THE BLACK TORTOISE (continued 3)

The photograph was sent round among the members of the jury and the court, while the next witness was being called. It was the young chief of the detective police, Charles Monk. The public hailed his appearance with murmurs of approbation which must be just as much attributed to his winning appearance as to the reputation he had already gained as a police officer. His evidence was calm, clear, and concise, as befits a policeman, and all listened with breathless attention to the account of how the young chief had taken upon himself the rôle of detective, and had not rested until Mr. Frick's diamond was in the hands of the police. When Mr. Monk, in his evidence, came to speak of his visit to Jurgens, and of the stratagem he had used to deceive the old man, many of the spectators began to clap their hands and shout, Bravo! The judge's authority for the moment had to be called into account to produce silence.

Although there was scarcely a person in the court who did not wish that the young girl in the dock should be acquitted, so paradoxical is human nature that the same people applauded the great skill with which the net had been drawn around her.

The last hope for the prisoner seemed to vanish at the evidence of the detective.

The counsel for the defence had not many questions to ask. He tried to show that both on her arrest and upon Mr. Monk's first visit to her mother's home, she had been in an irresponsible condition, and for that purpose he had no doubt summoned her mother and her lover, the actor, to give evidence. Although their evidence was a voluntary matter, owing to the relation in which they stood to the accused, they both declared themselves willing to tell what they knew. Their evidence did not, however, throw any new light on the matter. Both were convinced of the young girl's innocence, and asked the court not to believe her, even if she should again confess. She had always been of a nervous temperament, and often a little strange.

Neither the loquacious woman with the ruddy complexion, nor the pomatummed Don Juan, whose shady character is so well known in the town, made a good impression; and the counsel for the defence concluded their examination as soon as possible. The general impression was that he, for the defence, had originally intended to prove that his client was irresponsible, but that during the proceedings before the court he had abandoned this line of defence.

* * * * *

I had proceeded thus far in my reading when I stopped and looked at my friends. Clara was listening with her mouth open, and did not seem as if she would tolerate any interruption. Monk sat silently in an armchair in the darkest corner of the room.

"Shall I continue?" I asked, "or will you allow me to ask a question?"

"I would rather you read the newspaper account to the end, first," was Monk's answer; and I heard by the tone of his voice that he was unusually agitated.

"Yes, go on reading, and let us hear what happens," said Clara, trying to look over my shoulder.

I read as follows:—

... The examination of the witnesses for the defence was concluded, and the public prosecutor rose. His speech was short and pithy.

He thought all must agree that the charge he had preferred against the accused had been fully proved by the evidence given in court.

With regard to the responsibility of the accused, he also believed that this had been asserted beyond all doubt; the opinion of the medical men was definite, and the evidence by which the defence had attempted to weaken these were but of little value. He did not believe for a moment the counsel for the defence would seriously question the responsibility of the accused. That the feeling of having committed a great crime, and of having to answer for it, might have caused the conduct of the accused to appear strange, and to some degree self-contradictory, was only natural.

That the accused had retracted her first confession, and later on had refused to give any explanation whatever in the court, might perhaps surprise some, but it could in no way weaken the clear and distinct proofs of her guilt. It was perhaps to be regretted that the police had not succeeded in ascertaining where the money for the stolen object had disappeared to, as this circumstance prevented any possible accomplices being brought to justice. It was likewise to be regretted that motives for the crime could not be sufficiently explained; but the accused was no doubt herself principally to be blamed for this, through her persistent silence. None of these circumstances ought, however, to have any influence upon the answer of the jury to the question, "Guilty or not guilty?"

The counsel for the accused rose to begin his speech for the defence. He seemed at first to be somewhat uncertain, but he soon decided upon the line he would take.

He did not want to conceal, he said, that he was in a very difficult position, and the one who made his position most difficult of all was his client.

All had heard that the young girl who was charged with having stolen the diamond, which was now lying upon the table in court, had at first confessed, but had afterward retracted her confession, and otherwise refused any information whatsoever in the matter. But what every one, in all probability, did not know, was that she had maintained the same silence with regard to him, her counsel and adviser. He had not succeeded in getting a single word from her lips, except the assurance that she would say nothing, would answer no questions, and would give no information. "I thought it only right," continued the young advocate, "to make this open declaration, in order that my inability to give information which might be to the advantage of my client, should not be misunderstood. You must not believe that I have received any information from her, and that I have not found it to her advantage to make use of it.

"It appears to me, and I hope the gentlemen of the jury will agree with me, that the unfortunate girl, paralyzed by the terrible blow of suspicion which has fallen upon her, and feeling how terribly hopeless her case is, through the strong appearances against her at almost every step, has found it expedient to draw within herself and keep silence, just as the hunted deer withdraws to its cave, even if death awaits it there. No one has a right to construe my client's silence as a confession, or the result of a consciousness of guilt.

"The diamond was stolen in the interval between five and half-past seven in the afternoon. Of these two hours and a half my client spent only half an hour's time within the walls of Villa Ballarat, while many persons were present there during the whole time. It has been proved, says the public prosecutor, that no stranger could have gained admission there during that time; but can we be so sure of that? An agile man can easily climb over the railings—no one will deny that. The police examined the ground round about, and no trace was found, may be said in objection. But we know that expert criminals are often very dexterous in destroying all traces after them; and no one will maintain that the police are so infallible that a trace cannot have escaped them.

"One need not be gifted with great acuteness in order to guess what is passing through the minds of the gentlemen of the jury at this moment: what can be the use of all this? The main proofs against the accused still remain unassailable. But let us look into some of these proofs which, according to the opinion of the public prosecutor, are so strong that they are even more reliable than a confession. The old man who bought the diamond has himself said that he bought it of the young girl whom I defend, and there can be no doubt about this, although he has not appeared in court as witness; we have the evidence of the head of the detective department with regard to it, and that must be sufficient. But—here is also a 'but,' just as there is a 'but' in all the so-called infallible circumstantial evidence against the accused—is, then, the word of an imbecile man in his second childhood to be fully depended upon—a man who immediately afterward is declared incapable of managing his own affairs; who is so infatuated with his mania that he, whose honesty is otherwise not for a moment to be doubted after a long life of spotless integrity, buys a diamond which he knows must have been stolen? Shall the evidence of such a man decide the fate of a human being? And besides, is this man's evidence quite impartial? We have heard, from the account of the chief of the detectives, that the old man tried to conceal the fact that he was in possession of the diamond; in his imbecility he is, however, conscious that he has done something wrong, and is, to a certain degree, cunning, and on his guard. What, then, is more probable than that he, who sees that he has been discovered, is wily enough to give an explanation which makes it probable that a servant would have the disposal of the diamond at her command? Who dares maintain that the old man spoke the truth on this occasion? It is, however, just as much, if not more probable, that he resorted to telling the first untruth that came into his head!

"And what has become of the five thousand kroners, which he says he has paid for the diamond?

"It has not been possible to ascertain, says my opponent; but on the whole he seems to lay little stress upon the circumstance.

"It seems to me that this circumstance—that no trace whatever has been discovered of the money—is quite an important one. We know that the most able detectives have been engaged in tracing it—even the fiancé of my client was arrested in Copenhagen in consequence thereof; both she and her mother have been watched most closely—but still no clue. Are not these circumstances important? Is there not more than one proof that the police have been on the wrong track, that the thief is not the one who has been arrested, and that they have been investigating in a direction where there was nothing to look for?

"But it may be said that the principal proof still remains unshaken; the accused has, by a remarkable coincidence, been photographed in the act of committing the theft, that cannot be denied or explained away; yes—I venture to maintain there is no proof of the guilt of the accused in this. I admit that most probably it is the young girl who has been photographed on this film. The hat and the jacket which she wears were given to her by Miss Frick about six o'clock in the afternoon of the same day: this we know from the evidence; likewise that she wore the same clothes when she called on her mother between half-past six and seven. I admit there is a probability which approaches to certainty, that it is my client who, in the photograph here, is standing in front of Mr. Frick's cupboard in the so-called museum. One can also see that she is holding some object in her hand. Yes, I even go so far as to admit that she is most likely looking at the black diamond. But from this moment my conclusions cease to coincide with those of the public prosecutor.

"Why should it follow that she also took the diamond with her?

"What if my client, on passing through the garden and seeing the door open to the museum, goes inside, and out of curiosity has a look at the black diamond about which there has been so much talk among the people of the house while she was serving the coffee in the afternoon, and then puts it back again and passes out through the garden, on her way to her mother? What if she, later on, after hearing of the robbery, understands that she has been imprudent, and then does a still more imprudent thing by trying to conceal her visit to the museum, and finally, when almost crushed under the shame and fear of being arrested, acts as she afterward did?

"I ask any person of common sense, is there anything more improbable than that this young girl, who has always shown the most exemplary honesty, should commit this daring theft without any special motive? This young girl, who was not in need, and who in her master's house had found a home almost as if she were one of the family—this young girl who knew that if she were in want of money for any special object her young mistress would not deny her it, even if it were a considerable sum!

"Is this more probable than that her presence in the museum was due to an accidental circumstance of no significance, and that the theft has afterward been committed by some one else?"

The counsel for the defence was here interrupted in a manner which was no doubt flattering to him; from the audience came the sound of more than one hearty Bravo! while a hoarse voice, full of sincere conviction, exclaimed, "Ah! he's about right there."

Silence was soon obtained, and the counsel concluded his speech thus: "It is an old experience of the court that the chain of evidence which seems strongest, and in which the links seem to fit exactly into each other, is in reality most often the weakest. I will ask the jury to bear this in mind. And I believe that I have at least shown you that in the chain of the public prosecutor which seemed to fit so beautifully there is not one link which can be called faultless."

The counsel resumed his seat, and the public made an attempt to applaud him, but the judge quickly imposed silence, and the public prosecutor rose to reply.

He had followed the speech of the counsel for the defence with interest and approval, the latter no doubt arising from the same cause which had dictated the applause of the public—that is to say, admiration of the counsel's ability to make something out of nothing, or of an inconvenient subject. At this point the public prosecutor nodded in a friendly way across to the counsel for the defence, who smiled in return.

He found, on the whole, his chain of evidence so little weakened by what the defence had brought forward, that he did not think it necessary to go through it again. He had such great confidence in the intelligence of the jury that he would take it for granted they would have remarked, without his pointing it out to them, that where he had produced facts, or probabilities which almost amounted to facts, the counsel for the defence had only set up possibilities, and even improbable possibilities—with this, he would leave the matter in the hands of the jury.

The counsel for the defence then proceeded to make his final speech.

The public prosecutor had himself admitted that there were possibilities that the theft had not been committed in the way the prosecution had asserted. It would be the duty of the jury to decide as to the probability or improbability of the possibilities. He would conclude by saying that when to these possibilities was added the stainless life of his client, and the good character she bore from all quarters—no one had brought forward anything to the contrary—as well as the circumstance that no one had been able to show any particular motive for the young girl's suddenly committing a criminal act; and finally, that it had not been possible, in spite of the most energetic exertions of the police, to show that his client had been in possession of, or disposed of the money which was to have been the reward of the crime of which she was accused—then he did not doubt that the conscientious jury would not pronounce the fateful "Yes" to the question "Guilty?"

The counsel sat down, but no applause was heard this time from the public. All seemed to be convinced that his exertions had been in vain.

The time approached when the jurymen had to retire. All seemed to feel that their deliberations would be short, and the result an unanimous verdict of guilty.

Of what avail could be the eloquence or the cunning subterfuges of a counsel, against proofs and facts as clear as those which the public prosecutor had produced?

The judge asked the accused if she had anything to say. Her counsel leaned toward her, and appeared to be urging something earnestly upon her; but she only shook her head, as before, and the young man sat down with an air of resignation.

CHAPTER II

THE PHOTOGRAPH CANNOT LIE

The public prosecutor had begun to read the questions which were to be laid before the jury, when he was interrupted by a noise from the back of the court. Many of the public rose from their seats in order to see better.

What could be the matter?

A messenger of the court had forced his way through the crowd to the counsel for the defence, and handed him a letter, saying a few words, which those nearest to him could hear. The messenger said, "You must read it at once, sir; it has to do with the case now before the court."

The counsel tore open the envelope, read, passed his hand across his forehead, and read the letter again.

He crushed the paper in his hand, stepped quickly forward, and as the public prosecutor had not resumed his reading, he addressed himself to the judge, saying, "I must ask that an hour's postponement be granted to my client; in that time I believe I can bring before you, gentlemen, evidence which will throw a new light upon the case."

* * * * *

An hour passed by, perhaps a little more, and the court was again sitting. The room was, if possible, even more crowded than before; no one had been willing to give up his seat, and there were new arrivals.

The silence which reigned showed the excitement that possessed everybody.

The counsel for the defence asked to be allowed to examine the chief of the detective staff once more.

The young officer stepped forward, and took his place in the witness box in his usual quiet manner, although astonishment was plainly written on his face.

The counsel: "You have already told us that when you paid a visit to Mr. Jurgens and so skilfully got him to give up the diamond, he then told you that he had bought it from the accused, Evelina Reierson. Isn't that so?"

"Yes."

Counsel: "Did he seem to be in any doubt as to whom he had bought the diamond from?"

The detective blushed at this question, but his answer was as unconstrained and calm as before.

"No, he gave me the impression that he was sure it was the accused."

Counsel: "Did he name any one else who could possibly have sold him the diamond?"

"At first he began, with some confused nonsense, to excuse himself, but it was of no significance to the case."

Counsel: "I must ask you, however, to give the name or the names which Mr. Jurgens mentioned in connection with the diamond."

One could see that the officer was angry at the importunate examination, and that he had to exert himself to the utmost, in order to answer calmly.

"Mr. Jurgens seemed at first to be somewhat frightened at the consequences of his transaction, and in order to excuse himself, he began with some nonsense about having bought the diamond from—from a person who is nearly related to Mr. Frick, and who was supposed to have received the diamond from him as a present."

Counsel: "What did you do to get him to speak the truth?"

The detective hesitated a moment, and grew redder still in the face. At last he answered firmly and distinctly:—

"He first mentioned Miss Frick as having sold him the diamond, and that she had said she had got it as a present from her uncle. This was as much as to say that the young lady, for whom I have—have the greatest respect, is a thief and a liar, as information of the robbery was given to the police by her uncle; and I then forgot myself for the moment and seized hold of the old man—but of course only for a moment!"

Counsel: "It was after you let go of him that he gave the name of Evelina Reierson?"

"Yes; but as you will understand—"

Counsel (interrupting): "I have for the present nothing further to ask you."

"Well, I never heard such—" exclaimed a powerful voice. It was old Frick who rose, red as a turkey cock in the face; the judge himself had to call him to order.

Mr. Monk still stood in the same place, biting his lips. Miss Frick stared at him with an astonished expression. As yet she suspected nothing.

But the attention of the public was soon engrossed by a new witness whom the counsel for the defence brought forward. He was a tall, squarely-built man, with broad round shoulders, and black hair and beard; he was dressed in shiny, threadbare black clothes.

The examination was begun by the judge. The witness seemed quite unwilling to be examined.

"Your name?"

"Abraham Abrahamson."

"How old are you?"

"Fifty-three years old."

"What is your calling?"

"Pawnbroker and commission agent."

"Where do you live?"

"Bishop Street, No. 75."

"Do you know anything about the case which is before the jury to-day?"

"I have read about it in the papers."

"Have you had anything to do with any of the persons in the case, or have you in any other way obtained any information which may be of importance in this matter?"

"I know several persons here by sight"—the witness looked round the court with his sharp, dark eyes—"but I did not believe I could give any information which could be of use to the court, until I was sent for half an hour ago."

The judge concluded, and left the further examination to the counsel for the defence.

Counsel: "Do you know this young girl, Evelina Reierson?"

Witness: "She has been once or twice to my place, on business."

Counsel: "On what sort of business?"

Witness (unwillingly): "To pawn a few small things."

Counsel: "What sort of small things?"

Witness: "As far as I can remember, they were some rings and a pair of earrings."

Suddenly Miss Frick's voice was heard—not loud, but clear and distinct:—

"The rings and earrings she got from me. They were presents, and she could do as she liked with them."

The judge enjoined the young lady in a friendly but decided tone not to speak until she was questioned, and the young lady sat down, blushing.

Counsel: "Had you a visit from the young girl on the 10th of May last?"

Witness: "Yes, most likely."

Counsel: "Most likely? Be good enough to explain yourself more clearly; or does it mean that you remember nothing about that day?"

Witness: "Well, yes, I can well enough explain what I mean. I have nothing to hide—the law and the police I have always esteemed and respected"—here an ironical voice was heard exclaiming:—

"You are about right there, Abrahamson!" which was followed by loud laughter.

The witness, with a scornful glance at the corner where the interruption came from, continued: "No, I have nothing to hide. On the 10th of May a lady came to me and asked if I would lend her some money on some jewelry,—a lot of rings, brooches, and bracelets with precious stones in them. She had a veil over her face; but I thought I recognized the young girl whom you call Evelina Reierson."

Counsel: "Was it not, then, the young girl who sits here?"

Witness: "I don't know."

Counsel: "Don't know?"

Witness: "If you will give me time, you shall hear. I said at once that I could not accept such valuable things, unless she could show she was authorized to pawn them. Then she answered that if we came to an understanding, she would prove she was the owner of the jewelry. I looked at the things, and said that if everything was all right, I could lend her two thousand kroners on them. She knew that the things were worth five thousand kroners, she said, and if I could give her four thousand, I could buy them of her. I must have time to examine them, I explained. But she would not let me. She seemed on the point of crying, and asked me for God's sake to give her four thousand kroners immediately; she would willingly give me a few more valuable things later on, or pay me something back. Then I thought the matter looked rather suspicious, and did not like to have anything more to do with her, so she left."

Counsel: "Didn't you try to find out if it was the girl, Evelina Reierson, or not?"

Witness (after hesitating awhile before answering): "Yes, I did; for I am a law-abiding man, who likes to give the police a helping hand."

Counsel: "Yes, we know that, but what did you do?"

Witness: "I sent a boy in my office after her. He sat up behind the carriage—for she had come in a hired carriage which waited outside—and he saw her go into a house in Drammen Road."

Counsel: "Was it Mr. Frick's house?"

Witness: "Yes, so the boy said."

Counsel: "But you took it as a proof that it really was Evelina Reierson?"

Witness: "Yes, but I am not sure that it was she, after all, for she had a veil on, and then I don't know Evelina Reierson so very well."

Counsel: "How was the lady dressed?"

Witness: "She had on a green hat with a feather in it, and a jacket braided in front and at the back."

Counsel: "Do you remember this distinctly?"

Witness: "Yes, I am not so unaccustomed to using my eyes, and I thought it best to notice her dress, in case the police should ask me about the matter, later on."

Counsel: "What time was it when the lady visited you?"

Witness: "It must have been twenty minutes past five when she came, for she was with me a quarter of an hour, and when she left it was twenty-five minutes to six."

Counsel: "Was it also with regard to the possibility of inquiries from the police that you looked at the clock when the lady left you?"

Witness: "Yes."

Counsel: "You are quite certain about the time, then?"

Witness: "Yes, quite certain; I conferred with my clerk."

The case had proceeded thus far when a great commotion in the court caused the examination to be interrupted. It is superfluous to remark that the two last witnesses had made a deep impression upon all who were present at the hearing of this remarkable case, and the excitement among the audience rose as the examination progressed.

The pawnbroker's last words fell in complete silence, but only to be followed by murmurings and noise.

The alarm threatened to throw the court into confusion, when suddenly a cry was heard, "She is fainting!" A large crowd had gathered round Miss Frick, and old Frick was seen in the middle of it, gesticulating wildly, while the young girl leant back on the seat with a handkerchief over her face. Mr. Monk forced his way up to her, and with the consent of the judge conducted her out of the court.

The judge then proceeded to call for order. It did not take him long, for the threat to have the court cleared had immediate effect. No one wished to lose the last act of the drama.

The counsel for the defence did not wish to examine the pawnbroker any further. The public prosecutor had, in the meantime, nothing to comment upon, and the young counsel was called upon to proceed.

He began with thanking the court for giving him the postponement he had asked for,—a postponement which had enabled him not only to obtain valuable evidence, but which had also given him positive means of proving his client's innocence of the robbery of the diamond. He continued:—

"If any one believes that my purpose in calling the witness Abrahamson, and in putting new questions to the chief of the detective force, was to throw the guilt of the robbery upon another, he is mistaken. It is certainly unavoidable that at the same time my client's innocence is brought to light, so at the same time the attention is led into another direction, and the ministers of justice have perhaps already found a new object in their search after the guilty person. But that is a matter which does not concern me. It only goes to prove that the young girl whose defence has been intrusted to me is innocent—that the circumstantial evidence which appeared so strong against her, on the contrary speaks in her favour when seen in the right light.

"The object of my last examination of the chief detective and the witness Abrahamson was only to show that mistakes can be made, and in this case have been made with regard to the identity of the accused. Mr. Jurgens said at first it was another person who had sold the diamond to him, and it was only after the chief detective had treated the old man in, let us call it, a less polite manner, that he mentioned the name of the accused. The witness Abrahamson believed he received a visit from the accused on the same day the diamond was stolen. It appeared, however, that the lady whom he supposed was his client was dressed in clothes which she only became possessed of later in the day. We have Miss Frick's sworn evidence to the effect that she herself wore the braided costume between five and six o'clock, and only made a present of these clothes to the accused at about six o'clock.

"It is, as I have already said, not my object to accuse any other person, and I will give up the inquiry as to whether it was Miss Frick herself who visited the pawnbroker that day; my object is only to show that if Mr. Jurgens has mistaken another woman for my client, Evelina Reierson, it is not at any rate the first time that day that she was the object of a mistaken identity.

"What I have now adduced ought in itself to be sufficient to change the opinion of the jury, if they have hitherto considered my client to be guilty. But I am in the fortunate position of being able to prove that what has hitherto appeared to be the most weighty evidence against my client is, on the contrary, the clearest proof of her innocence. I refer here to the circumstance that the witness, Mr. Howell, has declared that he, at the time when the theft must have been committed, had seen the accused in front of the cupboard where the diamond was kept, and that he had even photographed her in this position. The photograph, in which all will recognize my client, is now here in court. When I say that I can prove that this circumstantial evidence is false, I mean that here, also, we have a case of mistaken identity, and I can prove that the person who is photographed here (he took the photograph in his hand) is not, and cannot be, the accused. The proof is a simple one, although I must confess that only an accident has enabled me to produce it. (The young counsel here pulled out a large magnifying glass from his pocket, and handed it, together with the photograph, to the judge.) Will the court, and the gentlemen of the jury, and I would ask my colleague, the public prosecutor, to do the same, look at the photograph through the magnifying glass? You will then, gentlemen, see that the person who has been photographed wears a ring on the ring finger of the left hand.

"Will you next examine the hand of the accused? When she was a little girl, she broke the ring finger of her left hand in a fall. The bone did not set properly, so that there is now a protuberance, which prevents her from wearing a ring on that finger."

The counsel then raised the young girl's hand so that all could see it, to which she quietly submitted, but without lifting her eyes from the floor and without a change of expression on her waxen face.

"All will be able to convince themselves of the truth of this. I do not think that any declaration from a medical authority is necessary. And, gentlemen, let the magnifying glass show you yet another thing. You will at once see on the left of the lady's head an object on the shelf above. It is the little ivory elephant with the clock, of which mention has already been made in the course of evidence. The glass, gentlemen, will enable you not only to see the clock in the forehead of the elephant, but also to plainly discover the position of the hands. What time do the hands show? They show the time to be twenty minutes to six.

"Where was my client at that time? On this point we have full information from the evidence before us. She had not returned by this time. She only came in through the garden gate at five minutes to six. And she could not, under any circumstance, be dressed at twenty minutes to six in the jacket which she only received from Miss Frick at six o'clock, or shortly afterward!

"Gentlemen, when you have assured yourselves as to the correctness of what I have told you, you will perhaps remember what the witness, Mr. Rodin, the able photographer, said in court:—

"'The photograph cannot lie!'

"With the permission of the court, I will postpone any further remarks till the jury have convinced themselves that everything is as I have stated."

* * * * *

For the first minute or so neither the judge's voice nor his hammer was of any avail; he had to submit to the loud applause which the public bestowed upon the young counsel, who bowed and smiled like an actor who is called before the curtain.

* * * * *

But the space of a newspaper is limited, and I must conclude my report as quickly as possible.

The examination of the photograph took some time, as the judge and the jury had personally to assure themselves as to what the photograph could tell. To all appearances, they seemed to be satisfied with their investigations under the magnifying glass.

Mr. Rodin and another well-known photographer, both of whom had been summoned as experts, declared with the greatest confidence that the evidence of the photograph could be relied upon, and when a medical witness declared that no ring of the usual dimension could be worn on the finger of the accused, the affair was settled.

The jury disappeared, only to return at once, and the voice of the foreman rang out clearly when he pronounced the words "Not guilty" to the question, "Guilty or not guilty?"

* * * * *

Thus ends the account of the proceedings in one of our modern judicial dramas. No one can doubt that we shall hear of an epilogue which will probably result in a tragedy.

Last night we received information that as soon as the proceedings in court were over, Miss Sigrid Frick was arrested, and charged with the theft of her uncle's diamond.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III

IN THE DARK

I put the newspaper cutting on the table, and looked at my listeners. Clara sat with her chin resting on her folded hands, and her elbows on the table, staring straight in front of her. Monk, who had again retired to the darkest corner of the room, now came forward. He was very pale, but his voice was calm as he said:—

"Now I will continue. You must pardon me, if the rest of my story seems dry and businesslike, but it is the only way I can persuade myself to speak of it at all. There is, however, not much more to tell."

"Yes, but tell me, Monk,—was Sigrid—Miss Frick, I should say—"

It was Clara who spoke. She got up eagerly and went across to Monk.

"No, excuse me, Mrs. Viller, allow me to continue—in any case, for a little while. You have promised to hear me, in order, if possible, to advise and help me, so you must bear with my whim and not interrupt me just now. Later, I will answer anything that you want to ask me."

Well, there are several things that happened in court, which the reporter did not mention; though I do not think that his report, together with what I have told you, has left you in the dark with regard to anything that could be of any help in the clearing up of the mystery in which the diamond robbery at old Frick's ended.

There is only one thing which I must mention, since the reporter of the Morning News did not include it. When the judge summed up, he took the opportunity to censure the conduct of the police in the case. He referred, he said, to the detective's conduct with regard to lawyer Jurgens. He was certainly convinced that it had never been his intention to exercise pressure on the old man, but that he had in a passion laid hands on him, a circumstance which, at the turn events had taken in the case, appeared in a very unfavourable light. The detective had also committed another error in not mentioning the incident when he gave evidence in court. The judge felt himself obliged to declare that this conduct might have aided the condemnation of an innocent person.

Any one can understand in what a painful situation I found myself. The worst of it was, that I was obliged to admit that the judge was right,—painfully right. Also, the way in which I had conducted the case had contributed, to a great extent, in throwing a terrible suspicion upon the one who was the dearest to me in the world. So far, I did not as yet foresee the result of the turn which the affair had taken, and which in itself was so surprising, that one hardly had time to reflect before the judgment was given.

I went home immediately, and tried to think over my position; but even then I saw only darkness around me. So I pulled myself together and went to the chief superintendent's office. He still sat there, although it was rather late in the evening. He was very serious.

"I have already been informed of what has taken place in court," he said; "and it pains me greatly to hear what has happened. My purpose in speaking of this, is to spare you giving any account of it. Wait! I have one thing to tell you before you answer—one thing which you ought to know as soon as possible. I have given orders for the arrest of Miss Frick."

I had expected that some such thing must happen, and I succeeded in assuming an indifference which was anything but what I felt.

"I knew this must happen, sir," I answered, "and I have no doubt what I ought to do; I have come to ask you to accept my resignation in the police service. My written application I have not as yet made out, but you shall have it to-morrow. I ask you to consider it as already in your hands."

The superintendent looked at me in a friendly way, pressed my hand, and said:—

"I am sorry, more sorry than you can imagine; but I neither can, nor will, ask you to take back your resignation. What you have now said was just what I was prepared to hear from you."

"Have you heard, sir, everything that took place in the court to-day?"

"Yes, I have obtained a verbatim report from the officer who was present the whole time."

"And what is your opinion?"

"My opinion? I understand you do not refer any longer to yourself; you are thinking of the young girl whom I have been obliged to arrest,—well, what shall I say to you? If I say that no one but Miss Frick could have taken the diamond, then you will be angry with me; and if I say the contrary, you will think I am speaking against my conviction—isn't that so?"

He was right, and I remained silent.

As I moved to go, the superintendent took my hand again.

"You have met with a great misfortune, Monk,—a little carelessness on your part, a bagatelle which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, would have resulted in nothing, has, by force of circumstances, driven you from a post which you have filled with much energy and ability. And if I am not mistaken, a greater misfortune has befallen, or, in any case is likely to befall, one whom you hold dear. With regard to the first, you are a man of energy, and it is hardly necessary to ask you not to lose courage; you have done nothing wrong, and the world is wide and generally repays one for one's labour. As for the latter, I have also some advice. Wait patiently! I read plainly in your face what you intend doing—you will use all your strength and energy in trying to prove this lady's innocence, against whom everything now seems to tell, and it is far from my intention to dissuade you in this—perhaps you will succeed. This much, experience has taught me,—that nothing is impossible. But should you not succeed—and who can tell? do not make the mistake of ruining your life for the sake of a woman—kinder to yourself and to her to break and have done with, it at once, before it shall be too late. Remember, too, that what is, is inevitable, and that one cannot build a house of bricks which are already crumbled to dust; break with it, the earlier the better—before it is too late—and do not attempt to produce the impossible from a thing which has already proved to be dust. If I can ever help you, now or later, then come to me without hesitancy."

These were my superior's friendly and fatherly words. In the years which have passed by I have only spoken with him once since then upon this matter.

* * * * *

I was at that time twenty-seven years old, and when the next day dawned, my courage and energy had returned.

The superintendent was right when he had read in my face the determination to leave no stone unturned, in order to prove the innocence of my fiancée—for she was still my fiancée. But I was not to proceed far in the matter before I discovered that my position at the time—for I was no longer at the head of a large detective department of the police—made my work both difficult and unremunerative. It seemed as if an inexorable fate had decided that the drama, as it had begun, should be played out to the end, and that no human intervention would be tolerated.

"Didn't you see Sigrid at once?" asks Clara, suddenly.

"No, it was impossible; I'll tell you just how matters stood: the very next day all the papers in the town began to speak of the conduct of the police as it was called. Some even hinted that I should be prosecuted, as my concealment of the truth had almost led to an innocent person being convicted. This, however, soon passed over, as my resignation was accepted without delay. But the result was that in many places I was received with distrust, and that the superintendent, with whom I had corresponded about the matter, dared on no account to give me permission to see the young girl who was under arrest."

I have here some notes from my diary, following from that time on; let me read them to you. It is not my habit to keep a diary; that kind of self-confession has never been to my taste, but at that time I did it from purely professional reasons—in order to have notes to help me in my work.

Monk pulled out a small thick note-book and began to turn over the leaves.

"Oh no, don't," said Clara, at the sight of it; "put away the book. I would rather you told it to us instead."

Monk could not help smiling. "I shall not use the book for long, Mrs. Viller; but I think it is best to get to the end of the story—the sooner the better. And it will save me much time if I may be allowed to read a few pages." So Clara gave her permission and Monk read:—

"June 23.—Not possible to obtain permission to see Sigrid.—Tried, therefore, to see old Frick. Ill! couldn't see me—I don't believe much in that illness. In the afternoon went to see Evelina's counsel, and asked him about the letter which had been delivered to him in court at the time when he asked for postponement. He refused again to give me any information about the letter or its contents; he was bound to secrecy, he said. I think very much hangs on this letter; some one must have given the lawyer weapons to use, not only in defence of Evelina, but against Sigrid. Who can it be? What can the motive be, and what is the object?"

I then spoke to the court attendant. He had received the letter from a commissionaire, with injunctions to deliver it to the counsel for the defence, without delay. I shall try to find the commissionaire, but that will perhaps take some days—in the meantime, time flies.

June 25.—Now I have spent two days in looking for the commissionaire. I began with No. 1, and only when I had got up to 87 did I find the right man. He had had the letter from a little newspaper boy outside the grand café. At last I got hold of the little newspaper boy. He had received it from a "gentleman," but whether the gentleman was old or young, fair or dark, he could not remember—in fact, nothing—and there I stand!

I tried again to see old Frick. He said he was not at home, but in the afternoon he sent me the following letter:—

HONOURED SIR,—I had better at once inform you that I do not consider we two can any longer have any pleasure in each other's acquaintance. Neither Einar nor Sigrid Frick will ever again set foot in my house, and your name will never be mentioned here.

Your part, Mr. Monk, in the latter month's events, I am not so sure about, and I do not intend to trouble myself about it any further.

It is sufficient for me to know that you have assisted in the attempt to conceal the criminal conduct of my brother's children. That there may be circumstances which render your conduct excusable, I know well enough; but at any rate, I do not see why we should meet or see each other again.

Yours truly,

BARTHOLOMEW FRICK.

Monk looked up from his notes. "Since then I have never spoken to old Frick."

"But you surely tried to get some explanation from him?"

"I tried, yes; but it was easier said than done. Since that time he has scarcely spoken with any one, least of all with me. He is as obstinate as an old goat. But let me proceed, for the sooner I get to the end of these miserable reminiscences the better."

June 28.—I spent the day in keeping my eye on the actor, Evelina, and her mother—a difficult task now, since I have to manage without my trusted constable, and exclusively rely upon myself or some wretched hireling. Evelina never goes out; she is said to be ill. Her mother enjoys greatly the rôle of martyr on her daughter's behalf. She is said to have received a considerable sum of money from old Frick. The actor continues his gay life. He seems to have a little money, but nothing extraordinary.

I have spoken with Mr. Howell. He behaves and speaks like a gentleman, but ... I have no belief in him. He expressed the greatest regret in having been mixed up in the case. Nothing could have persuaded him that it was not Evelina he had photographed in front of the cupboard with the diamond in her hand. (Yes, but what does that help, when the hands of the clock and the dress tell another story.) He was going to England in a few days he said, whatever the police might say or do. He would not appear in court; but they had, of course, his evidence from the last proceedings.

I asked what old Frick had to say against his nephew Einar. Mr. Howell said he could not understand; he had in vain tried to bring the old fellow round. Mr. Howell apparently speaks very openly; but I have learned nothing new from him. Does he know nothing? or does he conceal something?

July 5.—-A whole week gone, and I have done nothing! The time draws near when the case will come again before the court, and every one seems to be of the opinion—though it is dreadful to have to write it down—that Sigrid will be found guilty.

I have written twice to Einar Frick in Hamburg, but have not received any reply, although by telegraphing to his hotel, I have found out that he has been there and has received my letters.

It seems as if I am beating my head against a stone wall.

I have been to the pawnbroker, Abrahamson. At first I only saw a humpbacked clerk, who stared at me with a derisive smile, but afterward Abrahamson himself appeared. He said he had told everything he knew in court, and had no time to talk with me. It is very different now from the time when I was chief of the detective force!

The day before yesterday an important thing happened. The actor Frederiksen left by the night train for Copenhagen. I couldn't keep him back, and the police wouldn't stop him; and now I suspect that with him has disappeared one of the few possible chances of getting the robbery cleared up.

July 6.—All the morning papers announce to-day in big type the news that Evelina Reierson has committed suicide; she has hanged herself in her own room in her mother's house. All agree that she committed suicide while insane. After her arrest she had several times betrayed signs of insanity, which at last resulted in this deplorable act—so say the reports. All the papers speak in regretful terms of the event, and the Truthseeker and several other papers are untiring in expatiating upon the responsibilities which the "real culprit" and the police must take upon themselves for what has happened.

I hardly understand how I, in the long run, am going to hold out, powerless as I am to do anything.

July 7.—I went to-day to Mrs. Reierson's to see if I could possibly find out if the dead girl had left behind her any message or confession. As I had expected, however, I was received by the worthy dame with a shower of curses and abuse. It was impossible to do anything in that quarter.

Old Frick seems entirely overwhelmed by his niece's guilt, and does not allow her name to be mentioned. He has, however, engaged the best lawyer in Christiania as her counsel. Will that be of any use?

July 9.—Only three days before the court meets, and not a step more forward! Yes, I have done something. I have spoken with the lawyer who will take up Sigrid's case. He confided to me that Sigrid had informed him that it was really she who had visited the pawnbroker that afternoon, to get him to lend her money on her trinkets; but she refused to explain how she wanted to use the money. The lawyer had impressed upon her that it was absolutely necessary that she should explain herself on that point, but the young girl was obdurate.

What can this mean?

What use could Sigrid have for four thousand kroners? and why couldn't she explain what she wanted them for? This has given me much food for reflection.

In the meantime, I asked the lawyer if he had taken note of the fact that the pawnbroker's time by the clock had made it impossible that Miss Frick could be back at Villa Ballarat at the time when the photograph was taken. According to the pawnbroker's account, she drove from there twenty-five minutes to six, and the clock in the photograph showed it to be twenty minutes to six. The way from Bishop Road to Villa Ballarat cannot be covered in five minutes.

The lawyer promised to prove this—but what could Sigrid want with four thousand kroners? What could she have to hide?

Monk closed his note-book.

Yes, thus far go my notes, and the rest is quickly told.

Three days afterward the case came before the court. I was myself called as witness, but my recollections of that day are very indistinct. I felt as if I were walking in my sleep or in the throes of a dreadful dream. If I had been the accused I should have acted calmly and with presence of mind, I am sure. But I was not accused, though guilty of having been the cause of bringing the young girl whom I loved more than my life before a court of justice, and having her accused of having committed a despicable theft from her benefactor. It was some time afterward that I, through reading the accounts in the paper, got some idea of what had taken place that day in the court.

Nearly all the witnesses who appeared against Evelina were also summoned on this occasion. The evidence threw no new light on the case, so I do not think it necessary to go more than is absolutely necessary into the events of that terrible day.

When I gave my explanation of my visit to Mr. Jurgens, the public attempted to assail me with terms of abuse and derision. The judge soon called them to order, but I was subjected to the most offensive glances while I told the story of my own folly.

Sigrid did not attempt to hide her visit to the pawnbroker, but refused to explain for what purpose she required the money. On the other hand, she absolutely denied having set foot in the museum between five and half-past seven.

The public prosecutor in his address especially laid stress upon the following:—

The accused had herself admitted that she, on the day of the robbery, had taken most unusual steps to become possessed of a large sum of money, but that she had not succeeded in this at the pawnbroker's. It was clear that it was of the greatest importance for her to obtain at least four thousand kroners that day, and that all other ways out of the difficulty seemed to be closed against her.

She was one of the few who could, without creating suspicion, go in and out of the museum where the diamond was kept.

Then there was the photograph taken by Mr. Howell of her standing with the diamond in her hand at twenty minutes to six that afternoon. That the photograph represented Miss Frick, although she denied having visited the museum during that time, there was no longer any doubt, after an examination with the magnifying glass.

Finally, there was the evidence of the late chief detective, that Mr. Jurgens at the beginning had declared he had bought the diamond of the accused. Only later had the old man, frightened by the detective's improper behaviour, changed his statement.

These were, in brief, the chief points in the public prosecutor's address, and it is not necessary to add that after the evidence and his speech, there was scarcely a person in the court who doubted but that Miss Frick was guilty.

The counsel for the accused had no other defence than the point which I mentioned in my diary; but this he turned to account beyond all expectation. It appeared that the time when Miss Frick left the pawnbroker's could be substantiated to the minute, by the circumstance that the pawnbroker on this occasion had looked at his watch and asked his clerk if the time was not twenty-five minutes to six. The clerk had then leant out of the window, looked at the clock in the church tower, and answered in the affirmative.

The counsel had also examined the driver who had driven Miss Frick,—I have perhaps forgotten to tell you that meanwhile I had been able to trace this person,—and he could clearly remember that on this occasion he had driven at his usual pace, neither more quickly nor more slowly.

The counsel had, as experiments, taken several drives with the same horse and carriage, and had found that the distance was never made in less than fifteen minutes, when driving at the usual pace, and at a more rapid pace not less than ten minutes.

He had thereby shown, he said, that if Miss Frick was the lady who had left the pawnbroker's at twenty-five minutes to six—which was now an established fact—it could not be she who had been photographed with the diamond in her hand at twenty minutes to six! That the little clock in the elephant's head was right to the minute, had been proved by Mr. Frick's evidence.

The public prosecutor, in the reply, stated that it was a well-known fact that there was often a difference of several minutes in the clocks of the town.

The counsel maintained that such a great difference as would be necessary in such a case, at least ten minutes, was scarcely possible. Altogether, he utilized this circumstance to the utmost, and made his final appeal to the jury so impressive that when the jury retired, there was great uncertainty as to the result.

Here Mr. Monk opened his memorandum book and produced a newspaper cutting, from which he read the conclusion of the counsel's address:—

"It would be foolish of me to maintain that I have proven that my client is not guilty of the theft of which she is accused. But I have the right to ask: Is there any one who believes that the public prosecutor has proved her guilt? I have, at any rate, shown that in order that the assertion of the prosecution may hold good, the young lady must have been in two places at the same time. If she had been at the pawnbroker's at the time when all the evidence went to show she was there, then she cannot be the person who was photographed by Mr. Howell with the stolen diamond in her hand.

"I admit that there is weighty circumstantial evidence against the young lady; but have I not also shown that there is also weighty circumstantial evidence in contradiction? All will agree that this is an unusual case. This robbery, which has now been twice before the court, in the form of two different charges against two different persons, will remain a mystery, whatever the verdict of the jury may be to-day.

"I venture to say, that whatever your judgment may be to-day, we shall to-morrow hear that half of the public approve of it, and the other half disapprove.

"The theft is, and will remain, a mystery.

"Any one who was present at the former trial, will remember that when the case was nearly concluded, in fact, just before the jury retired, there was scarcely a person in court who was not convinced that the case was as clear as any could be, and that the conscience of the jurymen would not be troubled in any way by pronouncing a verdict of 'Guilty.' But an hour or two afterward all were agreed that they might with just as easy a mind pronounce a verdict of 'Not guilty.' Might not the same thing happen to-day?

"I am not so fortunate, it is true, as my colleague, who was the counsel for the defence on the first occasion. I have not, at any rate, succeeded in producing evidence which would compel the prosecution to drop the case,—but I have at least succeeded in showing that if the public prosecutor is correct in his statements, then my client must be a super-natural being!"

The counsel concluded with a passionate appeal to the jury on behalf of his client, and sat down.

"The jury consulted for three hours," continued Monk, and when they at last returned into court, their answer to the question of "Guilty or not guilty" was: "No! Not guilty."

A sigh of relief escaped simultaneously from Clara and myself, and Monk looked up with a strange melancholy smile.

"Yes, I understand. I felt just as you now feel when the verdict was made known. The first impression was one of infinite joy and relief; but it was not to last long. The verdict was received by the public with deep silence; and when Sigrid was liberated, and about to leave the court, she was received with hooting and hissing by the large crowd which in an incredibly short time had collected outside. Stones were thrown after her carriage, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the police got her safely away."

"How terrible!" said Clara. "How could any one have the heart to torture the poor girl any further. Did they believe then that she was guilty?"

"Guilty!" exclaimed Monk, with another melancholy smile. "I don't believe there were ten people in Christiania the next day who were not convinced that Sigrid Frick had stolen her uncle's diamond, and that there were dark pages in her life which were the cause of her being in need of money. Then, besides this, she was looked upon as the cause of Evelina's suicide."

The next day the papers contained accounts of what had happened the day before in the court, and the trial was the general topic of conversation. No one seemed to doubt that Miss Frick was guilty. The suicide of Evelina had especially tended to inflame the minds of the public. Most people were convinced that the cause of the suicide was, as I have already mentioned, the treatment to which she had been exposed while being accused of a crime of which she was innocent.

In one paper appeared a furious leader with the heading: "Is there one law for the rich, and another for the poor?" It dwelt at some length upon the position of the poor young girl in the service of the rich young lady. How the rich lady had stolen the diamond in order to use the money for—well, I will not repeat the words;—how the poor girl was arrested by the police, driven out of her wits, and eventually to suicide. How the police, who apparently seemed to be on a friendly footing with the rich lady, tried to screen her guilt, and how riches had eventually succeeded in getting the wealthy criminal acquitted.

The result of this article was that a large mob proceeded next day to Frick's villa, in the belief that Sigrid was still there, and broke all the windows, hooting and hissing all the time.

Old Frick naturally became furious, and, armed with his revolver and his sabre, he single-handed attacked the mob which surrounded the house.

He was no doubt under the impression that he was followed by a force consisting of the coachman and the gardener; but these cautious warriors did not follow him further than the gate.

Fortunately, old Frick had forgotten to load his revolver, so no great mischief was done. He was at once surrounded and forced up against his railings. He managed, however, to use his sword, if not with dexterity, at least with such fury that it took some time before any one ventured to come near him.

He had succeeded in wounding several half-tipsy roughs, who attempted to close with him, when finally an ingenious young cattle driver caught up a garden seat and rushed at him, using this as a shield. Old Frick's sword got jammed in the seat; he was disarmed, and struck on the head with an empty bottle, and thrown to the ground. Some mounted police at last appeared on the scene, charged the crowd, and saved the old man, after which the mob dispersed quietly.

The blow which old Frick received on his head resulted in concussion of the brain. For several days he lingered between life and death, and has, since that time, owing to paralysis in his legs, not been able to leave his chair without assistance.

CHAPTER IV

MONK'S EXAMINATION

I haven't much more to tell you now, (continued Monk). A few days afterward, Sigrid left to join her brother in Hamburg, whence they both sailed for America, and I have not seen either of them since. With regard to the life I have led these last few years, you, Frederick, know about as much as I do myself. If I have not left the country, it was because an irresistible impulse forced me to haunt the place where my happiness and my expectations had been overthrown, and to try again and again to clear up the mystery which had destroyed the happiness of so many.

My profession of private detective has provided me with sufficient means, both in finances and other respects, to continue my attempts—attempts which up to now have unfortunately brought no results whatever.

At first I had many difficulties to contend against, before I could attain to the position I now occupy. The part I played in the diamond case had made me unpopular with the public, and all my friends advised me to leave the country.

Still, the public does not remain of the same opinion from one day to another. The feeling against me gradually subsided. I fancy people had an idea that a hard and entirely undeserved fate had befallen me and others concerned in this matter. I was fortunate in being able to clear up one or two mysterious affairs, and now, in short, I can no longer complain of want of sympathy from the public.

I have nothing more to add than that I still consider it the object of my life to unravel this mysterious affair. I have not followed the superintendent's advice, and I intend continuing as I have begun, if necessary, to the end of my days. All the people who have played a part in the events which I have told you of, I keep well under my surveillance, either personally, or through my agents. Sometimes I feel as if I could give up everything in despair, for, as I have told you, up till now I have no result to show. Then again my common sense and my experience—not my presentiments—tell me that the solution must come in time, perhaps before I expect it.

"But why have you decided so suddenly to go to America?" This time it was I who spoke.

"Some days ago," he replied, "I received the notice of Einar Frick's death. I shall once again speak to Sigrid. I have certain things to ask her about; perhaps she will now answer me."

We were all silent. Monk went over to the bookcase and began to put some books to rights which were disarranged on the shelf.

Clara got up and crossed over to him, but he did not turn round, although he must have heard her steps. He did not even look when she laid her hand on his shoulder.

"But even now, you have not told us everything!"

"Yes, everything that can be of interest to others."

"No, you are wrong, Monk," said my wife, in a friendly tone, not removing her hand from his shoulder. "Did you not ask us to help you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, and however strange it may seem, yet I believe that one of these little mice can this time help the lion. But you must first tell us everything. When Miss Frick left, why didn't you go with her? Perhaps you thought then that she had stolen the diamond?"

"No, I didn't—but—well, how can I explain myself; you will not understand me—I believe in her, and yet there are moments when—"

"You men are a miserable lot of creatures when it comes to a question of trust," said Clara, with unction. "You, Monk, and very likely you, Frederick, would do the same. You do not hesitate to assure a woman that you respect and love her above everything in the world; but if only there comes a wretched photograph, or some accidental coincidence, then you believe the same woman to be capable of committing the lowest and most degrading of crimes. Yes, I speak not so much with regard to the robbery, as that she, if she were guilty, allowed another to suffer in her place! Let me tell you what passed between you and Sigrid, and then you shall tell me if I am right?"

Monk only nodded, with his face half turned away, and my wife continued in a severe tone:—

"You went to Sigrid and assured her that you believed in her innocence, in spite of all, and you proposed that you should get married at once and go abroad!"

Monk nodded again.

"But she answered that she read doubt at the bottom of your heart, and that it was better that you should both part; isn't that so?"

"Yes," answered Monk, turning round to us—he was dreadfully pale—"I tried hard to get her to tell me why she had attempted that day to get money at the pawnbroker's. If it could clear the matter and prove my innocence, she said, then she would do it; but as the affair stands, it would not serve any purpose, and only bring disgrace upon another.

"'It was to get your brother out of some difficulty,' I urged.

"'It is of no use talking about it,' she said. 'It will not take away the doubt from your heart. Even if you fancy it gone, it will come again and again; and do you think we can get away from people's talk and malice? No, the world is too small for that! And if we got married, and had children, could we be sure that they would never get to know of their mother's past? I have also a duty to fulfil to my brother; and in that you could not take part. To you he would always be the one who had poisoned our life.'

"Such were her words, as near as possible. I felt I had only empty and meaningless words to say in reply to them, and so we parted."

"There, didn't I tell you so!" exclaimed Clara. "It is your own doubt which is the cause of your weakness. That is the reason you have not been able to penetrate the darkness."

"I think you are wrong there, Mrs. Viller," answered Monk, gently, "but the work has been too much for my strength. I fancy it would have been too much for any man. Mention anything I ought to have done, and I think I can answer you that it has already been tried."

"Don't be angry," were Clara's next words, and this time they were as gentle as Monk's own. "I know you have as much feeling as you have common sense, and perhaps more feeling than most people; but with you men, reason always comes off victorious in the end. You cannot alter your natures, I suppose. Now we must see how we can help Monk, Frederick, as he can't help himself; isn't that so?"

"Yes," I answered as cheerfully as I possibly could; "it would be strange if we three, when we have put our heads together, should not be able to clear up the mystery. You have here what you hitherto have lacked, Monk—the experience of an expert in many branches, as represented by me, and a woman's intuition and instinct, as represented by Clara. But as a preliminary, Monk will have to be examined. Have you anything to ask Monk, Clara? You shall be the first, then my turn comes."

"Yes, I must begin," answered Clara, looking in a very friendly manner at Monk, as if to appease him if she had wounded him with her remarks. "Tell me, was not the Englishman, Howell, as he was called, in love with Sigrid? Didn't he pay his attentions to her, and wasn't he rejected?"

Monk began to smile. "I fancy he did try a little at first, but he soon saw that I had forestalled him, and so, with a good grace I'll admit, he left the field clear. If he had made any definite advances, I think Sigrid would have told me."

"Are you quite sure about that?" answered Clara, with an air of superiority. "One is not of course father confessor to one's fiancée. But can you tell me any other reason why he should hate both of you?"

"Are you sure he hated us?"

"Yes, I am quite sure about it; he is the cause of the whole mischief. The photograph was of course nothing but humbug."

Monk smiled resignedly. "The photograph was only too genuine."

"And then there was that wretched actor," continued Clara; "he left, I understand, just before Evelina committed suicide. Have you heard anything of him since? It was of course on his account that the young girl killed herself. I believe he first of all got her to steal the diamond, and then left her. That was the reason of the poor girl committing suicide."

"I also thought of that," was Monk's answer, "and I had him watched after he left Christiania. He went first to Gothenburg and later to Copenhagen. But it is not probable that the money which Jurgens paid for the diamond has at any time been in his hands. He lived the whole time from hand to mouth, and often in the greatest misery."

"Are you quite certain of this?" I asked. "If the actor didn't get the money, all my theories are upset."

"Yes, isn't that so?" said Monk, smiling again, in the same resigned way. "And you would have had the same experience, not only in one, but in ten points of the case, if you had weighed them and turned them over in your head as long as I have done."

"But there must be one theory which is right," I exclaimed. "Some one must have stolen the diamond!"

"Yes, that's the dreadful part of it all!" groaned Monk. "There is only one theory which can be applied to all that has happened in this dreadful affair, and that is—" here his voice sank almost to a whisper,—"and that is, that—that Sigrid took the diamond to help her brother, was photographed by Mr. Howell, and then sold the diamond to Mr. Jurgens. No, don't say what you want to say, Mrs. Viller. Rather bear in mind that it is my fixed determination, in a few days to go to America, and again offer Sigrid my hand. Can I better show my faith in her?"

Clara did not answer.

"Where is the actor now?" I asked.

"He died in delirium tremens, in a public hospital in Denmark. I had an agent there for some time, who tried to get something out of him, but it was of no use. The agent was under the impression that the actor knew nothing of the diamond robbery,—nothing of any importance to us, at least."

"And Mrs. Reierson—have you tried her?"

"By all possible means, through a third person. She will not see me. If I show myself to her, she swears and curses me for having brought about her daughter's death. Old Frick gives her a yearly pension; but as she has completely given herself over to drink, it does not last very long, and between each quarterly payment she lives in the greatest destitution."

"And Mr. Howell?"

"I have not lost sight of him, although it is often difficult enough to keep an eye on him. He leads the life of so many rich Englishmen. He spends the season in London, the autumn in the country, and the rest of the year in travelling. He has a yacht, and has several times visited Norway in the summer. He has, however, been only three or four times in Christiania all these years, and then only for a short time. He has on these occasions stayed at Villa Ballarat with old Frick. My agent in England informs me that he is well known as a gambler and as a man who spends more money than he can afford. He has for many years paid frequent visits to a country house in Yorkshire,—Ashton Hall,—belonging to a rich gentleman, Mr. Ashton. They say it will end in his marrying the gentleman's eldest daughter, a lady who is no longer young. The reason for this long courtship no one can explain. They think he'll not swallow the bitter pill until he is obliged. Here, people believe that he will inherit old Frick's money. Very likely that is the reason he goes on courting so long. Very likely, too, the old man's death might put him on his legs again, and save him from marrying the lady in Yorkshire."

"You seem no longer to like the Englishman!"

"I have never liked him particularly, and, as I have told you earlier, his conduct frequently appeared to me to be suspicious. Yet I cannot very well account for the reason of my distrust for him. I have an idea that he played a part in the drama, which I do not comprehend. I believe your wife's instinct tells her the same."

"Instinct!" repeated Clara, witheringly. "We women must always hear, when we in some way or other hit upon a right solution, that it is our instinct which has come to our aid—never a word is said about logical deduction! Look here, Mr. Monk. What I mean to say is, that I am sure that Mr. Howell tampered with the photograph in order to ruin Sigrid. This result I arrive at from the following reasoning. If the photograph is to be relied upon, Sigrid must have had the diamond in her hand that day; but she denied this absolutely. No, don't try to avoid it, Monk! You are afraid to tell me that now I am illogical—isn't that what you call it?—like all women, and so you won't even look at me. But I haven't finished yet. Suppose Sigrid could and would tell a lie, what could have been easier for her than to admit she had that afternoon been into the museum, had taken out the diamond and looked at it for a moment, and then put it back in its place again? No one could have said a word against this explanation as to how the photograph was taken. No! Sigrid was not a fool; and you must admit that if she wanted to tell a lie, she would not do it in such a foolish way. Admit that I am right, Monk! All probabilities go to prove that Sigrid spoke the truth. She had not set foot in Mr. Frick's museum that day between five and half-past seven, and—the photograph was tampered with."

Monk could not help smiling; but it was the same smile—the hopeless smile with which the giant who has in vain attempted to lift a burden watches the dwarf endeavouring to lift it for him.

He went across to a small iron safe in the corner of the room, and came back at once with a little object which he laid on the table before us. It was a small photograph placed between glass plates, which were held together by india-rubber bands.

"This is the photograph."

Both Clara and I stretched out our hands at the same moment, and Monk laid it on the table between us, together with an oblong magnifying glass of unusual size.

"Now you can look at it for yourselves. What cannot be seen with the naked eye can be easily discerned through the magnifying glass."

Clara and I used it in turn.

"I have to thank my old friend, the chief superintendent, that I am in possession of the photograph," continued Monk.

"At my earnest request he gave it up to me, but not till two years after the trial. He made me promise, however, that I should keep it in a fire-proof safe, and take the greatest care of it. Heavens! it was hardly necessary to request me to do that."

The photograph answered to the brief description which Monk had already given of it. It was three or four inches in height, but very narrow, so much so that little was to be seen but the girlish figure in front of the open cupboard with the shelves. These shelves were filled with all sorts of curiosities, which appeared most distinctly on the plate. On the whole, the photograph was unusually clear and distinct.

"Look at the girl's left hand," said Monk.

I held the magnifying glass over the photograph. "Yes, I see, she has a ring on the ring finger."

"Yes; and the finger is quite normal—not at all deformed."

"No, it is quite well shaped."

"You see the little elephant on the shelf over the cupboard, and the clock in its forehead? What time does it show?"

"Let me see! It is twenty-one minutes to six. The figures are not easy to distinguish, but the position of the hands is plain enough."

"Yes, although the elephant is scarcely three inches high, that and the other small things on the shelf over the cupboard are the masterpieces of an ivory carver in Naples. Do you see, for example, a little copy of Venus de Milo at the side of it?"

"Yes, I see it. But tell me, Monk, who does the girl in the photograph resemble, Miss Frick or Evelina?"

"Oh, Evelina! I was, of course, accustomed to see Sigrid in that costume—the braided jacket and the little hat with the bird's wing on it—so at first glance I might have doubted; but after a more careful inspection I should never have hesitated in saying that it was Evelina,—she and no one else, if only this question of the finger hadn't cropped up."

"The photograph was examined, wasn't it?"

"If any photograph in this world has been examined, this is the one. As you may remember, the photographer Rodin and another expert gave their opinion upon it at the first trial. Later on it was examined at the physical laboratory of the university. All were of one mind in saying that no attempt had been made either to tamper with or to make any alteration in it,—neither by retouching nor by any other means."

While I continued to converse with Monk, Clara took possession of the picture. I handed her the magnifying glass, but she pushed it aside, and continued studying the photograph without once looking up.

"You must be quite tired," I said to Monk, "with all our questioning, but if it will not be too tedious to you to answer me, I should like to examine you a little."

"On the contrary, I would prefer nothing better than listening to your remarks. What I wish is to get out of this vicious circle in which my thoughts have run during the last six years."

"Have you any guarantee that this photograph was taken that afternoon—the 10th of May—between five and half-past seven?"

"Yes, only too positive proof; but the report in the Morning News is perhaps not sufficiently clear. The facts are these: The snap-shot apparatus used by Mr. Howell had a roll of prepared paper sufficient to take ten photographs. I suppose you have seen these apparatus. For every new picture you want to take you turn a little screw outside, which is connected with the roller, until a new number appears on the indicator. When all the paper on the roll has been used, it is taken out, in order to get the pictures developed, and a new roll is inserted. On the back of this photograph you will find number ten printed. Number nine, which was also produced in court, was a group which Mr. Howell had taken in the museum before Jurgens left. The next, that is to say, number ten, must therefore have been taken in the interval before the roll was handed over to the photographer,—in other words, between five and seven o'clock. You will at once see that even if Mr. Howell had wanted to deceive us, it would not have been possible."

"Yes, I fear, it is only too true. I have now nothing else to ask, except whether the hands of the watch in the elephant's forehead might not have been moved backward, or forward, by some one, either accidentally or purposely?"

"You ask the same question which I have been asking myself for many years. What we do know is that the watch was right at five o'clock, and again at half-past seven. It is impossible that it could have been altered in the meantime. It appears that the glass which covers the dial is not movable. If the watch has to be regulated, the whole of the clockwork must be exposed by removing a small metal plate under the stomach of the elephant. On examining the elephant, two days after Evelina's acquittal, it was found that there were no marks whatever to be found in the thin layer of dust which had settled in the joint between the ivory and this plate."

"But then we have the question of the time to settle," I said. "It proves that Miss Frick could not have returned from the pawnbroker at the time which the watch in the photograph shows. As far as I understand you, it was this circumstance alone which saved her at the trial."

"I'll tell you exactly what I think. It was that fact which saved her as far as it gave the jury a pretext to answer 'No' to the question whether she was guilty or not—or, more correctly, an excuse for not answering 'Yes' to it. I do not believe there was a person in the court who, in their heart of hearts, did not believe that Sigrid was guilty. But her counsel very cleverly laid stress on the obscurity which enveloped the whole matter, and the possibility that they might give an unjust verdict and that the truth afterward might transpire. They, or, more correctly, five of them, chose, therefore, so the rumour goes, and I think it is correct, to answer 'No,' as the discrepancy with regard to the time gave them the opportunity to do. You understand what I mean?"

"Yes, I understand; but what is your personal opinion with regard to the discrepancy in the time?"

"Well, for my own part, I cannot deny that those who believed in Sigrid's guilt were right in saying: Supposing that the driver had driven rather more quickly than ordinarily, then the discrepancy in the time would not be greater than five minutes. It might easily happen that this difference in the time was due to the fact that the clocks in the different parts of the town did not tally."

"May I take the photograph home with me?"

It was Clara who interrupted us. She had sat staring hard at the picture, and now she stood before Monk with it hidden in her hand.

Monk reflected a moment.

"If you will promise me to keep it in Frederick's safe when you have not got it in your hand."

"I promise everything," was Clara's answer; "and among other things, that the photograph has been tampered with!!!"

There was such conviction in my wife's voice that Monk's cheeks flushed with excitement. This time I saw nothing of the hopeless smile. He did not have a chance of replying, however, for Clara began hurriedly to put on her hat and cape.

"Come now, Frederick, it is past three in the morning, and to-morrow we have still another day's work."

"Goodnight, Monk."

"Goodnight."

"Stop a minute; two things I must ask you before we go. Where does Mrs. Reierson live?"

"She lives in her old den in Russelök Street, No. 44."

"Where could one find the clothes which Evelina had on that day when the robbery was committed? I mean the hat and jacket which she wears in the photograph."

"Very probably Mrs. Reierson still has them, if she hasn't sold them. They were produced in court, but were later on naturally given back to the unhappy girl's mother. But why do you ask about them? You know, of course, that—"

"That is my business for the present; good night, once more."

The last conversation was carried on between Clara and Monk. I listened to them in astonishment. What in all the world did Clara mean by these questions?

As we wandered homeward in the moonlight, with Clara on my arm, I tried to find out what her purpose had been with regard to her last questions to Monk.

"You surely don't intend to visit Mrs. Reierson?"

"I don't intend to tell you," was the reply; "but even if I do, what harm is there in that?"

"No, of course there's no harm; but according to Monk's description, there was nothing very prepossessing about Mrs. Reierson six years ago, and in the course of these years she is not likely to have changed for the better."

"Don't let us talk about it any more. Remember I have been to less prepossessing houses before in my life, on mysterious errands. Do you remember that time when I paid my fruitless visit to the pawnbroker, and, in my despair, had to go to Monk?"

"Yes, you were lucky that time," I answered gayly. "If you hadn't gone that day to Monk, you would never have met me, and then perhaps you would never have been married."

"Of course I do not want to keep any secrets from you, either big or small," said Clara. "It is my intention to go to Mrs. Reierson to-morrow morning. But you shall not go with me; first, because I consider it will serve my purpose better if I go alone. Men are such blunderers, you know. She is naturally suspicious about men, and would perhaps recognize you as a friend of Monk's, and secondly, I am very anxious to carry out my little plan all by myself. Fancy, if I can help him, as he once helped me,—wouldn't that be a triumph!"

CHAPTER V

THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTER IN THE BOOK. CLARA ACTS THE DETECTIVE

"It's time to get up, sir. Missus said as 'ow I must get you up by half-past nine."

I looked up in astonishment. In the doorway stood our red-faced country servant girl nodding good-humouredly at me.

"Where is your mistress gone?"

"Missus went out at half-past eight, and said as 'ow I must wake you up and have the breakfast ready by ten o'clock."

There was no mistaking this order, so I hurried up, a little ashamed at having slept so long.

No sooner was I dressed, than there was a ring at the front doorbell, and in stepped Monk with a very serious face.

He was not one of those who are much affected by one or even two nights of sleeplessness, but to-day he looked unusually tired and weary.

"I'm afraid you haven't had a good night. It was dreadfully late when we left you; we shouldn't have kept you up so long!"

"It was rather I who kept both of you up so late. But where is your wife gone?"

"Clara went out at half-past eight, the girl says; but she is sure to be home soon. Why do you ask?"

"She telephoned to me a quarter of an hour ago. She told me to come here at once, as she had something of importance to tell me."

"She must have telephoned from some place in town," I answered, somewhat surprised.

"Your wife made some very sensible remarks about the photograph, yesterday," said Monk, hesitatingly. "Has she said anything more on the subject?"

"Hullo, Monk," I answered, laughing; "so you've come to consult Clara Viller, the private detective!"

Monk hadn't time to answer, for in came the very person we spoke of. Her cheeks were rosy with the sharp morning air. In her hand she carried an untidy, badly packed, brown paper parcel.

"Please excuse me, Mr. Monk, for keeping you waiting; but I was obliged to call in at the charcuterie establishment and get something tasty for Frederick's breakfast. Such a gourmand as he is! For you, I have got something else. But take a seat at the table and have a cup of coffee; I will just run and slip off my things—I shan't be gone a minute."

She vanished from the room just as suddenly as she had appeared.

Monk and I sat down at the breakfast table, and Clara soon joined us. Both she and I did good justice to the viands, but Monk only played with his knife and fork.

When we were finished, Clara asked me for the key to the safe in my office.

She returned with the photograph and the magnifying glass, and laid them beside Monk on the table. Monk and I looked at her in astonishment. She also placed the brown paper parcel near.

"Yesterday I promised to show you that the photograph had been tampered with. I could have done it at the time, but I was anxious to refute all the objections which I knew you and Frederick would bring forward, and that is why I waited until to-day. The matter is soon settled; the lady who stands in the photograph has on a little hat with a feather in it. On which side is the feather?"

Monk glanced at the photograph. "On the right side!"

"Yes, quite so; now do you think that any lady wears feathers on the right side of her hat?"

"No,—now I come to think of it, ladies usually wear feathers on the left side of their hats," Monk said, looking uncertainly at us both.

"Usually, do you say? Not at all! No lady ever wears feathers on the right side."