"Look here, Evelyn," he said at last. "What's the use of going on in this way, why can't we get back to some decent understanding?" He was hungry for tenderness from her; acute physical fear was holding him in its grip. He leaned back in his chair and found support for his head. "You're right," he went on, "I can't stand this racket much longer—this work and worry; we are living beyond our means; we'll have to slow up, get down to a more sane basis." The words came from his blue lips in jerky disjointed sentences. "What's the use, it's too much of a struggle! I do a thousand things I don't want to do, shady things in my practice, things no reputable lawyer should stoop to, and all to make a few dollars to throw away. I tell you, I am sick of it! Why can't we be as other people, reasonable and patient—that's the thing, to be patient, and just bide our time. We can't live like millionaires on my income, what's the use of trying—I tell you we are fools!"
"Are matters so desperate with us?" Evelyn asked. "And is it all my fault?"
"I can't do anything to pull up unless you help, me," Langham said.
"Well, are matters so desperate?" she repeated.
He did not answer her at once.
"Bad enough," he replied at length and was silent.
A sense of terrible loneliness swept over him; a loneliness peopled with shadows, in which he was the only living thing, but the shadows were infinitely more real than he himself. He had the brute instinct to hide, and the human instinct to share his fear. He poured himself a drink. Evelyn watched him with compressed lips as he drained the glass. He drew himself up out of the depths of his chair and began to tramp the floor; words leaped to his lips but he pressed them back; he was aware that only the most intangible barriers held between them; an impulse that grew in his throbbing brain seemed driving him forward to destroy these barriers; to stand before her as he was; to emerge from his mental solitude and claim her companionship. What was marriage made for, if not for this?
"Look here," he said, wheeling on her suddenly. "Do you still love me; do you still care as you once did?" He seized one of her hands in his.
"You hurt me, Marsh!" she said, drawing away from him.
He dropped her hand and with a smothered oath turned from her.
"You women don't know what love is!" he snarled. "Talk about a woman giving up; talk about her sacrifices—it's nothing to what a man does, where he loves!"
"What does he do that is so wonderful, Marsh?" she asked coldly.
He paused and regarded her with a wolfish glare.
"It's no damned anemic passion!" he burst out.
"Thank you," she mocked. "Really, Marsh, you are outdoing yourself!"
"You have never let me see into your heart,—never once!"
"Perhaps it's just as well I haven't; perhaps it is a forbearance for which you should be only grateful," she jeered.
"If you were the sort of woman I once thought you, I'd want to hide nothing from you; but a woman—she's secretive and petty, she always keeps her secrets; the million little things she won't tell, the little secrets that mean so much to her—and a man wastes his life in loving such a woman, and is bitter when he finds he's given all for nothing!"
His heavy tramping went on.
"Is that the way you feel about it?" she asked.
"Yes!" he cried. "I'm infinitely more lonely than when I married you! Look here; I came to you, and in six months' time you knew a thousand things you had no right to know, unless you, too, were willing to come as close! But I'm damned if I know the first thing about you—sometimes you are one thing, sometimes another. I never know where to find you!"
"And I am to blame that we are unhappy? Of course you live in a way to make any woman perfectly happy—you are never at fault there!"
"You never really loved me!"
"Didn't I?" she sighed with vague emotion.
"No."
"Then why did I marry you, Marsh?"
"Heaven knows—I don't!"
"Then why did you marry me?" She gave him a fleeting smile.
"Because I loved you—because you had crept into my heart with your pretty ways, your charm, and the fascination of you. I hadn't any thought but you; you seemed all of my life, and I was going to do such great things for you. By God, I was going to amount to something for your sake! I was going to make you a proud and happy woman, but you wouldn't have it! You never got past the trivial things; the annoyances, the need of money, the little self-denials, the little inconveniences; you stopped there and dragged me back when I wanted to go on; you wouldn't have it, you couldn't or wouldn't understand my hopes—my ambitions!"
"Marsh, I was only a girl!" she said.
He put out his hand toward the bottle.
"Don't, Marsh!" she entreated.
He turned away and fell to pacing the floor again.
"What happiness do we get out of life, what good? We go on from day to day living a life that is perfectly intolerable to us both; what's the use of it—I wonder we stand it!"
"I have sometimes wondered that, too," Evelyn half whispered.
"You had it in your power to make our life different, but you wouldn't take the trouble; and see where we have drifted; you don't trust me and I don't trust you—" She started. "What sort of a basis is that for a man and wife, for our life together?"
"It's what we—what you have made it!" she answered.
"No, it isn't; it's what you have made it! I tell you, you were bored to death; you wanted noise and world! Remember how I used to come home from the office every night, and begrudged the moments when any one called? I wanted only you; I talked over my cases with you, my hopes and my ambitions; but you mighty soon got sick of that—you yawned, you were sleepy, and you wanted to go about; you thought it was silly staying cooped up like that, and seeing no one, going nowhere! It was stupid for you, you were bored to death, you wanted noise and excitement, to spend money, to see and be seen,—as if that game was worth the candle in a God-forsaken hole of a place like Mount Hope! You killed my ambition then and there; I saw it was no use. You wanted the results, but you wouldn't pay the price in self-denial and patience, and so we rushed into debt and it's been a scramble ever since! I've begged and borrowed and cheated to keep afloat!"
"And I was the cause of it all?" she demanded with lazy scorn of him.
"There was a time when I stood a chance of doing something, but I've fooled my opportunities away!"
"What of the promises you made me when we were married—what about them?" she asked.
"You created conditions in which I could not keep them!" he said.
"I seem to have been wholly, at fault; at least from your point of view; but don't you suppose there is something I could say? Do you suppose I sit here silent because I am convinced that it is all my fault?"
He did not answer her at once but continued to pace the floor; at length he jerked out:
"No, I was at fault too. I've a nasty temper. I should have had more patience with you, Evelyn—but it was so hard to deny you anything you wanted that I could possibly give you—I'd have laid the whole world at your feet if I could!"
"I believe you would, Marsh—then!" she said.
"It's a pity you didn't understand me," he answered indifferently.
Nothing he could say led in the direction he would have had it lead, for he wanted her to realize her part in what had happened, to know that the burden beneath which he had gone down was in a measure the work of her hands. His instinct was as primitive as a child's fear of the dark; he must escape from the horror of his isolation; his secret was made doubly terrifying because he knew he dared not share it with any living creature. Yet his mind played strange tricks with him; he was ready to risk much that he might learn what part of the truth he could tell her; he was even ready to risk all in a dumb brute impulse to gather up the remnants of his strength of heart and brain, and be the center of some widespread catastrophe; to put his fear in her soul just as it was in his own. How was she ever to comprehend the horror that held him in its cruel grasp, the thousand subtle shades of thought and feeling that had led up to this thing, from the memory of which he revolted! He turned his bloodshot eyes upon her, something of the old light was there along with the new; he had indeed loved her, but the fruit of this love had been rotten. He was silent, and again his heavy tread resounded in the room as he dragged himself back and forth.
The force in him was stirring her. Sensation of any sort had always made its strong appeal to her. Without knowing what was passing in his mind she yet understood that it was some powerful emotion, and her pliant nerves responded. For the moment she forgot that she no longer loved him. She rose and went to his side.
"Is it all my fault, Marsh?" she said.
"What is your fault?" he asked, pausing.
"That we are so unhappy; am I the only one at fault there?"
He looked down into her face relentingly.
"I don't know—I swear I don't know!" he said hoarsely.
"What is it, Marsh—why are you so unhappy? Just because you love me? What an unkind thing to say!"
He turned to the table to pour himself a drink, but she caught his hand.
"For my sake, Marsh!" she entreated.
Again he looked down into her eyes.
"For my sake," she repeated softly.
"By God, I'll never touch another drop!" he said.
"Oh, you make me so happy!" she exclaimed.
He crushed her in his arms until his muscles were tense. She did not struggle for release, but abandoned herself without a word to the emotion of the moment. Her head thrown back, her cheeks pale, her full lips smiling, she gazed up into his face with eyes burning with sudden fire.
"How I love you!" he whispered.
She slipped her arms about his neck with a little cry of ecstasy.
"Oh, Marsh, I have been foolish, too, but this is the place for me—my place—against your very heart!" she said softly.
For a long minute Langham held her so, and then tortured by sudden memory he came back sharply to the actualities. His arms dropped from about her.
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
She was not yet ready to pass from the passion of that moment.
"It's too late—" he muttered brokenly.
"No, dear, it's not too late, we have only been a little foolish. Of course we can go back; of course we can begin all over, and we know now what to avoid; that was it, we didn't know before, we were ignorant of ourselves—of each other. Why, don't you see, we are only just beginning to live, dear—you must have faith!" and again her arms encircled him.
"But you don't know—" he stammered.
"Don't know what, dear?"
He dropped into his chair, and she sank on her knees at his side. A horrible black abyss into which he was falling, seemed to open at his feet. Her hands were the only ones that could draw him back and save him.
"Don't know what?" she repeated.
The mystery of his man's nature, with its mingled strength and weakness, was something she could not resist.
"Does it ever do any good to pray, I wonder?" he gasped.
"I wonder, too!" she echoed breathlessly.
He laughed.
"What rot I'm talking!" he said.
"What is it that is wrong, Marsh?"
"Nothing—nothing—I can't tell you—"
"You can tell me anything, I would always understand—always, dear. Prove to me that our love is everything; take me back into your confidence!"
"No," he gasped hoarsely. "I can't tell you—you'd hate me if I did; you'd never forget—you couldn't!"
She turned her eyes on him in breathless inquiry.
"I would—I promise you now! Marsh, I promise you, can't you believe—?"
He shook his head and gazed somberly into her eyes. She rested her cheek against the back of his hand where it lay on the arm of his chair. There was a long silence.
"But what is it, Marsh? What has happened?"
"Nothing's happened," he said at last. "I'm a bit worried, that's all, about myself—my debts—my extravagance; isn't that enough to upset me? Every one's crowding me!"
There was another long pause. Evelyn sighed softly; she felt that they were coming back too swiftly to the every-day concerns of life.
"I'm worried, too, about North!" Langham said presently.
"About North—what about North?"
"They are going to bring him back; didn't you know he had gone West? He went last night."
"But who is going to bring him back?"
"They want him as a witness in the McBride case. They—Moxlow, that is—seems to think he knows something that may be of importance. He's a crazy fool, with his notions!"
"But North—" Evelyn began.
"It may make a lot of trouble for him. They are going to bring him back as a witness, and unless he gives a pretty good account of himself, Moxlow's scheme is to try and hold him—"
"What do you mean by a good account of himself?"
"He'll, have to be able to tell just where he was between half past five and six o'clock last night; that's when the murder was committed, according to Taylor."
"Do you mean he's suspected, Marsh? But he couldn't have done it!" she cried.
"How do you know?" he asked quickly.
"Why, I was there—"
"Where?"
"With him—"
"Here—was he here?" A great load seemed lifted from him.
She was silent.
"He was here between five and six?" he repeated. He glanced at her sharply. "Why don't you answer me?"
"No, he was not here," she said slowly.
"Where was he, then?" he demanded. "What's the secret, anyhow?"
"Marsh, I'm going to tell you something," she said slowly. "Nothing shall stand between our perfect understanding, our perfect trust for the future. You know I have been none too happy for the last year—I don't reproach you—but we had gotten very far apart somehow. I've never been really bad—I've been your true and faithful wife, dear, always—always, but—you had made me very unhappy—" She felt him shiver. "And I am not a very wise or settled person—and we haven't any children to keep me steady—"
"Thank God!" the man muttered hoarsely under his breath.
"What do you say?" she asked.
"Nothing—go on; what is it you want to tell me?"
"Something—and then perhaps you will trust me more fully with the things that are oppressing you. I believe you love me, I believe it absolutely—" she paused.
The light died out of his eyes.
"Marsh," she began again. "Could you forgive me if you knew that I'd thought I cared for some one else? Could you, if I told you that for a moment I had the thought—the silly thought, that I cared for another man?" She was conscious that his hand had grown cold beneath her cheek. "It was just a foolish fancy, quite as innocent as it was foolish, dear; you left me so much alone, and I thought you really didn't care for me any more, and so—and so—"
"Go on!"
"Well, that is all, Marsh."
"All?"
"Yes, it went no further than that, just a silly fancy, and I'd known him all my life—"
"Of whom are you speaking?"
"Of John North—"
"Damn him!" he cried. "And so that's what brought him here—and you were with him last night!" He sprang to his feet, his face livid. "What do you take me for? Do you expect me to forgive you for that—"
"But Marsh, it was just a silly sentimental fancy! Oh, why did I tell you!"
"Yes, why did you tell me!" he stormed.
"Because I thought it would make it easier for you to confess to me—"
"Confess to you? I've nothing to confess—I've loved you honestly! Did you think I'd been carrying on some nasty sneaking intrigue with a friend's wife—did you think I was that sort of a fellow—the sort of a fellow North is? Do you take me for a common blackguard?"
"Marsh, don't! Marshall, please—for my sake—" and she clung to him, but he cast her off roughly.
"Keep away from me!" he said with sullen repression, but there was a murderous light in his eyes. "Don't touch me!" he warned.
"But say you forgive me!"
"Forgive you—" He laughed.
"Yes, forgive me—Marsh!"
"Forgive you—no, by God!"
He reached for the bottle.
"Not that—not that, Marsh; your promise only a moment ago—your promise, Marsh!"
But he poured himself half a tumbler of whisky and emptied it at a swallow.
"To hell with my promise!" he said, and strode from the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FINGER OF SUSPICION
In Chicago Conklin found an angry young man at police headquarters, and the name of this young man was John North.
"This is a most damnable outrage!" he cried hotly the moment he espied Mount Hope's burly sheriff.
"I am mighty sorry to have interfered with your plans, John—just mighty sorry." The sheriff's tone was meant to soothe and conciliate. "But you see we are counting on you to throw some light on the McBride murder."
"So that's it! I tell you, Conklin, I consider that I have been treated with utter discourtesy; I've been a virtual prisoner here over night!"
"That's too bad, John," said the sheriff sympathetically, "but we didn't know where a wire would reach you, so there didn't seem any other way than this—"
"Well, what do you want with me?" demanded North, with rather less heat than had marked his previous speech.
"They got the idea back home that you can help in the McBride matter," explained the sheriff again. "I see that you know he's been murdered."
"Yes, I knew that before I left Mount Hope," rejoined North.
"Did you, though?" said the sheriff briefly, and this admission of North's appeared to furnish him with food for reflection.
"Well, what do I know that will be of use to you?" asked North impatiently.
"You ain't to make any statement to me, John," returned the sheriff hastily.
"Do you mean you expect me to go back to Mount Hope?" inquired North in a tone of mingled wonder and exasperation.
The sheriff nodded.
"That's the idea, John," he said placidly.
"What if I refuse to go back?"
The sheriff looked pained.
"Oh, you won't do that—what's the use?"
"Do you mean—" began North savagely, but Conklin interposed.
"Never mind what I mean, that's a good fellow; say you'll take the next train back with me; it will save a lot of, bother!"
"But I strongly object to return to Mount Hope!" said North.
"Be reasonable—" urged the sheriff.
"This is an infernal outrage!" cried North.
"I'm sorry, John, but make it easy for me, make it easy for yourself; we'll have a nice friendly trip and you will be back here by the first of the week."
For a moment North hesitated. He had so many excellent reasons why he did not wish to return to Mount Hope, but he knew that there was something back of Mr. Conklin's mild eye and yet milder speech.
"Well, John?" prompted the sheriff encouragingly.
"I suppose I'll go with you," said North grudgingly.
"Of course you will," agreed the sheriff.
He had never entertained any doubts on this point.
It was ten o'clock Saturday morning when North and the sheriff left the east-bound express at Mount Hope and climbed into the bus that was waiting for them.
North's annoyance had given place to a certain humorous appreciation of the situation. His plans had gone far astray in the past forty-eight hours, and here he was back in Mount Hope. Decidedly his return, in the light of his parting with Elizabeth, was somewhat in the nature of an anticlimax.
They were driven at once to the court-house. There in his office they found Moxlow with the coroner and North was instantly aware of restraint in the manner of each as they greeted him, for which he could not account.
"Sit down, North," said Moxlow, indicating a chair.
"Now what is it?" North spoke pleasantly as he took his seat. "I've been cursing you two all the way home from Chicago."
"I am sorry you were subjected to any annoyance in the matter, but it couldn't be helped," said Moxlow.
"I'm getting over my temper," replied North. "Fire away with your questions!"
The prosecuting attorney glanced at his fellow official.
"You are already acquainted with the particulars of the shocking tragedy that has occurred here?" said Taylor with ponderous dignity.
"Yes," said North soberly. "And when I think of it, I am more than willing to help you in your search for the guilty man."
"You knew of the murder before you left town?" remarked Moxlow casually.
"Yes."
"But you weren't on the Square or in the store Thanksgiving night?" said Moxlow.
"No, I dined with General Herbert." The prosecuting attorney elevated his eyebrows. "I must have been on my way there when the crime was discovered; I was returning home perhaps a little after eleven when I met a man who stopped me to tell me of the murder—"
"You were with Mr. McBride Thanksgiving afternoon, were you not?" Moxlow now asked.
"Yes."
"What was the hour, can you state?"
"About half past four, I should say; certainly no later than that. I went there on a matter of business, to dispose of some bonds Mr. McBride had agreed to take off my hands; I was with him, maybe twenty minutes."
"What were those bonds?"
"Local gas bonds."
"How many were there in the lot you sold?"
"Five."
"He paid you the money for them?"
"Yes, a thousand dollars."
"Do you know, we haven't unearthed those bonds yet?" said the doctor.
Moxlow frowned slightly.
"I suppose they were taken," said North.
"But it will be a dangerous thing, to attempt to realize on them," snapped Moxlow.
"Decidedly," agreed North.
"You left McBride's store at, say, five o'clock?" said Moxlow.
"Not later than that—see here, Moxlow, what are you driving at?" demanded North, with some show of temper.
For an instant Moxlow hesitated, then he said:
"The truth is, North, there is not a clue to go on, and we are thrashing this thing over in the hope that we may sooner or later hit on something that will be of service to us."
"Oh, all right," said North, with a return of good nature.
"During your interview with McBride you were not interrupted, no one came into the store?"
"No one; we were alone the entire time."
"And you saw no one hanging about the place as you left it?"
"Not that I can remember; if I did it made no impression on me."
"But didn't you see Shrimplin?" asked Moxlow quickly.
"Oh, come, Moxlow, you can't play the sleuth,—that was afterward, you know it was!"
"Afterward—"
"Yes, just as I was starting for the general's place, fully an hour later."
"In the meantime you had been where—"
"From McBride's store I went to my rooms. I remained there until it was time to start for the Herberts', and as I intended to walk out I started earlier than I otherwise should have done."
"Then you were coming from your rooms when you met Shrimplin?"
"Yes, it was just six o'clock when I stopped to speak to him."
"Shrimplin was the only person you met as you crossed the Square?"
"As far as I can remember now, I saw no one but Shrimp."
"And just where did you meet him, North?" asked Moxlow.
"On the corner, near McBride's store."
"Do you know whether he had just driven into the Square or not?"
"No, I, don't know that; it was snowing hard and I came upon him suddenly."
"You continued on your way out of town after speaking with him, North?"
"Yes."
"And later, at eleven o'clock, as you were returning to town you met a stranger, probably a countryman, you say, who told you that McBride had been murdered?"
"Yes, you have that all straight."
"On your return to town you went where?"
"To my rooms again and finished packing."
"Did that take you two hours?"
"No, but I had a lot of things to see to there."
"What?" asked Moxlow.
"Oh, papers to destroy, and things of that sort that kept me pretty busy until train-time."
"You walked to the depot?"
"Yes, I was too late for the hotel bus; in fact, I barely caught the train. I just had time to jump aboard as it pulled out."
"Excuse me a moment, North!" said Moxlow as he rose from his chair.
He quitted the room and North heard him pass down the hall.
"It's a bad business," said Taylor.
"And you haven't a suspicion as to the guilty man?"
"No, as Moxlow says, we haven't a clue to go on. It's incredible though, isn't it, that a crime like that could have been committed here almost in broad daylight, and its perpetrator get away without leaving a trace behind?"
"It is incredible," agreed North, and they lapsed into silence.
North thought of Elizabeth. He would slip out to Idle Hour that afternoon or evening; he couldn't leave Mount Hope without seeing her. The coroner drummed on his desk; he wondered what had taken Moxlow from the room in such haste. The prosecuting attorney's brisk step sounded in the hall again, and he reëntered the room and resumed his chair.
"Just one or two more questions, North, and then I guess we'll have to let you go," he said. "You have been on very friendly terms with the murdered man for some time, have you not?"
"He was very kind to me on numerous occasions."
"In a business way, perhaps?"
"Largely in a business way, yes."
"It—pardon me—usually had to do with raising money, had it not?"
North laughed.
"It had."
"You were familiar with certain little peculiarities of his, were you not, his mistrust of banks for instance?"
"Yes, he had very little confidence in banks, judging from what he said of them."
"Did he ever tell you that he had large sums of money hidden away about the store?"
"Never."
"But always when you had business dealings with him he gave you the ready money, very rarely a check?"
"Never in all my experience a check, always the cash."
"Yet the sums involved were usually considerable?"
"In one or two instances they reached a thousand dollars, if you call that considerable."
"And he always had the money on hand?"
"Well, I can't quite say that; it always involved a preliminary discussion of the transaction; I had to see him and tell him what I wanted and then go again after the money. It was as if he wished me to think he did not keep any large sum about him at the store."
"Did he ever, in talking with you, express any apprehension of robbery or violence?"
"No, never."
"You had spoken to him about those bonds before?"
"Yes, Monday I saw him and asked him if he would take them off my hand."
"And he gave you to understand that if you would wait a day or two he would buy the bonds."
North nodded.
"Hadn't you learned prior to going to the store that McBride had just received three thousand dollars in cash from Atkinson?"
"Yes, I knew that,—Langham told me."
"So that it is reasonable to suppose that McBride had at least four thousand dollars in his safe Thursday afternoon."
"I suppose it is, but I saw only the thousand he paid me for the bonds."
"That came from the safe?"
"Yes."
"I guess that's all for the present, North."
"Do you mean you shall want to see me again?" asked North, rising.
"Yes, you won't leave town to-day; the inquest is to be held this afternoon, you will probably be wanted then, so hold yourself in readiness."
"I hope you will arrange to get through with me as soon as possible, Moxlow!"
"We won't put you to any unnecessary inconvenience if we can help it," returned Moxlow, with a queer cold smile.
"Thank you," said North and quitted the room.
He sauntered out into the street; he was disposed to consider Mr. Moxlow as something of a fool, as a rank amateur in the present crisis. He turned into the Square and halted for an instant before the dingy store that had been the scene of the recent tragedy. People on the street paused when they had passed and turned to stare after him, but North was unaware of this, as he was unaware that his name had come to be the one most frequently mentioned in connection with the McBride murder. Suddenly he quickened his step; just ahead of him was Marshall Langham.
"Hello, Marsh!" he said, and stepped eagerly forward with extended hand.
The lawyer paused irresolutely and turned on him a bloated face, but there was no welcome in the sullen glance.
"Marsh—"
Langham's lips twitched and an angry murmur came from them, but the words were indistinct.
"What's wrong?" asked North, falling back a step in astonishment.
"Yes, what's wrong!" said Langham in a hoarse whisper. "Hell! You have nerve to stick out your hand to me—you have bigger nerve to ask me that,—get out of my way!" and he pushed past North and strode down the street without a single backward glance.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JOE TELLS HIS STORY
The inquest was held late Saturday afternoon in the bleak living-room of the McBride house. The coroner had explained the manner in which the murdered man had come to his death, and as he finished he turned to Moxlow. The prosecuting attorney shifted his position slightly, thrust out his long legs toward the wood-stove, and buried his hands deep in his trousers pockets, then he addressed the jury.
They were there, he told them, to listen to certain facts that bore on the death of Archibald McBride. If, after hearing these facts, they could say they pointed to any person or persons as being implicated in the murder, they were to name the person or persons, and he would see that they were brought before the grand jury for indictment. They were to bear in mind, however, that no one was on trial, and that no one was accused of the crime about to be investigated, yet they must not forget that a cold-blooded murder had been committed; human hands had raised the weapon that had crushed out the life of the old merchant, human intelligence had made choice of the day and hour and moment for that brutal deed; the possibility of escape had been nicely calculated, nothing had been left to chance. He would venture the assertion that if the murderer were ever found he would prove to be no ordinary criminal.
All this Moxlow said with judicial deliberation and with the lawyer's careful qualifying of word and phrase.
Shrimplin was the first witness. He described in his own fashion the finding of Archibald McBride's body. Then a few skilful questions by Moxlow brought out the fact of his having met John North on the Square immediately before his own gruesome discovery. The little lamplighter was excused, and Colonel Harbison took his: place. He, in his turn, quickly made way for Andy Gilmore. Moxlow next interrogated Atkinson, Langham's client, who explained the nature of his business relations with McBride which had terminated in the payment of three thousand dollars to him on Thanksgiving afternoon, the twenty-seventh of November.
"You are excused, Mr. Atkinson," said Moxlow.
For an instant his eyes roved over the room; they settled on Marshall Langham, who stood near the door leading into the hall. By a gesture he motioned him to the chair Atkinson had vacated.
Langham's testimony was identical with that which he had already given in the informal talk at Moxlow's office; he told of having called on Archibald McBride with his client and, urged on by Moxlow, described his subsequent conversation with North.
Up to this point John North had felt only an impersonal interest in the proceedings, but now it flashed across him that Moxlow was seeking to direct suspicion toward him. How well the prosecuting attorney was succeeding was apparent. North realized that he had suddenly become the most conspicuous person in the room; whichever way he turned he met the curious gaze of his townsmen, and each pair of eyes seemed to hold some portentous question. As if oblivious of this he bent forward in his chair and followed Moxlow's questions and Langham's replies with the closest attention. And as he watched Langham, so Gilmore watched him.
"That will do, Mr. Langham. Thank you," said Moxlow at last.
North felt sure he would be the next witness, and he was not mistaken. Moxlow's examination, however, was along lines quite different from those he had anticipated. The prosecuting attorney's questions wholly concerned themselves with the sale of the gas bonds to McBride; each detail of that transaction was gone into, but a very positive sense of relief had come to North. This was not what he had expected and dreaded, and he answered Moxlow's queries frankly, eagerly, for where his relations with the old merchant were under discussion he had nothing to hide. Finally Moxlow turned from him with a characteristic gesture.
"That's all," he said.
Again his glance wandered over the room. It became fixed on a grayish middle-aged man seated at Gilmore's elbow.
"Thomas Nelson," he called.
This instantly revived North's apprehensions. Nelson was the janitor of the building in which he had roomed. He asked himself what could be Moxlow's purpose in examining him.
There was just one thing North feared, and that—the bringing of Evelyn Langham's name into the case. How this could happen he did not see, but the law dug its own channels and sometimes they went far enough afield. While this was passing through his mind, Nelson was sworn and Moxlow began his examination.
Mr. Nelson was in charge of the building on the corner of Main Street and the Square,—he referred to the brick building on the southeast corner? The witness answered in the affirmative, and Moxlow's next question brought out the fact that for some weeks the building had had only two tenants; John North and Andrew Gilmore.
What was the exact nature of his duties? The witness could hardly say; he was something of a carpenter for one thing, and at the present time was making certain repairs in the vacant store-room on the ground floor. Did he take care of the entrance and the two halls? Yes. Had he anything to do with the rooms of the two tenants on the first floor? Yes. What?
Sometimes he swept and dusted them and he was supposed to look after the fires. He carried up the coal, Moxlow suggested? Yes. He carried out the ashes? Again yes. Moxlow paused for a moment. Was he the only person who ever carried out the ashes? Yes. What did he do with the ashes? He emptied them into a barrel that stood in the yard back of the building. And what became of them then? Whenever necessary, the barrel was carted away and emptied. How long did it usually take to fill the barrel? At this season of the year one or two weeks. When was it emptied last? A week ago, perhaps, the witness was not quite sure about the day, but it was either Monday or Tuesday of the preceding week. And how often did the ashes from the fireplaces in Mr. North's and Mr. Gilmore's rooms find their way into the barrel? Every morning he cleaned out the grates the first thing, and usually before Mr. North or Mr. Gilmore were up.
Again Moxlow paused and glanced over the room. He must have been aware that to his eager audience the connection between Mr. North's and Mr. Gilmore's fireplaces and the McBride murder, was anything but clear.
"Did you empty the ashes from the fireplaces in the apartments occupied by Mr. North and Mr. Gilmore on Friday morning?" he asked.
"Yes; that is, I took up the ashes in Mr. North's rooms."
"But not in Mr. Gilmore's?"
"No, sir, I didn't go into his rooms Friday morning."
"Why was that,—was there any reason for it?"
"Yes, I knew that Mr. Gilmore's rooms had not been occupied Thursday night; that was the night of the murder, and he was at McBride's house," explained the witness.
"But you emptied the grate in Mr. North's rooms?"
"Yes, sir."
"And disposed of the ashes in the usual way?"
"Yes, sir."
"In the barrel in the yard back of the building?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you notice anything peculiar about the ashes from Mr. North's rooms on Friday morning?"
The witness looked puzzled.
"Hadn't Mr. North burnt a good many papers in his grate?"
"Oh, yes, but then he was going away."
"That will do,—you are excused," interposed Moxlow quickly.
The sheriff was next sworn. Without interruption from Moxlow he told his story. He had made a thorough search of the ash barrel described by the witness Thomas Nelson, and had come upon a number of charred fragments of paper.
"We think these may be of interest to the coroner's jury," said Moxlow quietly.
He drew a small pasteboard box from an inner pocket of his coat and carefully arranged its contents on the table before him. In all there were half a dozen scraps of charred or torn paper displayed; one or two of these fragments were bits of envelopes on which either a part or all of the name was still decipherable. North, from where he sat, was able to recognize a number of these as letters which he had intended to destroy that last night in his rooms; but the refuse from his grate and the McBride murder still seemed poles apart; he could imagine no possible connection.
The president of Mount Hope's first national bank was the next witness called. He was asked by Moxlow to examine a Mount Hope Gas Company bond, and then the prosecuting attorney placed in his hands a triangular piece of paper which he selected from among the other fragments on the table.
"Mr. Harden, will you kindly tell the jury of what, in your opinion, that bit of paper in your hand was once a part?" said Moxlow.
Very deliberately the banker put on his glasses, and then with equal deliberation began a careful examination of the scrap of paper.
"Well?" said Moxlow.
"A second, please!" said the banker.
But the seconds grew into minutes before he was ready to risk an opinion.
"We are waiting on you, Mr. Harden," said Moxlow at length.
"I should say that this is a marginal fragment of a Gas Company bond," said the banker slowly. "Indeed there can be no doubt on the point. The paper is the same, and these lines in red ink are a part of the decoration that surrounds the printed matter. No,—there is no doubt in my mind as to what this paper is."
"What part of the bond is it?" asked Moxlow.
"The lower right-hand corner," replied the banker promptly. "That is why I hesitated to identify it; with this much of the upper left-hand corner for instance, I should not have been in doubt."
"Excused," said Moxlow briefly.
The room became blank before John North's eyes as he realized that a chain of circumstantial evidence was connecting him with the McBride murder. He glanced about at a score of men—witnesses, officials, and jury, and felt their sudden doubt of him, as intangibly but as certainly as he felt the dead presence just beyond the closed door.
"We have one other witness," said Moxlow.
And Joe Montgomery, seeming to understand that he was this witness, promptly quitted his chair at the back of the room and, cap in hand, slouched forward and was duly sworn by the coroner.
If Mr. Montgomery had shown promptness he had also evinced uneasiness, since his fear of the law was as rock-ribbed as his respect for it. He was not unfamiliar with courts, though never before had he appeared in the character of a witness; and he had told himself many times that day that the business in which he had allowed Mr. Gilmore to involve him carried him far behind his depths. Now his small blue eyes slid round in their sockets somewhat fearfully until they rested on Mr. Gilmore, who had just taken up his position at Marshall Langham's elbow. The gambler frowned and the handy-man instantly shifted his gaze. But the prosecuting attorney's first questions served to give Joe a measure of ease; this was transitory, however, as he seemed to stand alone in the presence of some imminent personal danger when Moxlow asked:
"Where were you on the night of the twenty-seventh of November at six o'clock?"
Joe stole a haunted glance in the direction of Gilmore. Moxlow repeated his question.
"Boss, I was in White's woodshed," answered Montgomery.
"Tell the jury what you saw," said Moxlow.
"Well, I seen a good deal," evaded the handy-man, shaking his great head.
"Go on!" urged Moxlow impatiently.
"It was this way," said Joe. "I was lookin' out into the alley through a crack in the small door where they put in the coal; right across the alley is the back of McBride's store and the sheds about his yard—" the handy-man paused and mopped his face with his ragged cap.
At the opposite end of the room Gilmore placed a hand on Langham's arm. The lawyer had uttered a smothered exclamation and had made a movement as if about to quit his seat. The gambler pushed him back.
"Sit tight, Marsh!" he muttered between his teeth.
Mr. Montgomery, taking stock of his courage, prepared to adventure further with his testimony.
"All at once as I stood by that door lookin' out into the alley, I heard a kind of noise in old man McBride's yard. It sounded like something heavy was bein' scraped across the frozen ground, say a box or barrel. Then I seen a man's derby hat come over the edge of the shed, and next the man who was under that hat drawed himself up; he come up slow and cautious until he was where he could throw himself over on to the roof. He done that, squatted low, and slid down the roof toward the alley. There was some snow and he slid easy. He was lookin' about all the time like he wasn't anxious to be seen. Well, boss, he never seen me, and he never seen no one else, so he dropped off, kind of givin' himself a shove out from the eaves, and fetched up against White's woodshed. He was pantin' like he'd run a mile, and I heard him say in a whisper, 'Oh, my God!'—just like that,—'Oh, my God!'" The handy-man paused with this grotesque mimicry of terror.
"And then?" prompted Moxlow, in the breathless silence.
"And then he took off up the alley as if all hell was whoopin' after him!"
Again Montgomery's ragged cap served him in lieu of a handkerchief, and as he swabbed his blotched and purple face he shot a swift furtive glance in Gilmore's direction. So far he had told only the truth, but he was living in terror of Moxlow's next question.
"Can you describe the man who crossed the roof,—for instance, how was he dressed?" said Moxlow, with slow deliberation.
"He had on a derby hat and a dark overcoat," answered Montgomery after a moment's pause.
He was speaking for Gilmore now, and his grimy lists closed convulsively about the arms of his chair.
"Did you see his face?" asked Moxlow.
"Yes—" the monosyllable was spoken unwillingly, but with a kind of dogged resolution.
"Was it a face you knew?"
Montgomery looked at Gilmore, whose fierce insistent glance was bent compellingly on him. The recollection of the gambler's threats and promises flashed through his mind.
"Was it a face you knew?" repeated Moxlow.
The handy-man gave him a sudden glare.
"Yes," he said in a throaty whisper.
"How could you tell in the dark?"