watch and replied very deliberately: 'Without desiring to be understood as committing myself to an affirmation of the absolute accuracy of my time-piece, I may say that, to the best of my information and belief, it is now eleven minutes past ten o'clock.'"

"Ah, I have seen him! I recognize his phrase, 'information and belief'!" exclaimed Mary, "and know just how he said it. Ruth and I met him the first time he came into the neighborhood, looking for the Van Deusts, 'supposed to be brothers' as he then said. Ruth imitates him, sometimes, and does it very well. When we come to match together our remembrances of him, I am sure we will be able to give Lem some information that will help him to find the man."

"I certainly hope you may," answered Dorn, "for I can do nothing more. I have got to resign myself to play the passive part of a football for other people to bounce about, without being able to help myself, whether I am going into the goal or the ditch. I have a lawyer, but he seems to look rather blue over the prospect."

"Then get another."

"And have two of them looking blue? No, no. That would be more than I could stand. One is enough. Sailors don't take very kindly to lawyers, any way, you know."

At the end of an hour—a very short time as it seemed to them, but the limit set by the jailor, who now appeared, looking in at the corridor door from time to time, with an air of expectation—Mary said she would have to be going.

"How did you come over?" asked Dorn.

"Uncle Thatcher brought me."

"The—mischief he did! And did he know you were coming to see me?"

"Yes, he brought me for the purpose. Oh, Dorn, he has turned to be ever so kind and good to me! I told him I loved you—"

"God bless you, my darling!" exclaimed her lover, interrupting her with a kiss.

"—and that we were going to be married. And he did not say one word against it. He even said that he did not believe you were guilty; and when I told him I wanted to come and see you, he answered that he would hitch up early this morning and bring me; and so he did."

"Mary, if I've ever said a word against Uncle Thatcher I want to take it all back. A man who does me as good a turn as he has this day, I can never after hold any grudge against."

Mary went home that night with a much lightened heart, and looked so nearly happy that Aunt Thatcher would have liked to have bitten her, for sheer vexation and spite.

XVIII. DORN'S TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

Dorn Hackett's preliminary examination by a committing magistrate took place before Squire Bodley, and was even a more important event, for all the country around, than the inquest had been. As upon the former occasion, the Squire's little office was crowded densely, and apparently by exactly the same persons who filled it then,—with the exception that the small space within the railing was somewhat more jammed by the addition of five more persons than were there at the time of the inquest; the prisoner, Dorn Hackett; his lawyer, Mr. Dunn; the prosecuting attorney; the officer who brought Dorn from Sag Harbor jail, and a reporter from New York. Peter Van Deust was seated where he sat before, looking fearfully worn and old, as was remarked by all who knew him and viewed with surprise the great change that had been wrought in him within the few weeks since his brother's murder. He had more command over himself now, however, than he showed on the first day of the inquest; and instead of bowing his head and weeping, leaned upon the end of the table and fixed his eyes with a hungrily keen gaze upon the witnesses and the prisoner, as if he would fain have penetrated their hearts to know the truth.

Lem Pawlett was called, but did not respond, and in his absence another witness formally testified as to the facts of the discovery of the murder. Peter Van Deust repeated his former testimony. Then the prosecuting attorney called the name of Mary Wallace.

"Stop a moment," interposed the prisoner's counsel. "I desire to know the object of the prosecution in calling this witness?"

"It is neither customary nor requisite," responded the prosecutor, "for the State to give such information. At the same time, I have no objection, under the existing circumstances, to inform the counsel that we intend to prove, by this witness, that the prisoner was in the vicinity of where this murder was perpetrated upon the night of its perpetration; keeping himself in the woods, evading the sight of former friends and neighbors, though he had not re-visited them or made himself known among them for three years or more, and that he parted from the person we have just called as a witness a little while before the hour at which the murder, as we have reason to believe, was committed."

"We are ready to admit," replied Mr. Dunn, "that the prisoner was in the woods within a half, or possibly a quarter, of a mile of the Van Deust homestead on the night of the murder; that for what seemed to him good and sufficient reasons, yet very innocent ones—which the younger portion of my hearers will possibly imagine and appreciate more readily than the old ones—he did seek to avoid meeting any inquisitive and gossiping friends; and that he parted from the person whom the State has just called before the hour at which the murder was committed. I believe those admissions cover all the State desires to show by this witness, and consequently, I do not see that there can be any necessity, at this time, for placing her on the stand."

"None at all. We are satisfied with the admissions," assented the prosecutor cheerfully, not at all dissatisfied with expediting business in the close and heated quarters in which he found himself.

A look of relief, almost of pleasure, passed over Dorn's face. He had his Mary spared the embarrassment and unhappiness of appearing as a witness against him, for that time at least.

A man named Schooly, from New Haven, testified that he saw Dorn in his boarding-house in that city two days after the date of the murder, and he was then suffering from some cuts, bruises, and sprains which he claimed to have received while running through the Long Island woods at night.

Detective Turner bore witness to the finding in the prisoner's room in New Haven of a pair of pantaloons and a jacket stained with blood, and a shirt which, though it had been washed, still bore blood stains. He further narrated that the prisoner had stoutly resisted arrest; had, indeed, fought hard to effect an escape; and upon being overcome and searched, had been found to have, in a belt about his body, some three hundred dollars in gold coins—which the witness here produced for inspection by the magistrate, and possible identification by Mr. Peter Van Deust.

The old man looked them over a little, and then pushed them away with a weary sigh, saying simply:

"Jacob had gold in his bag; I don't know how much. Minted coins are all alike."

The case looked very weak for the prosecution. There was really nothing beyond mere suspicion to connect the prisoner with the crime. The prosecuting attorney, with a discontented look, whispered to the detective,—who was evidently uneasy,—and shuffled over again the pages of the testimony taken at the inquest, with a faint hope that he might find there some previously overlooked clue to be of service now. But there was nothing.

The prisoner's counsel leaned back to his client and whispered exultantly: "I defy any jury, or magistrate, to find on that evidence anything worse than the Scotch verdict of 'Not Proven.'"

"'Not Proven'?" exclaimed Dorn, "I don't want such a verdict as that. Cast a cloud of suspicion and doubt over my whole life! No, I'd rather be hanged at once and done with it. What I demand is a verdict of 'Not Guilty.'"

"Better be satisfied with what you can get. 'Not Proven' would be just as good."

"Not for me. I want to tell the Squire, and everybody, just what happened to me that night. I'm sure that they will see I am telling the truth, and I'll clear away this suspicion."

An older and shrewder practitioner than Mr. Dunn would have positively refused to permit his client to imperil, by a word, the present promising condition of his case; but he could not help entering into the feeling of the brave, handsome and earnest young fellow who pleaded so hard to be permitted to defend himself with the truth, and yielded.

"If your honor pleases," he said simply, "my client requests to be permitted to make his own statement of the events of the night in question affecting him, or in which he had a part."

"I shall be happy to hear him," answered Squire Bodley, who was conscious of feeling prepossessed in Dorn's favor, and desirous of seeing him clear himself from suspicion.

The prosecuting attorney looked up with a new light of hope in his eyes. Well he knew how even innocent persons sometimes tangle themselves up in trying to tell a straight story, and how their unpractised and unguarded utterances can be garbled, warped, and misconstrued. But Dorn's manner gave him very little encouragement. In a plain, straight-forward way, that went home with the force of truth to the hearts of all who heard him, the young man told his brief tale of mal-adventure on that luckless night.

Why he had come to Long Island that evening and tried to avoid being seen by anybody but the person he came to see was, he said, his own business—had no bearing on this affair—and he did not propose to make any statement about that. He did not need to. Already it had in some way become matter of public knowledge all over that end of Long Island that he had come to see Mary Wallace, his sweetheart, who stuck to him so well in his trouble that she had been to see him in jail. And nobody thought the worse of him for that, certainly.

Having disposed of that matter so simply, he retold his story, from the time of his starting to run through the woods to catch Mr. Hollis's sloop up to his final arrival at his home in New Haven the next morning. "Deeply I regret," he said, in concluding the narrative, "that I do not know the two persons who assisted me; the gentleman on horseback and the old man in the smack; and beyond measure grateful I would be to them if they, learning of the trouble into which I have innocently fallen, would come forward to corroborate my statement of what happened that night."

"And you know of absolutely nothing," said the prosecuting attorney, after a little whispering with old Peter Van Deust, who was seen to violently shake his head, "which might lead to the discovery of the real existence of either of those persons who, according to your very romantic story, came so opportunely to give you their aid?" He spoke with an affectation of incredulity, which in his heart he was very far from feeling.

"Nothing whatever, sir," replied Dorn. "The only trace I have left of either of them, except the memory of their kindness to me, is the handkerchief which the little gentleman bound around my head. It has been washed, with the rest of my clothing over which the blood flowed from my scalp wounds, and was sent to me yesterday in the valise which was forwarded to me from my boarding house in New Haven. I have it with me. Here it is."

So saying he drew from one of his pockets a large white linen handkerchief, clean and neatly folded, which he handed to the prosecuting attorney. That official took it in an absent-minded way, looked at it negligently, and—his mind busy with some trap he was minded to set for the young man—then tossed the light fabric carelessly from him upon the table. It fell before old Peter Van Deust, who snatched it up and, after turning it from one corner to another for close examination, suddenly startled everybody by a loud cry and the exclamations:

"It was his! It was Jacob's! I can swear to it!"

The old man was immediately recalled to the witness-stand, and testified with much demonstration of excitement:

"I felt that it was his as soon as I saw it, and when I examined it I was sure of it. Jacob had some harmless, womanish ways about him. He could sew, and knit, and embroider a little. He marked all his clothing himself—every article of it I believe—in a very modest way; hardly discernible at a casual glance, but very plain when you come to look for it, as you can see on that handkerchief. Look in that corner and you'll see his initials 'J. V. D.' worked with a single white thread. You can hardly see it without you hold it so that the light will show the lines of the letters lying across the threads of the fabric. There! That way it shows plainly."

It was as he said. The letters "J. V. D." were unquestionably there.

Dorn sank back in his seat aghast and terrified by this astonishing discovery. Who now believed his story of the little gentleman and the old man in the smack? Nobody. Everybody saw that it was an artfully concocted lie, and was indignant with him for duping them, by his apparently ingenuous and honest manner, into momentarily believing him. An audible murmur about the "finger of Providence" ran through the throng, and Mr. Dunn groaned, half to himself and half to his client:

"Oh, I was afraid you'd play the devil somehow! Why couldn't you have let well enough alone?"

Squire Bodley, having carefully examined for himself the marked handkerchief, said solemnly to the accused:

"Young man, you have, I fear, placed the noose about your own neck. You will stand committed to await the action of the Grand Jury. Without bail, of course," he added, seeing that the prisoner's counsel had risen and seemed about to say something.

Whatever it was that Mr. Dunn had an idea of saying or doing when he got upon his feet, he changed his mind and sat down again. The fact was that he was as completely stunned as was his client by the revelation that had been made. Dorn had sworn to him that he was innocent, and he had believed it. But now—? He, even, began to have his doubts.

At this moment a sharp-featured woman, wearing a sun-bonnet and with a tangled lock of sandy hair hanging down her back, having literally fought her way to the railing, leaned over it and asked the magistrate in an acidulous whisper:

"Squire, can't I swear to something against him?"

"It would be useless, now, Mrs. Thatcher," replied the Squire, "as he has already been committed. But your evidence might be desired by the Grand Jury. What can you testify to?"

"I can swear," answered the woman, with eager spite, "that he's a hardened villain, and that I believe he killed Jake Van Deust, and that he's been keeping that fool niece of mine out in the woods to the latest and most indecent hours of the night."

"Madam," said the Squire, with mingled dignity and contempt, "you will excuse my saying that you are simply disgusting! Go away!"

XIX. THE MAD AVENGER.

Nobody could devote himself with greater assiduity to an almost hopeless task than Lem Pawlett did to his pursuit of the unknown lawyer. The weather was exceedingly hot in the city, and he, accustomed to breathing the pure fresh breezes of the sea-shore, felt it terribly oppressive. The pavements were very hard to his feet, used to the soft earth and sand of the country, and he was actually lame most of the time. The interminable streets and the multitude of people confused him and gave him a horrible sense of isolation among them all. Then he very much missed little Ruth's affectionate despotism, and her practical good sense and encouragement, for he had so many disappointments and discouragements to encounter that he was fairly heart-sick almost all the while. Still the good fellow did not give up his chase. He had come to town for a purpose, he said to himself, and he would succeed in it or die trying. Day after day he haunted the courts and the streets where there were most lawyer's offices, and it was not long before he became actually a terror to all the little elderly gentlemen who practised law in New York—and there were a great many of them, as there are even yet. Seeing one who, it seemed to him, might come within the somewhat wide specifications he alone had for his guidance, of being small and past middle age, it was his habit to buttonhole the suspected person and put to him directly the question:

"Do you know the Van Deusts of Easthampton?"

They all said "No." A very few of them, at first, had curiosity enough to add "why?" But upon his commencing his story which from his manner promised to be long, they would always exclaim, "Ah! One moment—excuse me. I see a man—" and would dart away. Generally they did not even ask "why?" but darted away about their own business all the same.

His frequent repetitions of the same question were overheard by other members of the bar than those to whom it was addressed, and it was observed that the interrogation was always directed to little, elderly gentlemen. So very speedily it became a stock-joke among the profession for waggish counsellors to ask of his selected class of victims, at the most inopportune times and unexpected places, "Do you know the Van Deusts of Easthampton?" until they were almost maddened by the iteration.

One jocose attorney christened Lem "The Mad Avenger," and by that title he was soon generally known. The poor fellow was much puzzled to account for the hilarity that his appearance in court sometimes seemed to occasion; for the general interest that appeared to be awakened among the lawyers when he approached one of whom he thought he should ask his question; and for the angry haste with which the person so approached would reply, oft-times before he said more than "Do you—" with an emphatic "No. Never heard of them in my life." Sometimes he asked the same person, twice or thrice even, on different days, for he could not be expected to remember them all.

There are always haunting the courts a few poor, harmless mad people,—wrecks whose hearts and minds have been at some time crushed by the Juggernaut of the law. The mercy of forgetfulness has wiped away the memory of ruinous defeat and made place for ever-springing hope in their breasts. They imagine always that their cases are "coming on very soon—to-morrow, perhaps;" for the bitter, heart-sickening lesson of legal procrastination is deepest graven, and survives all else in their blighted brains. Lem got to be regarded as one of those unfortunate beings. And then, even if he had got an opportunity to tell his story to anybody, the chances are that it would have been taken for a fiction of his imagination. Still he plodded on indefatigably, with his eyes always open for the wanted witness, and his one question ever trembling on his lips. His manner of operation was certainly not the best,—not the one that a skilful detective would have adopted,—but it was the best he knew; and sooner or later Providence is pretty certain to help those who endeavor for themselves as earnestly and well as they know how.

Once only he sought to make a divergence from the path upon which he had set out. He went to the police, thinking to ask their aid. The superintendent received him brusquely, demanding as soon as he put his foot over the threshold of the office:—

"Well, my man, what do you want?"

"I have come, sir, to ask some help here in finding out about the murder of Jacob Van Deust, of Easthampton, Long Island."

The superintendent referred to a book at his elbow, and replied curtly, "Man on that case now."

"Yes, I know there is," answered Lem, "but it seems to me that he's on the wrong tack, and—"

The superintendent did not trouble himself to hide his contempt for the criticism of an unprofessional, and a countryman at that, upon one of his force of detectives, and interrupted with the abrupt retort:

"Very probably. But I guess you are not likely to teach him his business. Martin!"—turning to his messenger—"Tell the captain I'll see him now."

Lem accepted this discourteous dismissal, and found his way into the street without anybody seeming to have noticed that he said, "Good-day, sir."

Singularly enough as it might appear, in view of the notoriety that Lem's question had obtained among the lawyers, but for a very excellent reason, nevertheless, the one man of all of them who could have responded "yes;" the one man of whom he was in search, had not in all this time heard that anybody was hunting an acquaintance of the Van Deusts and, though he was the only person in New York who had any direct business interest in the Van Deusts, knew anything about them or would have been likely to know of any important event happening to them, he had not even heard that Jacob Van Deust had been murdered. That one man was Mr. Pelatiah Holden. Of late years he had practiced very little in the courts. He had amassed a considerable fortune—one so regarded in those days, at least—by the exercise of his profession; and as he grew older and attained a high and deserved reputation by his ability, gradually drifted into the comparatively quiet, easy, and lucrative life of an office lawyer—one who gives counsel to other lawyers in difficult and important cases. His deep learning in the law, his wide knowledge of rulings and precedents, and his great caution in forming and framing opinions, gave weight and value to his advice, and put him in the position of a general who plans battles for others to fight, but seldom finds himself directly engaged in combat.

It was his custom to go to his office at an early hour every week-day morning; lock himself in a little inner room, the walls of which were covered with a magnificent legal library; receive there only persons who came on such important business as could not be attended to by Mr. Anderson, his old and able confidential clerk; have a lunch handed into him at noon precisely; and, at four o'clock to leave for his home somewhere in the upper part of the city. During his seclusion in that inner room, he was constantly busy, poring over law books, reading points submitted by counsel, and writing opinions. When a person was admitted to see him, the very atmosphere by which he was surrounded, was a warning against waste of time in idle conversation. Not one, of even his most intimate friends, would have dreamed of taking up his time with mention of a new lunatic haunting the courts.

So it was that Lem met him and passed him by in the street, unconsciously, over and over again, not even knowing that he was a lawyer. The young man was so uneasy, restless and unhappy, as the days flew rapidly by, and the time for Dorn's trial was drawing nearer—for the grand jury had found an indictment against him within a week after his commitment by the magistrate, and he was to be tried for his life at the next session of the court—that he could no more sleep at night than rest in the daytime, and was almost constantly strolling aimlessly about the streets, growing thinner, more careworn and despondent daily.

One evening, as he was passing the front of the old Chatham Street theatre, he was surprised to hear himself called by name, and turning, found himself face to face with Silas Thatcher. He had not seen the scapegrace for more than three years, had never been at all intimate with him, and hardly recognized him now, so greatly had his appearance changed. Silas was dressed in black cloth, wore a silk hat, flashing breast-pin and shining boots, had a moustache and goatee, and was smoking a long cigar. In all respects he was a good sample of the lot of a dozen or more fellows lounging near the theatre door, every one of whom was known to the police as a gambler or a thief, and most of them as deserving official notice in both characters. The vulgar affectation with which he sought to impress his rustic acquaintance, did not lacquer over the coarse blackguardism of his customary manners, and Lem, without well knowing why, felt an instinctive dislike for, and distrust of, him. Still, he stood and talked a little while, telling the last news he had from home; that Uncle and Aunt Thatcher and Mary were all well; that Eben Stebbins had gone a-whaling; that the schooner "Pretty Polly," with Captain Marsh and three men, had been lost in a gale; that Dorn Hackett had come back and been arrested on suspicion of having murdered Jacob Van Deust—

"Murdered old Jake Van Deust! You don't mean to say that you folks down in that dead-alive little village, have had the sensation of a real murder!"

"Ah! yes. A terrible sensation, too, the killing and robbery of a poor, weak, old man, and the arrest of an innocent person for the crime."

"Let's go and get a drink, while you tell me all about it."

"No, thank you. I don't drink. But I can tell you all about it here, all the same." And he told the whole story, at least, as far as it was known to the public, instinctively suppressing, however, all mention of the evidence he hoped to find in the city.

"That handkerchief business will be likely to hang him, won't it?" asked Silas.

"It seems very serious to his friends."

"Mighty queer that he should have had the thing!—if he isn't guilty."

"And yet I am as sure as that I am alive this moment, that if they hang Dorn Hackett for that murder, they will hang an innocent man for the crime of another."

"Come, let's go and take a drink, just one. Take something light if you like. And then we'll go around and see some life. Come on. I want a drink."

"No, you'll have to excuse me, Silas. I never drink, and I feel pretty tired; and, I think I'll go to bed."

"Go to bed! now! Why, a man isn't a hen. Night is the only time to see life in New York. I've only been up a couple of hours or so. Come along, and I'll show you the elephant."

"No, thank you. I have no desire to see him. I'd rather go to bed. Good-night."

"Well, good-night,—if you will go."

Silas, when left alone, hastily entered the bar-room attached to the theatre, and called for a glass of brandy. While he was pouring out the fiery beverage, an acquaintance entered, and, looking at him with surprise, exclaimed:—

"Why, Sile! What the deuce is the matter with you? You look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

"Maybe I have. What'll you take?" answered Silas, dryly.

"Brandy," replied his friend, and the young man's looks were no more commented on.

XX. RUTH'S LETTER.

When Lem reached the humble hotel on Pearl Street, at which he put up, he found a letter addressed to him in the clerk's rack. It had arrived while he was out that afternoon. No need for him to open it to know who it came from. One glance at the superscription was enough for him to see that Ruth's chubby little hand had guided the pen. Retiring to his little room he opened the missive, trimmed his solitary candle, and with a countenance of happy anticipation sat himself down to read.

"Dear old Lem," she wrote, "I'm beginning to think that you are away an awful long time, and I'm getting real anxious about you sometimes. Perhaps you have found some handsome city lady that you think you like ever so much better than me, and have no idea of coming back to the village. If so, just mention the fact while I have some chance left. I hear that Deacon Harkins is looking out for a fourth wife, and who knows—But there, I won't plague you any more, you big, good-hearted, stupid dear. I know you won't fall in love with anybody but your little Ruth, any more than she will with somebody else than her big Lem, and I can answer for her. But there! I haven't much time to write about you and I, for I've got something real serious to tell you, something that may be a great deal of help to you in what you are trying to do; that is, supposing you are trying what you started for, and not just to capture the handsome city lady. Mary has been to see Dorn in jail, and had a talk with him about the little elderly gentleman, and he has remembered something more than he told you that makes us both sure we have seen him, and would know him again; and it's a wonder to me that he didn't think of telling you, for he's a man you couldn't mistake. But then you men are all so flighty and slow to think about things, and you never get them right until a woman takes them in hand."

Lem scratched his head, looked perplexed, reread the long sentence, and then muttered to himself:

"Ah, yes! I see. Dorn has remembered something more—and it's the little elderly gentleman she and Mary have seen—and it's a wonder Dorn didn't think of telling me that something he has remembered—and the little elderly gentleman is a man I couldn't mistake. Yes, it's all clear now." And he read on:

"I remember him just as well as if I saw him only yesterday, and I'll tell you exactly how he looked. He wore a wig, very dark brown, nearly black, and very neatly brushed; and he had a shirt bosom with a frill—like those queer old heroes of the revolution in our pictorial book of American History; and his tall silk hat had a very wide crape around it; and he had a funny little breast-pin in his frill that looked like a square of glass with gray hair under it, and little pearls around it, like grandmother's brooch. He had on a stock, a very wide, stiff stock, that kept his head up very straight; and when he bowed he moved as if he was only hinged in the middle. He spoke very deliberately, and seemed to be afraid somebody would snap him up right off if he didn't say exactly the right word, and he appeared to be too cautious ever to say anything positive. He spoke of the Van Deusts as 'supposed to be brothers,' and when Dorn asked him what time it was, he looked at his watch and replied that, 'according to his information and belief it was eleven minutes past ten.'"

"Now I'm sure, Lem, that such peculiarities as his must mark him out; so that when you know them you will have little difficulty in finding him. Do your best, darling, and make haste, for the time is getting terribly short for poor Dorn and dear Mary,—and yet it seems awful long to

"Your own little "Ruth."

"This is serious. This merits consideration and dissection," said Lem to himself, spreading the letter on the table before him, and squaring himself to go at it as a study. It was nearly morning when he felt that he had fully mastered all its contents, and threw himself on his bed for a short and troubled sleep.

But the earliest lawyers on the street—those who snatch a subsistence from the dregs and scum of humanity thrown up daily by the currents of misfortune and vice, upon the strands of the police courts—saw "the Mad Avenger" already prowling about the vicinity of their offices long before the hour at which the civil and principal criminal courts would be opened for business. When the judicial mills commenced their grinding, he was within sound of their clatter, and from one to another he wandered, anxiously and wearily, as was his custom. When the day's grist was completed, and the grinders hurried away to their respective offices to prepare more grain for the morrow's grinding, he mechanically followed them.

It was getting late in the afternoon; he had not yet seen anybody approximating to the picture he had in his mind's eye—the portrait drawn by Ruth—and he was just arrived at that period of the day when he always felt most sick with disappointment, and most sorely tempted to give up the seemingly useless pursuit and go home. He stopped before the little hand-cart of a street fruit vender, which was drawn up to the curbstone, to buy an apple. While he made the purchase he heard the voice of a man, who halted just behind him, saying quickly:

"Ah! I was just coming up to see you. Are you in Fordyce vs. Baxter?"

"Not having been advised by my clerk," said a precise and deliberate speaker in reply, "that any papers in an action so entitled had been deposited in his hands, and having no other knowledge of such action than your present mention of its title, I believe that I am justified in saying, sir, that to the best of my information and belief—"

"Aha!" shouted Lem, wheeling around and seeing before him the living original of Ruth's very exact sketch—"You're the man I'm looking for!"

"What the—the—the—mischief do you mean, sir," exclaimed the little gentleman, warding off the hand that Lem stretched out to clutch his collar.

"It's the Mad Avenger," said, laughingly, the gentleman interested in Fordyce vs. Baxter. "He will ask you, in a moment, if you know the Van Deusts of Easthampton."

"Of course I will," retorted Lem, growing hot and angry, "I don't know why you call me the Mad Avenger—my name is Lemuel Pawlett, and I do want to know, for very serious reasons, if this gentleman is acquainted with the Van Deusts of Easthampton."

"And I reply that I am," answered Mr. Holden, sufficiently perturbed by the immediate excitement to forget his customary caution and make a positive statement without qualification.

"Oh! The deuce you are! Then there really are Van Deusts of Easthampton!" exclaimed the other lawyer, with genuine surprise and beginning to feel an interest in the affair.

"Thank God! I have found you, sir. Thank God!" ejaculated Lem, fervently, "for I believe you can be the means of saving an innocent man's life."

"Bless my soul!" gasped Mr. Holden—"But, here! This is no place for a consultation. Come up to my office;" and he began elbowing his way through the crowd that had already gathered.

"But are you in Fordyce vs. Baxter?" called after him the gentleman whose lucky inquiry had brought to Lem the good fortune of this meeting.

"No," Mr. Holden answered, still moving off.

"Then remember that you are retained for the plaintiff!"

"See Anderson about it," shouted back the little gentleman, disappearing with Lem in the big doorway of the stairs leading to his office.

It was with profound astonishment and genuine sorrow that the worthy lawyer heard of the murder of Jacob Van Deust, for he had achieved quite a liking for the younger of the two brothers.

"But," said he, "I am tempted to say that it seems to me somewhat strange that I have not been notified of the fact by the surviving brother."

"Old Peter is greatly broken down, sir; more shaken by the loss of his brother than any one would have believed he could be, seeing how hard and selfish he always used to seem."

"Ah!" replied Mr. Holden, meditatively, his eyes resting upon the mourning band of his hat on the table before him. "The rupture of life-long ties gives deep pain. We are such creatures of habit, if nothing more. We miss a face to which we have long been accustomed; a voice that we had thought was only in our ears, when it was in our hearts all the while. When the grave covers that face and there is only silence, or the sadness of its own echoes in the lonely heart, the world is no longer the same—But, there!—Don't talk about it any more. You have not yet told me how I can, as you said in the street, save the life of an innocent man."

"The man arrested for that murder, perpetrated at or about midnight, as is supposed, is the one you found in the road suffering from the consequences of a severe fall, and whom you helped to leave Long Island, in a disabled condition, nearly two hours earlier that night than Mr. Van Deust was killed."

"Ah! If I did not know of what the police are capable, I should be surprised at it."

"You know he is innocent, sir; and I know it, and Ruth, and Mary, his sweetheart; we all know it. But they would hang him if we couldn't prove it."

The reaction from his long sustained anxiety, the present excitement and his joyful emotion over finding the man upon whom he looked as Dorn's saviour, so affected the poor fellow that he cried like a schoolboy.

"Yes," assented Mr. Holden reflectively, "that is practically what the law seems to require sometimes—and it is hardly ever an easy thing to do. But, come, my good fellow! Leave that crying for the girls you mentioned and give me all the facts you possess bearing on the case."

"I—I—can't help it, sir. Don't mind me—I'll be over it directly. I know it's weak, and foolish,—but I've been worked up so, fearing I wouldn't find you in time."

In a few minutes Lem recovered his self-control, and then it took but a very short time for the skilful lawyer to elicit every detail of the progress of Dorn's case. Lem was surprised at seeing him smile when the discovery of the handkerchief, the strongest point against the accused, as it was deemed, was mentioned, but did not dare to ask him why he did so. When the narration was concluded, Mr. Holden asked:

"When is his trial to come off?"

"On Tuesday next, sir."

"Tuesday next. H'm. Prosecution will take up first day; defence not be reached before Wednesday—and this is Thursday—leaves me four days to get through what I have on hand. Oh, Mr. Anderson!"

The door opened noiselessly in response to his loud summons, and the old clerk poked in his head.

"If Mr. Sarcher comes to retain me in Fordyce vs. Baxter, you will decline to take his papers unless he can wait for an opinion until after next week."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all, Mr. Anderson."

"Thank you."

The clerk bowed and retired his head, again carefully closing the door. Mr. Holden turned to Lem and said, cheerily:

"With Heaven's help, young man, we will save your friend's neck."

"Oh! I'm quite satisfied you will, sir, I'm easy in my mind about it, now that I've seen you. Did you know there's a schooner goes to Sag Harbor, Tuesdays and Fridays, starting at five o'clock in the evening from Coenties Slip?"

"Yes, I know. I have taken it before, and will again, God willing, next Tuesday evening. Go home, see your friend and his sweetheart, and cheer them up, especially the girl. Tell them I'll—well, no; on second thoughts, you'd better say nothing about my evidence that you can avoid;—he would tell his counsel who must be, metaphorically speaking, an ass, or he would have kept his client quiet at the preliminary examination—and it might get to the other side. That might do harm. It is always unwise to let your antagonist in law know your weapons."

XXI. THAT SWEET BOON—TRIAL BY JURY.

On the day that Dorn Hackett's trial commenced, the little court-house of Sag Harbor was by no means large enough to contain half the people who came from all the country around to attend it. From the neighborhood in which the murder had been committed, they seemed to have come in a body. Old acquaintances, neighbors, friends of the prisoner—who had known him since he was a child; who had heard as fresh the news that his father, William Hackett, had been swept overboard from a whaler's yard-arm and lost in a gale, and who had seen the drowned man's little orphan boy grow up to young manhood among them—were present by dozens; yet among them all one could hardly hear a few faint expressions of sympathy for him, or hope for the demonstration of his innocence. There is nothing for which ignorant people, particularly rustics, are so ready as the acceptance of the guilt of a person accused legally of a crime; nothing they resent so deeply as what they believe to be an attempt to deceive them by a false assumption of innocence. The discovery of the marked handkerchief in his possession, had been, to their narrow minds, conclusive evidence of Dorn's guilt and each man of them felt it an insult to what he deemed his intelligence, that Dorn had, just before that discovery, betrayed him into a temporary fear that they might not have the right man after all.

Deacon Harkins, who, by the way, had tried to have Dorn, as a child, indentured to him by the county overseer of the poor, as soon as he heard of the drowning of the lad's father—a slavery from which the boy was saved by the kindness of a good old man, long since dead—was prominent in the crowd about the court-house, quoting texts and vaunting the foresight with which he had "always looked forward to seeing that young man come to a bad end." Aunt Thatcher, was of course, present, and—as might have been expected—vindictively exultant. Mary Wallace, having been summoned as a witness by the prosecution, was compelled to attend, and made her way through the throng to the county clerk's office, beneath the court-room, where she was given a seat to wait until she should be called. Happily there was still humanity enough among the rough people who were eagerly awaiting the conviction of her lover, to prompt some little sympathetic feeling for her; and, as she went by, they at least refrained from saying, in her hearing, that they hoped Dorn Hackett would be hanged. Aunt Thatcher was incapable of such delicacy and reserve. She had been saying that daily, and almost hourly, since she had heard of his arrest, and she continued to say it now, loudly too, until the disgusted county clerk ordered her to keep quiet or get out of his office, to which she had forced her way with Mary.

There was little difficulty in getting a jury, for in those days fewer newspapers were read than now are; fewer people sought to escape jury duty by deliberately "forming and expressing opinions relative to the guilt or innocence of the accused" in advance of the trial; and, above all, lawyers had not yet developed, as they since have, the science of delay at that point of the proceedings. Twelve "good men and true" were selected—perhaps a sample dozen as juries go. One of them heard with great difficulty; two kept yawning and dropping asleep from time to time; a fourth belied his looks, if he was not at least semi-idiotic; three were manifestly weak, simple-minded persons, devoid of moral force and easy to be influenced by a stronger will, and the remaining five were evidently men who doubtless meant to do right, but were obstinate to the verge of pig-headedness, and showed, by the countenances with which they regarded the prisoner, that they were already inimical to him. And before this "jury of his peers" Dorn Hackett stood, to be tried for his life.

It would be time and space lost to recite the thrilling opening speech of the prosecuting attorney; to tell how vividly he depicted the horrors of the crime that had been perpetrated; how artfully he seemed, by word and gesture, to connect the prisoner with the crime at every stage of its progress; how scornfully he dwelt upon "the absurd story by which the murderer had sought to explain away the damning proofs against him, and which his counsel might have the audacity to ask this intelligent jury to believe," etc. It was more like a closing than an opening speech, and when it was ended, five of the jury looked as if they were satisfied that the proper thing to do would be to take the prisoner right out and hang him to one of the big elms beside the court-house.

Mr. Dunn's heart sank within him. What had he to make headway with against that speech, before those five men and with that fatal marked handkerchief ever fluttering before his eyes?

The hearing of the witnesses for the State continued slowly all the first day. All that had been sworn to before the committing magistrate, was repeated now, and there was really very little more, but that little was adroitly handled, and the temper of the jury was to make the most of it. Peter Van Deust produced a great effect when he gave his testimony as to the identification of the handkerchief belonging to his murdered brother, which was, in the language of the prosecutor, cunningly woven into questions "voluntarily, confidently, and impudently exhibited by the prisoner to sustain his preposterous story." Poor Mary Wallace had to go on the stand and testify that Dorn had been with her, walking and conversing, in the edge of the woods, less than half a mile from the Van Deust homestead, on the night of the murder, and that he left her about nine o'clock. Witnesses were brought from New Haven to testify to Dorn's arrival in that city, the morning after the murder, with his clothes bloody, head cut, and one ankle sprained; and to his admissions that he had received those injuries while running through the woods on Long Island the night before.

"Not," exclaimed the prosecuting-attorney, "as he would have it believed, long before the murder, but when he was fleeing red-handed, conscious that the brand of Cain was on his brow!"

The prisoner's counsel protested against this sort of interpolation of comments, as irregular and unfair, and the court sustained him in that view, but the majority of the jury looked as if they would have thanked the prosecutor for expressing their sentiments so forcibly.

Then other witnesses were called to prove, as experts, that a man would have time after the hour at which it was believed the murder was committed,—say, at midnight—to run to the Napeague Inlet, take a sail-boat and reach New Haven early the next morning. One, indeed, testified that he had tried and accomplished the feat.

And that was all the State had to offer. Still, the popular feeling was that it was sufficient.

"It would hardly amount to much before a city jury," said the prosecuting-attorney, in confidential chat with some other lawyers at the close of the day's proceedings, "but I guess it will be enough down here."

The jury, at the adjournment of the court for the day, gravely heard the injunction of the judge, that they "should refrain from talking to anybody about the case," and then went out and discussed the evidence with their friends and neighbors.

"The handkerchief must hang him; that's clear," said everybody. "How could he have had it if he hadn't killed the old man?"

Dorn was remanded back to the jail, where Mary had a little interview with him, during which she wept almost constantly, and he spent all his time in trying to console her with loving words and foolish hopes, so that neither of them said or did anything particularly reasonable or worthy of the telling here. And then Mary went back to the room that had been assigned her in the tavern, and cried so all night, that in the morning her eyes were red and swollen almost sufficiently to justify in some measure the gratified assurance of Aunt Thatcher, that she "looked like a fright."

As for Lem Pawlett, it must be admitted that he acted in what seemed to his friends a most reprehensible and unaccountable manner. Following even too strictly the injunctions of Mr. Pelatiah Holden about saying nothing to anybody, he would not even give them the satisfaction of knowing positively that he had found his man, and that the much needed evidence would be forthcoming in due time. He did go so far, under Ruth's most severe pressure, as to assure her that it would "be all right," but beyond that the little maiden found that for once her power was set at naught. He felt resting upon him a responsibility that temporarily out-weighted his love, and the gravity of his stubborn silence awed the girl, and made her look upon him with a new respect. But how he suffered! Bearing alone and in silence his weighty secret, made him feel that virtually Dorn's salvation depended upon him, and should anything happen by which that evidence would not be forthcoming, and Dorn be hanged in consequence of its failure, he would be neither more nor less than the executioner of his friend. The next most unhappy man in the town that night, after the prisoner himself, was Lem Pawlett. When, from sheer exhaustion, he fell asleep, nearly at daylight, he had a horrid dream that he was tied hand and foot, and powerless to speak, while his witness was fleeing swiftly away from him on horseback, and that Dorn was standing before him, under the gallows-tree, with a noose about his neck and a horrible look of haunting reproach in his eyes. From that dream he awoke with a howl of fright, and, fearing to go to sleep again, sprang up, dressed himself and hurried out into the deserted main street of the still slumbering town.

He took his way toward the wharf. "Sometimes," he said to himself, "the packet from New York gets in early; hardly so early as this, but then she might have had an extraordinary good breeze last night." His road led him by the jail. He shuddered as he passed the grim, gray building, for never before had it seemed to him so big, so strong, so terrible. Not one living thing did he meet in his lonely walk, and when he reached the wharf the most profound silence surrounded him. The tide was rising, but without the sound of its accustomed swash on the piles. Its influx was indicated only by a slight ripple around the obstacles it met. As far out as he could see the surface of the bay was as smooth as a mirror. Going down some slimy green steps to a boat-landing, he dipped one hand into the water, and held it above his head. There was not even a breath of air moving. With sullen resignation he seated himself upon a pile of lumber and waited.

The dawn appeared, then suddenly the sun rose up behind the town, casting upon the glassy surface of the water before him long shadows of the tall warehouses, and of the people who now began to busy themselves in the vicinity. Not the smallest ripple broke the outlines of those shadows. He looked anxiously up at the sky. Ah! with what joy he would have seen, in the direction of New York, a myriad of those ragged fleecy clouds which sailors call "mare's tails," and believe to be sure harbingers of wind. But there was not one to give him hope. The sky looked like a monster dome of unflecked, burnished brass. It was high tide, and a dead calm.

With a groan he turned away and retraced his steps to the tavern. An unwonted excitement began to be perceptible in the streets, the continuation of that of the preceding day. Already people were flocking in from the country, determined to be nearest the court-room doors when they were thrown open. The tavern bar-room was crowded, even before the sleepy bar-keeper had his eyes well rubbed open, and a sort of general picnic scene was presented by the people breakfasting on cold lunches in the shade of the elms.

XXII. IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE.

When the court was opened that morning, at the usual hour, and the expectant multitude rushed, scrambled, and tumbled in, to fight first for front places and then for any place at all; the lawyers—who had entered by the judge's private stairway—were already seated inside the railing, chatting and laughing with cheerful indifference; the prisoner, looking worn and haggard, was seated in his place, and the two drowsy jurymen were already commencing to yawn.

The defence began the presentation of its evidence immediately. Mary Wallace was recalled to the stand to testify that when her lover was leaving her on the evening of the night of the murder he told her that he was going back to New Haven in Mr. Hollis's sloop. But the prosecuting attorney objected, and the court ruled that the prisoner's statements at that time were not admissible. Mr. Hollis, of New Haven, bore witness that Dorn had come over from New Haven with him that evening, had said that he might not return that night, and did not return to the beach at the appointed hour to accompany him back. Altogether, Mr. Hollis's evidence was rather injurious than otherwise, and the prosecuting attorney looked pleased as he made a note of it. Lem Pawlett was called to testify that the tracks left by the murderer in the soft earth of Mr. Van Deust's garden were those of a man wearing high-heeled, fashionable boots or shoes, and having much smaller feet than Dorn Hackett; but as he had taken no measurements of them, and only judged from memory, and didn't know the size of Dorn's feet, and was, as he readily admitted, a friend of the prisoner, the prosecuting attorney in cross-examination made it to be inferred from his manner, that there was no doubt in his mind that the witness was deliberately perjuring himself in the hope of helping the case of the accused. And at least five of the jury responsively looked as if that was the way they felt about it.

Then witnesses were put forward as sea-faring experts to prove that on the night of the murder there was almost a dead calm on the water, such as would have made it impossible for a sail-boat to go from Napeague Inlet to New Haven in the time that it was claimed by the prosecution Dorn had gone. But when the prosecuting-attorney got to bullying and confusing them in cross-examination, he made them say that they could not really swear whether the calm was that night, or the night before, or the night after, or two or three nights distant either way; and one of them even admitted that perhaps it might have blown a gale on that particular night, for all he was now prepared to make oath to about it. Simple-minded people, who do not know how much more lawyers bark than bite, when going through the ordeal of cross-examination are apt to feel much as the toad proverbially does when he finds himself under the harrow.

Things were going swimmingly for the prosecution. The defence was forced to fall back upon its last and always weakest intrenchment—proof of previous good character and reputation. A few persons were found to swear that they had known Dorn Hackett from his boyhood, and had always considered him honest, industrious, truthful and kind-hearted, and they were confident that such was his general reputation. Uncle Thatcher was one of those witnesses, at his own request, and the prosecuting attorney, who had, in some mysterious way, learned much more than he should have been permitted to know about the witnesses for the defence, asked him sneeringly:

"Did not this excellent young man, about three years ago, perpetrate an unprovoked and brutal assault on your son?"

"No, sir," replied, the old man sternly. "He thrashed him, as he deserved, for a contemptible action."

But all those witnesses to good character had to admit that they had known nothing of Dorn for three years past, during which time he had been away from the village—whaling, it was said, but for all they knew to the contrary he might have been living the most vicious and ill-regulated life in some big city. Then a stronger witness in that direction took the stand, Mr. Merriwether, of New Haven, owner of the schooner of which Dorn was master, and he could, and did, swear positively that he knew Dorn had been on a three years' whaling voyage, had since been steadily in his employ, and was in all respects moral, sober, and an entirely trustworthy young man of irreproachable character. The prosecuting attorney seeing that this witness was one who could not be easily bluffed or confused, contented himself with asking:

"You are his employer, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And interested in getting him back to work for you, as you deem him a good sailor?"

"Yes, sir. But—"

"Never mind. That will do, sir. I am through with this witness." And the prosecutor sat down, looking with a scornful smile toward the jury, as if he would have said to them confidentially: "You see this man cares nothing whether the prisoner is guilty, or not, of all the crimes forbidden by the Decalogue, if he only serves him well."

In those days, a person accused was not permitted to go upon the stand in his own behalf and give his testimony, under the sanctity of an oath, as is now allowed him by the law. Then, he might be granted the privilege of making his statement, but it would be merely a statement, and the prosecution was very careful always, when a prisoner thus spoke for himself, to impress upon the jury that his unsworn affirmation of innocence was of no value whatever, when weighed in the balance against other men's affidavits. Stress would be laid upon the time and knowledge the accused had had to enable his preparation of his own version of the affair, and undue prominence and importance given to the fact that he could not be cross-examined. In this way an artful prosecutor could generally neutralize all good effect the accused might otherwise produce, if not, indeed, make the poor wretch's asseverations of innocence absolutely harmful to him, by stirring up the suspicion, antagonism, and secret consciousness of infallibility in the minds of the jury, who resent attempts to deceive them.

Dorn was duly warned of this, yet he persisted in demanding to be allowed to tell his own story, and the court granted him permission to do so. He told it simply, clearly, and truthfully, as he had told it before to Lem, to Mary, to his lawyer, and to the magistrate who committed him, but he made no new converts to his innocence now—unless it might have been the clear-sighted and experienced old judge on the bench, who believed that he heard the ring of truth in the young man's voice, and saw honesty in his frank, manly face.

But at the conclusion of the statement, as Dorn left the stand and returned to his seat by his counsel, the prosecuting attorney silently held aloft before the jury the marked and identified handkerchief, and that action was more conclusive in its effect upon their minds than all that the prisoner had said. Looking upon their faces, the lawyer for the defence murmured to himself, "We are lost!"

As the day wore on Lem Pawlett was in agony, for his witness did not appear. It made him dizzy and sick to see one witness after another leaving the stand in such rapid succession, for he did not know how soon the supply of them would run out, and the weak defence be compelled to close before the one upon whom all depended should make his appearance. "Why had he not come? The boat was due many hours ago, and had not yet arrived! Becalmed, doubtless, on this one day of all the days in the year. Perhaps he might not be aboard. He might be sick. What if he should be a cunning villain, the real criminal, for all his smooth exterior, who had purposely given that handkerchief to Dorn to cast the guilt apparently on him? He smiled when it was mentioned. And now he might be flying far away." These thoughts almost maddened Lem. Bitterly he reproached himself that he had not staid in New York and kept his witness under his eye until the last moment, and brought him along by force, if necessary. Again and again he was tempted to make his way to Mr. Dunn, and urge him to fight the day through by all means; but each time he remembered what Mr. Holden had said the prisoner's counsel must be, and refrained. Parched with thirst, and blazing with fever, yet with a cold perspiration breaking out all over him, poor Lem could hardly understand half that was going on. But when Dorn's lawyer arose and said, "May it please the court, the defence rests," the words came to his ears like a clap of thunder. It seemed to him that that was the last moment of grace, and he staggered to his feet, trying to say something; to cry a halt; to appeal to the judge for time; to do, he did not know what. But his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and a deputy sheriff, seeing him standing there, waving his arms and looking as if he was about to speak, shouted at him with such an awful voice, "Silence in the court," that he sank down, stunned and speechless in his place, as helpless as he had been in that awful dream of the night before.

The prosecuting attorney began summing up to the jury. If he was forcible in the opening, he was terrible now. Of course he assumed that a clear case had been made out, as prosecutors always do; that "there was no moral doubt of the guilt of the accused, any more than if the jury had actually beheld him battering in the skull of his aged victim, wiping the dripping blood from his hands upon the raiment of the corpse, and clutching the gold, for lust of which he had done this hideous deed." [Five of the jury looked as if they quite agreed with him; three others glanced timidly and furtively at the faces of the five, as if to read there what they too should think about it; the sleepy men were very wide awake now, having had a good nap while the evidence as to character was being introduced; and the deaf man had both hands up to his ears to enable him to hear better, for if there is anything that country people do love, it is a good strong speech.]

In the midst of one of his most vigorous declamatory efforts the eye of the prosecutor caught sight of the judge, who was sitting with upraised gavel and a look as if he was only waiting for the end of a sentence to arrest his progress. The speaker stopped, and the judge, laying down his gavel, held up a note and said:

"I am in receipt of a communication which is, if written in good faith—that is, by the person whose name is signed to it—of so very important a character, and has such a decided bearing upon the interests of justice in this case, that I feel it would be in the highest degree unwise to ignore it. I will therefore ask the prosecuting attorney to have the kindness to at least postpone for a short time the continuation of his address to the jury. The court will now take a recess for half an hour."

The densely packed and excited audience hardly waited the conclusion of the sheriff's formal repetition of the formal order of the court, to break out into a loud murmur of exclamations, conjecture, and discussion as to what the important communication might be. The judge, upon rising from his seat, made a sign to the prosecuting attorney and the counsel for the defence to accompany him to his room, and the trio went out by the private door, which they closed behind them.

"What is it, Lem? What do you suppose they are going to do now?" Ruth asked anxiously of the young man, who sat in a semi-inanimate condition at her side, and who actually had not heard a word of what the judge had said. He started from his dream, into which reality had again plunged him, and replied miserably:

"I don't know. Hang him, I suppose."

"Don't talk nonsense, Lem. What's the matter with you? Wake up. Didn't you hear what the judge said about his receiving an important communication that had a decided bearing, and all that?"

"Did he?"

"Yes, 'a decided bearing upon the interests of justice in this case.' Those were his very words; and he held up a letter."

"Then it's all right now, Ruth! All right at last! He has come! He has come!"

"Who has come?"

"The man who will save Dorn Hackett."

XXIII. TURNING OF THE TIDE.

It seems a little strange to some people that a prosecuting attorney should so hungrily devote himself to the conviction of an accused person, even when, as is sometimes beyond question, he feels in his heart that the individual against whom he is exerting all the force of his trained legal ingenuity, eloquence, and mental power is, in fact, guiltless of the crime alleged against him. If his gains depended upon his success in obtaining a conviction, many who are accustomed to look upon pecuniary interest as a sufficient excuse for almost anything not absolutely prohibited by law, would understand him better. But such is not the case. His salary is the same, whether he succeeds in hanging a guiltless unfortunate or not. Success, in many cases, may help him to re-election: but that is not always a serious consideration. Why, then, when he cannot convict by clear proof of guilt, does he call to his aid the technicalities of law, the power of precedent, and all that may enable him to even prevent the prisoner accomplishing that herculean task—the proving of his innocence? Simply because of the development in him—and the conscious possession of the widest license in its exercise—of the hunting instinct that is inherent in all carnivorous animals, man included. He hunts the accused down to death, with not even the cannibal's excuse of wishing to eat him, but that he may have the joy of triumph in the achievement, and that his reputation as a hunter may be enhanced,—as some men used to kill buffaloes on the plains, as long as there were any, simply for the sake of the killing. In other circumstances and relations of life he may be gentle and kind-hearted; but put him in the chase, and he knows no pity. Perhaps there are times when, after a conviction, he secretly says to himself:

"Thank God it was the jury's work, not mine! I did not convict him!"

But he deceives himself. The average juryman, even one who is without prejudice and means to do rightly, is but a tool of the most cunning and able of the two lawyers pitted against each other before him. Some drops of the innocent blood the jury sheds must cling to the hands of the prosecutor.

When the court resumed its session, after the brief recess, another person sat within the railing among the lawyers, a little elderly gentleman, at sight of whom Lem Pawlett almost wept for joy, and the prisoner's heart felt a thrill of hope.

Dorn's counsel formally announced to the court that since the closing of the defence new and most important evidence, completely demonstrating the innocence of the prisoner at the bar, had been put in his possession, and he asked that the court grant permission for the reopening of the defence and the admission of this testimony.

The prosecuting attorney argued long and earnestly against the introduction of any further evidence at the present stage of the proceedings. In view of the high character and standing in the profession of the proposed witness, who had been made known to him in the judge's private room, and with whose reputation he was well acquainted, he did not dare to cast a shadow of suspicion upon the proposed evidence as manufactured and unworthy of belief or consideration. Evading that issue, he confined himself to opposing as informal, irregular, and liable to be viewed as a dangerous and evil precedent, the reopening of the case. Even if improperly convicted for lack of this evidence, the prisoner, he argued, would still have his relief in a new trial, which the Court of Appeals would be sure to grant if the new testimony was indeed material.

Mr. Dunn made a strong plea for the accused against the injustice of condemning an innocent man to await in prison, under the shadow of a sentence of death, and in an agony of suspense, the slow action of the Court of Appeals, rather than disturb the mere formality of a trial.

Finally, the judge ruled—as he had intended to before either of the lawyers said a word—that the new evidence should be admitted.

The little elderly gentleman, responding promptly to the crier's call for "Pelatiah Holden," took the stand, was sworn, and testified:

"My name is Pelatiah Holden; I reside in New York, and am a lawyer by profession. I have been the legal adviser of the brothers Peter and Jacob Van Deust in certain money matters; and, upon business connected with their affairs, visited their house on the evening of the 19th of July, coming from New York by boat to Sag Harbor and thence riding over on horseback."

"That was the night upon which Jacob Van Deust was murdered, was it not?" the prisoner's counsel interposed.

"To the best of my present information and belief the murder was perpetrated on the night of the 19th, or morning of the 20th."

"Yes, sir. Proceed, sir."

"I remained with the Van Deust brothers, taking supper with them, receiving their signatures to some papers, and holding a consultation with them in regard to the investment of certain monies belonging to them jointly, until, as nearly as I can now remember, about fifteen minutes before nine o'clock in the evening. They pressed me to remain all night, which I declined to do, as I had business of importance to attend to in New York, for other clients, and was desirous of returning as speedily as possible to the city. When I took my departure Jacob Van Deust accompanied me to where my horse was hitched in the lane, and we stood there talking a few minutes. There was no wind stirring, and the mosquitoes annoyed me very much. In switching them from the back of my neck with my handkerchief I dropped it accidentally, and the horse chanced to step upon it, trampling it into the dirt of the lane. Seeing that it had been rendered unfit for present use, Mr. Jacob Van Deust was kind enough to offer me the loan of a clean one which he had in his pocket, and I thankfully accepted it. I mounted my horse, said good-by, and set out upon a new road that Mr. Van Deust—the younger brother, I mean—had recommended to me as shortening considerably the distance I had to travel.

"I had ridden, as nearly as I can judge, about a mile, or perhaps only seven-eighths of a mile, when, in passing through a cutting that depressed the roadway to a depth of nine or ten feet below the surface of the ground on either side, I found, lying upon the ground and groaning, a young man."

"Do you recognize that man among those here present?"

"I do, sir. It was the prisoner at the bar. He informed me that having been unacquainted with the existence of that new road, he had just sustained a severe fall into it. His injuries seemed to corroborate his statement, at least so far as the severity of his fall was concerned. His scalp was badly cut in at least two places, and he was bleeding profusely.

"When I assisted him to rise he found that one of his ankles—the left, I believe—was so seriously sprained that he could not bear to rest his weight upon it, and could not walk a step without assistance. I used the clean handkerchief which was in my possession, together with one he had, to bind up his head and stanch the flow of blood, after which I supported him to the beach, where he hoped, he said, to find a small vessel to take him to New Haven, where he resided. But he was only able to move very slowly, and when we arrived at the water's edge no vessel was in sight. While we were debating what was best to be done with him, under the circumstances, a small fishing-boat came within a short distance of the shore, and the person directing its movements responded to his call. He offered the person in the boat—who appeared to be an old man, accompanied by a boy—the sum of ten dollars to take him over to New Haven, which offer was accepted. I assisted him to enter the boat, and, when it had sailed away returned to where I had left my horse tied to tree, remounted him, and prosecuted my journey homeward."

During the giving of this evidence, a stillness prevailed in the court-room as if the speaker had been alone, and when his voice ceased there was such an enormous sigh from the crowded audience as if all were at once exhaling the pent-up breath they had not dared to free before for fear of losing a word of what he said. Five jurymen and the prosecuting attorney looked equally disgusted.

"At what hour that night did you last see the prisoner?" asked Mr. Dunn.

"At twenty-seven minutes past ten o'clock."

"In a small boat, sailing from the shore?"

"Yes, sir. Very slowly, however, as there was very little wind."

"From your knowledge of his condition at that time, do you believe it would have been possible for him to have returned that night to Mr. Van Deust's, entered that house, perpetrated the murder with which he is charged and made his escape?"

"No, sir. He was very weak from loss of blood, and I know, from personal examination, that his ankle was so severely sprained that it would have been a physical impossibility for him to have done what you said."

"Ah! you say that you examined his ankle. Did you notice at the time what kind of shoes he wore?"

"I did. He had on the low, broad, soft shoes, with hardly any heels, which sailors customarily wear."

"That is enough, sir. Thank you. Take the witness," said Mr. Dunn, with an air of triumph, to the prosecuting attorney.

That official did not seem to care about taking the witness. He knew that it was a master in the art of cross-examination who was thus lightly turned over to him, and had no hope of entrapping him or shaking his testimony. Still, he had to make some show.

Indifferently he asked: "Of course you have no idea of who the old man in the boat was?"

"To the best of my information and belief, his name was Jabez Sanborn. I asked him and that was what he told me."

Jabez Sanborn! Why, everybody around Sag Harbor knew about him; a shy old man, reputed a miser, who lived with a lad, his grandson, in a hut in the woods and was known to be addicted to wandering all along the coast at night, in a little fishing-smack, on errands best known to himself. Yes, the most likely man in the world to be met under just such circumstances was old Jabez Sanborn. And the least likely man to hear that a murder trial was going on in which he might be an important witness—or perhaps to care if he had heard it—was also old Jabez Sanborn. The prosecuting attorney felt that he had not drawn a trump that time at least. While he cast about mentally for something else that he might ask the witness, with at least the minimum of harm to his side of the case, a startling diversion occurred to interrupt the proceedings.

Old Peter Van Deust, who had been sitting near the prosecuting attorney and directly in front of the witness, suddenly sprang to his feet, walked up to Mr. Holden, clutched with trembling fingers the seal that dangled from his watchguard and, after examining it a moment, cried shrilly:

"It's all a lie! All a cunningly made up story! He is an accomplice of the assassin! This was Jacob's seal. I'll swear to it!"

Almost everybody had jumped up in the excitement of this interruption, even the sedate judge was standing, leaning over his desk to get a better view of what was going on before him but below his range of vision, and there was a deafening chorus of exclamations from all sides; but above all arose the sharp voice of Peter Van Deust, crying:

"Arrest him! arrest him! I demand the arrest of this man as an accomplice!"

The only tranquil person in the assemblage was Mr. Pelatiah Holden. He was surprised at his client's outbreak, but only for a moment. Then, blandly saying to the almost mad old man who stood before him, shaking a long, lean finger in his face, "Mr. Peter Van Deust, you seem to be excited."

He very calmly drew his watch from his fob-pocket and with the seal attached to it, passed it up to the judge. The seal was a heavy, square onyx, with a foul anchor engraved on one side.

"I'd swear to it among a thousand," shrieked old Peter. "It belonged to my father when he was in the navy. He left it to brother Jacob. It was stolen by the thief who murdered him."

The judge rapped his gavel until order was restored in the court-room, and old Peter had been fairly dragged down into a seat by the prosecuting attorney, who was nearest him—after which, addressing the witness, he asked:

"How did this seal come into your possession, Mr. Holden?"

"Very simply, your Honor. But before I relate how, permit me to request your Honor to issue strict injunctions to the officers at the door to permit no exit from this court-room or communication by those within to persons on the outside."

The judge was evidently surprised, but his respect for the well-known and honored Mr. Holden was sufficient to induce him to comply with the request without asking its reasons. When the necessary instructions had been issued to the court officers, Mr. Holden resumed:

"About three weeks ago, while I was taking lunch one afternoon at Windust's—a very popular and well conducted restaurant on Park Row, New York—a young man came to the box in which I was seated and offered this seal for sale. I am, as a rule, averse to the purchase of personal property from unknown persons and in an irregular way, but this young man told a melancholy story of his present need for money for the sake of a widowed mother and sister, said that the seal had belonged to his father who was a naval officer and asked for the article a price that was at least its full value. That influenced me to purchase it. I reflected that if it had been stolen it would have been, in all probability, offered at a cheap price to effect ready disposal of it, whereas if he really needed money, as he said, for his mother and sister and the thing honestly belonged to him, he would naturally try to get as much as he could. So I gave him seventeen dollars for it and have since worn it."

"What," asked the judge, "was your reason for requesting the careful tyling of the doors before making that statement, Mr. Holden?"

"Because I recognized to-day, in the court-yard without, as I was entering this building, the young man from whom I purchased this seal."

"You believe so!"

"I am certain of it. If your Honor will permit an officer to accompany me, I believe that I will be able to bring him before you in a few moments. When I saw him he was seated at the root of an elm tree near the door, and alone."

An officer was directed to accompany Mr. Holden and they went out together by the private staircase. The curious throng in the court-room, unwilling to lose a single incident of the eventful drama unfolding itself before them, struggled hard to get out and follow the officer and his guide, but were not allowed to do so, and returned to their seats with a sense of injury. Everybody was intensely excited. The prosecuting attorney leaning over the judge's bench held a long and earnest conversation with him. The prisoner and his counsel whispered together. The jury jabbered to each other so that even the idiotic-looking one among them seemed to awake to an interest in the proceedings.