Heart to heart

How he got back to his rooms Henry Cross could not tell. He was in a fever of excitement—and despair. Never before in his life had he felt so utterly dejected, so broken in spirit and hopes. He had confronted her, accused her, made her flee from him to hide her tell-tale face, and awakened to the knowledge that, in spite of all, he loved her.

He paced the front room like a caged animal that longs for the trackless forest where no sign of man or civilization is yet visible. He wanted to be alone, and he also wanted to throw off the weight that depressed his heart.

“I’ll do it!” he muttered savagely. “I don’t care what becomes of the railroad. Pardue and the rest can take care of it. I’ll leave Lakeview and go to—to Alaska, South America—or somewhere.”

He continued to walk restlessly for a few minutes more. He wondered what Maud would say and think when he was gone. Would she be sorry, or would she feel relieved?

Half an hour later he was hard at work packing a trunk, having fully determined to go away. In another half hour the task was completed, and he looked at his watch.

“Just forty minutes before the boat arrives that will take me to Mackanack Junction,” he said. “That will give me time to write to the other fellows, draw some money out of the bank, and—drop her a line.”

The last was an afterthought which he felt bound to heed. Yes, he would write to her, telling her that, no matter what had come between them, no matter how far, henceforth, their lives might drift apart, he would always continue to love her.

The letters were dashed off quickly, one to Pardue, another to the constructing superintendent, a third to his office boy, and the last to Maud, over which he lingered the longest. He stamped them all and gave them to Jackson to mail.

“I am going away for a while,” he said. “Lock up my rooms and guard them well during my absence.”

He fancied the janitor stared at him curiously when he announced his intention, but he thought this only natural, for he had never gone away for any length of time before. Little did he know of what was passing in the man’s mind.

“Yes, sir, I’ll look out for them, sir. May I ask are you going far?”

“I’m off on a vacation, first to New York, and thence to any place that pleases me. Go and get an expressman to take my trunk and bag to the dock at once. I want to catch the afternoon boat.”

It was past the regular banking hours, but the clerks had not yet left the big stone building, and Henry Cross had no difficulty in getting the cashier to pay him several hundred dollars on his personal check. He placed the bills in his breast pocket, looked at the long clock on the wall, and found he had just eight minutes in which to reach the water front ere the boat should cast off on her way down the lake.

It was growing colder, and in the air there were signs of an early fall of snow. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, pulled his hat over his eyes, and hurried down the street.

He was not aware that he was shadowed—that Jack Hull had been watching him, and had been informed by Jackson of his intention to leave the vicinity. All unconscious, he made his way to the dock, and, entering the little office, called for a through ticket to New York City, at the same time laying down a ten-dollar bill for payment.

The bit of pasteboard was handed over, along with the change, and Cross turned to go outside, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“Come with me, please; I wish to speak to you.”

Henry Cross turned to look at the person who had addressed him. He remembered the face of the detective, now without his beard, whom he had met at the inquest.

“You wish to speak to me?” he repeated.

“Yes. Come outside.”

The young man breathed quickly. There was that in Jack Hull’s manner that made him scent danger. He went out on the dock, with Hull still close beside him.

“Come with me, Cross.”

“With you? What do you want?”

“I want you to come with me up to the town jail.”

“But I haven’t time. I wish to take the boat. See? I have just bought a ticket for New York.”

“Can’t help that. You must come with me,” and now Jack Hull’s voice was cold and determined.

“Why, confound it, what’s up?”

“Well, if you must know, I arrest you for the murder of Allen Chesterbrook.”

Henry Cross staggered back—what man would have not?—and his face became pale as ashes.

“Arrest me? Surely you are joking.”

“Not a bit of it, Cross. Come, I tell you; I have found you out at last.”

“This is absurd—nonsensical in the extreme.”

“Come on—you can do your talking at the jail—unless you want to cause a scene here.”

Henry Cross’ eyes flashed defiantly. Then a change came over him. A crowd was collecting, for a few had overheard what Hull had said.

“All right, I’ll go along. But you will find that you have made a great mistake. Will you be kind enough to have my baggage detained, too? There is no use of their going on without me.”

The sarcasm was completely lost on Jack Hull.

“I’ve attended to that already; the bag and trunk are in the hands of the police.”

“Ah, then you have been watching me—spying on my movements.”

“I’ve been watching you practically since the day of the murder. Now, Cross, don’t ask any more questions, but come along.”

Once more the detective placed his hand on the young man’s arm. Cross did not shake off the grasp, and together they left the dock and marched along the street leading to the Lakeview County and town jail.

A crowd followed—a crowd that grew larger at every corner. The news spread like wild fire. Henry Cross had been arrested for the murder of Allen Chesterbrook! How the tongues of the gossips wagged! Oh, he was guilty. They had always suspected him. He might as well confess at once.

Some ran ahead of the detective and his prisoner, and when the two arrived at the room in which the police court was held they found it crowded.

But the room was soon cleared, and then a formal charge of murder was made against Henry Cross. He pleaded not guilty and was held to await the action of the grand jury, which had begun its sittings for that term the day previous. As it was a capital crime of which he was charged, no bail was set, and he was taken to a cell.

During the brief hearing the young man had remained strangely silent, saving to state that he was innocent and would try to prove it later on. When the jailer asked him if he wished to send any messages, he said no, not for the present.

Feeling sure he could prove his man guilty, Jack Hull did not hesitate to speak of the case, and late in the evening the local paper came out with an extra, giving the details of the murder, as previously published, and with the present news, so far as it was made public. This special edition sold rapidly, and it was the Willowby chauffeur who bought one and took it to the astonished colonel.

“No, no, never! It’s scandalous!” Such were the colonel’s comments. He was on the point of rushing off to tell Maud the news, but suddenly stopped, remembering that she had gone to bed early, complaining that she felt quite ill. “It will be time enough for her to hear the sad news, poor thing, in the morning.”

The colonel could not remain at home, so he went down to the jail. He would call on Cross and show the young man that he was willing to stand by him in this hour of darkness.

But at the jail he met with a setback.

“Mr. Cross wishes to see no one. He sent out word to that effect.”

The colonel would not believe it.

“He will see me, surely. Tell him I am here,” he said.

The jailer took in the message. He was gone fully five minutes. On returning he shook his head.

“Just as I said, sir. He thanks you for your kindness in coming, but he prefers to be left alone at present. He says he may see you later on.”

“And is that all? He sent no other message?” Colonel Willowby was thinking of his daughter.

“No, sir, not a word.”

The old man turned, and without another word left the building. Several who saw him come and go shook their heads.

“This is a big blow to him, for Cross was sweet on his daughter,” they said to one another.

The next day was a busy one for Jack Hull. He was closeted with the prosecuting attorney for many hours, and then the two appeared before the grand jury. They were also before that august body on the morning following, and then Henry Cross was formally charged with murder in the first degree. As the court was not busy, the trial was set down to begin on the following Monday at ten o’clock in the morning.

In the meantime, Henry Cross remained in his cell, refusing to see all who called, with the single exception of Pardue, who came on a purely business matter, and never once mentioned the trouble on hand. Cross smiled bitterly as he realized that even this semipartner thought him guilty.

Yet Cross had one friend who would not be put off. This was a young lawyer named Andrew Welford. Welford had always drawn up all legal papers required by Cross, and the two had been confidential in many matters. The lawyer wrote to Cross, begging him to take some legal steps to protect himself.

“I know that you are innocent,” he wrote, “and it is the height of folly for you to sit down calmly and do nothing. You must have a lawyer—you ought to have two—and if you will only give me permission, I will arrange the matter for you. I can get Martinham from New York, who has no equal, and I will assist him to the best of my ability. It is suicidal not to defend yourself. I think you know me well enough not to imagine I am snuffing around for a fat fee.”

This straightforward note had the desired effect upon Henry Cross, and he wrote back to Welford, asking him to call at the jail. Half an hour later the young lawyer was on the spot.

He was truly astonished at the change in Cross’ appearance. The young man’s cheeks were sunken and pale, and his eyes had an uneasy, introspective look that was anything but hopeful. When he arose to shake hands he appeared old and feeble.

“By Jove, Cross, this trouble is telling on you,” exclaimed Welford, with honest sympathy expressed in his clear, brown eyes. “You must not take it so to heart; you’ll go to pieces before the trial comes off.”

“Sit down, Welford,” returned Henry Cross gently. “I’m all right. Only I’m not used to being cooped up.”

“That’s true. Well, what about it? Shall I engage Martinham? I saw him yesterday, and he is not overbusy.”

“No, I don’t want Martinham.”

“No? Then supposing I write to Fordike or Innersoll——”

“It’s not necessary, Welford. I have already settled on a lawyer. Your kind letter settled it. I’ll have you alone.”

The young lawyer smiled and his eyes sparkled. But then he shook his head.

“You have an immense amount of confidence in me, I must say; but it won’t do. I’ve had too little practice in such cases.”

“You know the method?”

“Oh, yes; but still——”

“That is enough. If I am to have any one, I’ll have you. I don’t want a stranger.”

And to this decision Henry Cross adhered, despite all the arguments Welford could bring to bear. Moreover, he was opposed to having the trial deferred.

“Delay would be useless,” he said. “To me this solitary confinement is unendurable. Let the trial go on and be finished as soon as possible.”

“But, Cross, you don’t appear to realize the seriousness of the case.”

“I do, perfectly.”

“That detective may have some damning evidence hidden away—false, of course—and unless we are well prepared, it may—may knock us out.”

“What if it does? I’ll only be hung, and that will be the end of the whole miserable business.”

Welford sprang from his seat in amazement. Never before had he heard a man utter such hopeless words so calmly, so dispassionately, as if he was dismissing the merest trifle. It flashed over him that Cross must be becoming demented.

“Don’t talk that way, man. You are not going to hang; and you really must brace up. Do you suppose I’m going to let that detective get the best of us? Not much! Come, tell me your story, and we’ll exert our best efforts to knock his yarn into a cocked hat.”

In this manner he attempted to arouse Cross from his apparent indifference, and he partly succeeded, for Cross’ face took on a brighter look, and he began to walk the narrow confines of the cell nervously.

“I haven’t much to tell outside of what you already know,” he said. “You heard my story before the coroner, did you not?”

“I did.”

“I told everything there.”

“You knew nothing more?”

Cross hesitated.

“Nothing,” he said, and turned away to continue his walk.

“You said something about a quarrel with Chesterbrook?”

“That did not amount to anything.”

“You refused to go into the particulars.”

“We quarreled at the Charity Ball, over a dance with a young lady.” Henry Cross mentioned no name, but Welford knew very well whom he meant. “We exchanged a few hot words, and that ended it. I dare say both of us were ashamed of the quarrel the next day. I know I was.”

For once Henry Cross spoke as if he meant what he said. Welford continued to question him, but failed to gain further information that seemed likely to be of value.

Welford realized that the most damaging testimony against his client would be the fact that he had been alone at the time the murder was committed, and that his rooms were directly over those formerly used by Chesterbrook—this coupled with the fact that both men loved the same woman, and had quarreled.

Once the young lawyer started to bring in the name of Maud Willowby; but Henry Cross at once stopped him.

“If you try to bring her into the case I will dismiss you,” he said. “She must be left alone entirely. If she comes forward of her own free will——” Here he stopped and would go no further. But he cautioned Welford again not to seek her assistance.

The conference lasted hardly an hour, and Welford went back to his office in no easy frame of mind. He believed Cross innocent, and also believed that his client was holding back evidence that would readily clear him.