CHAPTER VII—THE PRISONER AT THE BAR
WHEN the day of trial dawned, Stella had succeeded in securing the services of two of the greatest lawyers in America, Reverdy Johnson of Maryland, Attorney General in the Cabinet of President Taylor, and Henry Stanbery of Ohio, Attorney General in the Cabinet of Andrew Johnson.
The Government was represented by the finest legal talent its vast resources and power could command.
For eleven days, before two presiding judges of the United States Circuit Court, the fierce battle of legal giants raged. The great lawyers for the defence fought every inch of ground with dogged tenacity.
Stella watched from day to day with breathless intensity as she sat by John Graham’s side.
It soon became plain that the Court had constituted itself a partisan political tribunal for the purpose, not of administering justice, but of crushing the enemies of the party in power.
Every decision was against the prisoner, though, in deference to the distinguished character of the lawyers for the defence, they were allowed to argue each point. The profound and accurate learning with which they reviewed the Constitutional law of the Republic was a liberal education to the shallow little partisans who sat on the judge’s bench before them. But their eloquence and learning fell on the ears of men whose decisions were already made.
In violation of the rights of the prisoner under the constitutions of the state and nation the indictment for murder was ordered to immediate trial.
From the moment the actual proceedings of the trial began, the Government had no delay or difficulty.
With sinking heart Stella saw the disgraceful travesty of justice draw each moment the cords of death closer about the form of the man she loved.
The jury corruptly chosen for this case marked the lowest tide mud to which the administration of justice ever sank in our history. A white freeman, a man of culture and heroic mould, whose fathers created the American Republic, was arraigned to plead for his life before a jury composed of one dirty, ignorant white scalawag and eleven coal-black Negroes! The white man was not made its foreman, a Negro teamster was chosen.
Steve Hoyle became at once the presiding genius of the prosecution. The court room was thronged with liars, perjurers and sycophants who hung about his fat figure with obsequious deference. Old Larkin, who came from the Capitol to assist the prosecution, sat constantly by Steve’s side.
John Graham watched Steve with cold deadly hate, but he had warned his men under no conceivable circumstances to lift a hand in resistance either to constituted authority, or to give the traitor his deserts. A pall of helpless grief and fear hung over every decent white man who witnessed the High Court of Justice of the Anglo-Saxon race suddenly transformed into a Negro minstrel farce on which hung their liberty and life.
The star witness of the prosecution was Uncle Isaac A. Postle. He took his seat before the jury, grinning and nodding at two of his dusky friends among them with calm assurance.
Isaac was allowed to tell a marvellous rambling story of Ku Klux outrages—stories which he had heard from Larkin—about whose truth he could possibly know nothing. In vain the lawyers for the defence objected. The court overruled every objection and allowed the Apostle free scope to his vivid imagination.
Reverdy Johnson, the distinguished ex-Attorney General of the United States who stood before the judges protesting with dignity, bowed to the Bench and sat down in disgust with the quiet remark:
“We shall offer no further objection to anything that may be said in this Court.”
He had scarcely taken his seat when Ackerman moved his chair behind him and began to whisper.
The District Attorney watched the detective in astonishment, while Hoyle and Larkin bent their heads together in excited conference.
Susie looked at Stella, smiled and blushed.
Isaac finally came to specific charges against John Graham.
“Now tell the court what you know about John Graham’s connection with the murder of Judge Butler,” said Steve, who was conducting his examination.
“Yassah, I knows all ’bout it, sah. Mr. John Graham de very man dat kill de jedge wid his own han’. I see ’im when he do it. Dey come slippin’ up back er de house, an’ creep in froo de winder while de odder folks wuz in de ballroom dancin’. Dey wuz eight un ’em—yassah. Dey slip up an’ grab de jedge an’ hol’ ’im while Mr. John Graham stick a knife right in his heart——yassah. I wuz lookin’ right at ’im froo de winder when he done it. When he kill ’im, dey all mix up wid de odder Ku Kluxes what wuz dancin’, an’ go way ter-gedder.”
“Take the witness,” said Steve with a wave of his hand.
“How did you know it was Mr. Graham?” asked General Johnson.
“I seed ’im wid my own eyes.”
“He wore a complete disguise, did he not?”
“Yassah, but I seed ’im all de same.”
“You could see through the mask?”
“I seed ’im—I done tole ye!”
“Answer my question,” sternly commanded the lawyer. “Could you see his face through the mask?”
“Nasah.”
“Then how did you recognise him?”
“He tuck it off ter scratch his head, sah, an’ I see his face. I knowed it wuz him all de time fo’ I see his face.”
Ackerman whispered to the lawyer.
“Did you tell Mr. Ackerman, Uncle Isaac, that, as you started to run away from the masqueraders that night, you saw John Graham at your gate—ran into him?”
“Nasah, I nebber say no sech thing!” Isaac shouted, glaring and shaking his head at Ackerman.
“Didn’t you tell the same gentleman that later in the evening you saw John Graham seated on a rustic near the house watching it from the outside?”
“Nasah! dat I didn’t!”
“Do you know that if you swear a lie——”
“I ain’t swar no lie!” Isaac interrupted with religious fervour. “I’se de Lord’s Sanctified One, sah. I ain’t done no sin since I got sanctification. Yassah, praise God!”
“Don’t you know,” repeated the lawyer, “that if you swear to a lie on that witness stand you can be sent to the penitentiary for perjury?”
“I knows dey ain’t gwine sen’ me dar—I knows dat,” Isaac said with a grin, and his Negro acquaintances in the jury box laughed.
The lawyer changed his line of questions. “You say you saw John Graham strike the death-blow?”
“Yassah, I see ’im wid dese very eyes.”
“Were you close enough to hear what was said?”
“Yassah, I wuz right dar by de open winder.”
“What did he say?”
“Des ez he raise de knife he say, ‘I got you now, you d—— Black Radical ‘Publican!’”
“You swear that you heard him say that he killed the Judge because he was a Republican?”
“Yassah! dat’s what de Ku Kluxes kill ’em all fur, sah!”
Larkin shuffled uneasily, bent again in conference with Steve who rose immediately and asked for an adjournment of two hours.
When the Court reassembled and Isaac took his seat in the witness chair, Aunt Julie Ann’s huge form suddenly appeared in the doorway with her hand resting confidingly on Alfred’s arm. They walked inside the railing of the bar and took seats assigned to them behind John Graham’s counsel. Aunt Julie Ann handed Ackerman a pair of Isaac’s old shoes. He measured them quickly on a diagram which he drew from his pocket.
Isaac watched Aunt Julie Ann and Alfred with mouth opened in wonder, rage and growing fear.
He rose and bowed to the judges.
“I gotter ax de cote ter perteck me, gemmens,” he said falteringly.
“What do you mean?” asked a judge.
“Dat nigger Alfred dar tryin’ ter steal my wife from me, sah!”
Alfred grinned, and patted Aunt Julie Ann’s hand and whispered: “Doan min’ de low-live rascal, honey!”
“Yassah, an’ my wife come here tryin’ ter timidate me, sah. She jes fetch er par er my ole shoes inter dis cote. She’s a cunjer ‘oman, sah. I try ter sanctify her, but she won’t stay sanctified. She got a kink er my hair las’ night and wrap it up in a piece er paper and put it under de cote house do’ step, an’ she say dat ef I walk over dat into dis house ter-day an’ jestify ergin Marse John Graham she fling er spell over me. I ax de cote fer perfection, sah. I axes de Sheriff ter take dat bunch er hair from under dem steps fo’ I say annuder word!”
“Silence, sir, and proceed with your testimony,” said the Judge.
Aunt Julie Ann fanned her fat face, smiled at Stella and Susie and quietly slipped her hand in Alfred’s.
Isaac dropped into his chair limp and crestfallen. In a sort of dazed trance he kept his eye fixed on Alfred’s face grinning in triumph.
John’s lawyer pounced on him in sudden sharp accents.
“Is this a pair of your shoes, Isaac?”
“Yassah,” was the listless answer.
“You wore these shoes the night the Judge was killed, didn’t you?”
“Yassah.”
“You’re sure of it?”
“Yassah. Dem’s my ole ones. I got a new pair now.”
The lawyer stepped close and in threatening tones asked:
“Will you explain to this Court what your shoes were doing making tracks in the soft mud of the underground passage from the family vault of the Graham house the night of this murder?”
Isaac’s jaw dropped, he drew his red bandanna handkerchief and mopped his brow.
A hum of excitement ran over the court room, and an officer cried:
“Silence!”
Isaac continued to mop his brow and fumble at his handkerchief while he gazed at the lawyer in a helpless stupor.
“Answer my question, sir!” the towering figure thundered into his face.
“I doan know what yer means, sah,” he faltered.
“Yes you do. There were nine other men with you. Who were they?”
“I dunno, sah!”
Larkin whispered excitedly to Steve, who shook his head and gazed at Isaac in amazement.
“Were they masked so that you couldn’t see their faces?”
Isaac looked appealingly to the judges and whimpered:
“I doan know what dey er talkin’ ‘bout, sah.”
“You must answer the questions,” said the Judge.
The lawyer glared at Isaac whose shifting eyes sought Larkin.
“Think it over a minute, Isaac,” the lawyer continued; “in the meantime examine that knife.”
He drew from its case a long, keen hunting-knife, and handed it to the witness who was now trembling from head to foot.
“Did you ever see that knife before?”
Isaac hesitated and finally answered:
“Yassah, I sold it ter Mr. Ackerman.”
“Where did you get it?”
Larkin suddenly cleared his throat with a deep guttural sound like the growl of an infuriated animal.
The lawyer looked at him with annoyance and the officer again shouted:
“Silence!”
“I foun’ it, sah,” he answered evasively.
“Now, Isaac, you want to be very careful how you answer my next question.”
The lawyer took the knife from the Negro’s hand and felt of its point.
“You will notice that a tiny piece is broken off the tip of this blade. I hold in my hand the little bit of steel which exactly fits there. It was found embedded in a bone in Judge Butler’s body. This is the knife that struck the death-blow. Did you own that knife the night of the murder? Answer me!”
Isaac fumbled his handkerchief again and looked about the room helplessly.
Larkin rose carelessly and started from the court room. Ackerman, watching him keenly, sprang to his side.
“Don’t leave, Larkin, we want you as a witness in a moment,” he whispered.
“I’ll return immediately,” the Carpetbagger replied, increasing his haste.
“Wait!” Ackerman commanded.
Larkin quickened his pace and the detective seized his arm.
The Carpetbagger threw him off with sudden fury and plunged toward the door.
With the spring of a tiger, Ackerman leaped on him. A brief fierce fight, and he was dragged panting back before the astonished Court, while every man in the room sprang to his feet and pressed around the struggling men.
“What’s the meaning of this disorder?” thundered the presiding Judge.
“With apologies to the Court for the interruption I beg leave to present the murderer of Judge Butler—I ask a warrant for his arrest,” Ackerman demanded.
A wave of horror swept the crowd of Larkin’s friends.
“The man is a crazy liar, your Honours,” protested Larkin. “And he has proven himself a renegade and a scoundrel in this court room to-day. I protest against this outrage.”
“I’ll prove my charge to the Court—every link in the chain of evidence is now complete,” was the cool answer.
With the court room in an uproar, Larkin was arrested and placed between Ackerman and a deputy, and the trial resumed.
A brief conference between the District Attorney and Isaac preceded the first question asked by John’s counsel after the disturbance.
“Now, Isaac,” the lawyer began suavely, “the District Attorney has just promised to spare your life on condition that you tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—let’s have it.”
“Yassah,” the Apostle responded in humble accents. “Mr. Larkin, he tell me ter say what I did, sah.”
Larkin’s head dropped and his keen eyes furtively sought the door.
“Who gave you that knife?”
A moment of breathless suspense rippled the crowded court room and every head was bent forward.
“Mr. Larkin gimme de knife! We’se been powful good friends, sah. I show him de under-groun’ way fum de tomb inter de house. I’se de only black man dat know it—my daddy help dig it—yassah. Mr. Larkin de fust man I ebber tell dat I know ’bout it. He say he want ter beat de Ku Kluxes. He say he make’em smoke dat night, an’ he git eight men an’ dress up jes lak ‘em, an’ I show him de way ter git in froo de panel in de hall. He fool me. I didn’t know he gwine ter kill de jedge, sah, er I wouldn’t er let ’em in, nosah. I doan’ believe in killin’ nobody. He tell me ter git outen de county an’ I stay till de soldiers come back. Yassah, an’ dat’s de whole troof!”
Ackerman motioned the sergeant, a pair of handcuffs clicked on Larkin’s wrists, and the great white head sank on his breast.
Stella gazed at his pathetic figure with a strange feeling of pity and wonder, while her hand sought John Graham’s and pressed it tenderly.
The count of murder was dropped, but the charge of conspiracy was pressed with merciless ferocity. A procession of hired liars ascended the witness stand and in rapid succession perjured themselves by swearing that they had recognised the prisoner on various raids made by the Klan in the county.
The jury was out fifteen minutes.
When they returned John Graham, in whose veins flowed the blood of a race of world-conquering men, entitled to a trial by a jury of his peers, rose with quiet dignity and heard the verdict of his condemnation fall from the thick protruding lips of a flat-nosed Negro:
“We finds de prisoner guilty!”
“So say you all gentlemen?” asked the clerk.
And in response each black spindle-shanked juror shambled to his feet and answered:
“Guilty!”
The last name called was the little white Scalawag’s, whose weak voice squeaked an echo:
“Guilty.”
The Judge imposed a fine of one thousand dollars and sentenced John Graham to five years imprisonment at hard labour in the United States penitentiary at Albany, New York.
A low moan from Stella, and her head sank in voiceless anguish.
To the brave and the proud there are visions darker than death.
John Graham saw this as he was led from the court room back to jail—the vision of the hideous leprous shame of a convict’s suit of stripes!
CHAPTER VIII—THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS
EVERY delicacy which love could devise and her money buy Stella lavished on John and his friends. Each day added to the list of men who returned to jail condemned to the infamy of a convict’s pen at Albany.
When the deep-muttered curses against Steve Hoyle for the betrayal of his men reached John’s ears, he sent through Stella his sternest orders and his tenderest entreaties to Dan Wiley to prevent violence. Dan had successfully eluded every effort to arrest him. John knew that he was hiding in the mountains with the men he had commanded armed to the teeth, and he lived in constant dread of the news of Steve’s assassination, even under the noses of the United States troops.
A single burst of sunlight came to brighten for Stella the gloom of the day before John’s departure for Albany. She succeeded in liberating “Jim,” the big brother of her little tow-headed friend. Her interest in the boy had been noted, and she received the usual mysterious message—that money placed at the right spot would prevent any witness from identifying Jim. She found the right spot promptly and paid the bribe of two hundred and fifty dollars without a question as to the ethics involved. Jim was discharged, and when he walked out a free man a little tow-headed boy lay sobbing out his joy on her breast.
“I’m goin’ to work for you, if you’ll let me,” he cried through his tears.
“Why, I thought you said you couldn’t do anything that day we met?” she laughed.
“Oh, I’m awful smart,” he boasted—“I can tote fresh water, carry all your notes to your sweetheart—and I’m great diggin’ worms ter go fishin’—I know right where to find ’em!”
She sent him away with a kiss and a promise to let him come and show her what he could do.
As she entered the jail with John’s dinner, the jailor, whose friendship she had won by the liberal use of money and skilful flattery, whispered to her:
“Come in here a minute, Miss, I want to show you something.”
She followed him into his room and started with horror at the sight of a dirty suit of convict’s stripes spread out on a chair.
Stella’s face blanched.
“They are for him?” she gasped.
“Yessum, an’ if ye’ll excuse me fer sayin’ it, I think it’s a d——— shame.”
“They have no right to put this outrage on him before his people,” she cried.
“No’m, they haint got no right, but they’re goin’ ter do it to-morrow mornin’ just the same. They’re goin’ ter take him all the way ter Albany in that suit.”
“Who’s doing this?” she asked with rising wrath.
“Steve Hoyle, m’am. He’s fixin’ to have a big gang er niggers and low white trash here in the mornin’ ter hoot and yell and make fun of him all the way to the train, an’ I thought I’d tell ye.”
“Thank you,” she answered warmly, her big brown eyes beginning to flash fire.
“Ye know ef I’d step out, that suit o’ clothes might be foun’ missin’. It ain’t mine. I’ll swear to that. I don’t know anybody that owns it, er wants it.”
“I understand. Wrap it up, please. I can’t touch it.”
Stella shuddered and watched the jailor with wide-staring eyes as he picked up the suit, wrapped it in a piece of brown paper and laid it back on the chair.
“I got to go—there’s somebody knockin’ at the door—course, I won’t know what’s become er the d—— thing.”
He left her with a grin, and Stella seized the bundle, hurried home and burned it. On the way she stopped at a hardware store and made a mysterious purchase which she carefully concealed, and there was a dangerous light in her eyes as she placed this package beside the travelling dress which she had laid out to wear on the train with John.
The jailor passed Stella in the hall but looked the other way as he hurried forward with two soldiers who had called to see John Graham. They were dressed in the regulation blue suits of the army. The jailor, trusting implicitly their uniforms, allowed them to go up unaccompanied to John’s door.
So complete was the disguise that at first the condemned man gazed through the bars with indifference at his callers.
The taller of the two suddenly thrust his face close and whispered:
“God, man, don’t ye know me?”
John started.
“Dan—Billy—what does this mean!”
Dan put his finger on his lips.
“Everything’s all right. Billy’s been up in the mountains with me at my summer resort.”
“I wrote you, Billy, not to come!” John scowled.
“I’m not going to see this infamy puton you——”
“It’s all fixed, Chief,” Dan broke in, drawing a new sledge hammer from his pocket, and slipping the handle from his sleeve.
With a loud cough to mask the sound he thrust the handle into its place.
“You’re both crazy!” John said with anger.
“It’s as easy as failin’ off a log,” Dan urged. “Billy’ll smash the lock, I’ll gag and tie the jailor. I’ve got the fastest horse in the county waitin’ fer ye at the corner. Git thirty minutes start, an’ there ain’t cavalry enough this side er hell to stop ye. When ye get ter my house, ye’ll be in God’s country. The boys are there waitin’ fer ye.” Dan handed the hammer to Billy.
“Put that hammer down!” John commanded sternly.
“I won’t—you’ve got to go with us.”
“Do as I tell you, or I’ll call the jailor,” John said with a frown.
“For God’s sake, come with us!” Billy pleaded. “Steve Hoyle’s going to have a crowd of Negroes here to laugh and jeer at you to-morrow as you come out. I tell you I can’t stand it!”
John’s face suddenly paled.
“You can stand it if I can, Billy! Get out of this, both of you, before you’re arrested—quick now. I won’t have it. Come here, Dan!”
John called to the mountaineer who had turned away.
“Give me your hand.”
Dan thrust his hand through the bars and John grasped it.
“Are you a friend of mine?”
“Ain’t I a showin’ ye.”
“Take Billy home and take care of him until I return—will you do it?”
“Yes—but I don’t like this givin’ up a fight when I’ve won it.”
“And one thing more, Dan, old boy, before I let your hand go, you’ve got to promise me not to kill Steve Hoyle.”
“Who said I was goin’ to do it?”
“I say it.”
“He ain’t fit ter live.”
“Yes, but somehow God lets a lot of such trash cumber the earth. We’d better not try any more interference with his plans.”
Dan hesitated, struggling with deep passion, drew a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Ye’re putty hard on me, Chief, I was goin’ ter call by Steve’s house and finish both jobs to-day, but orders is orders. I’ll take ’em from you. I won’t take ’em from nobody else. Goodbye, take care er yourself.”
Billy pressed his brother’s hand, silently turned and left with Dan.
When the last echo of their steps had died away
John Graham stared through the iron bars for half an hour and saw only the vision of a mob of yelling, laughing Negroes and behind them the fat, white cowardly face of Steve Hoyle.
He sank to the chair with a groan:
“O God, if it be possible let this cup pass from me!”
CHAPTER IX—THE DAY OF ATONEMENT
WHEN Steve Hoyle discovered next morning that the suit of stripes which he had secured at enormous expense in bribery and hush money had been lost he was furious. The jailor laughed at his idle threats and cursed him roundly when accused of making way with the suit.
Steve left in a rage to drum up a larger crowd to hoot and yell at the man he hated.
Stella pressed her way through the throng of Negroes into the jail, carrying an enormous bouquet of roses in one hand and in the other a basket of delicate flowers threaded into long beautiful garlands.
John determined to save her from the scene of his humiliation.
“You must not go through the streets with me to the train, my dear,” he said tenderly. “Go down in a carriage and join me at the station.”
“I will if they let you ride with me,” she firmly answered.
“Impossible. They’ve given special orders that I shall walk.”
“Then I’ll walk with you,” she said with a smile.
John’s face clouded with pain.
“Please, dearest, for my sake?”
“It’s for your sake I’m going with you.”
“They may say something to hurt you,” he pleaded.
“I don’t think they will,” she said as the fire suddenly flashed from her brown eyes.
“But they will, my love, they will. It’s hard enough for me. They mustn’t hurt you—I can hear them out there now—that black mob—waiting to hoot and yell—please, don’t go with me!”
Stella left his cell door, stepped to the window and looked out. Steve Hoyle was passing along the lines of Negroes ranged on either side of the walk, instructing them what to say. He had massed around the door a mob of two hundred to follow his lead the moment John appeared.
“Watch me,” he said, “and I’ll give you the signal. I want you to let him have it square in the face when I raise my hand. I’ll stand on the doorstep. I want a laugh first from five hundred black throats—on old-fashioned nigger laugh, long, deep and loud! It’ll be a funny sight, I promise you that.”
“We watch ye,” answered a big buck Negro with a grin.
Stella heard the click of the lock of John’s cell with a start and turned to find the deputy marshal standing with a pair of handcuffs.
“We are ready,” he said.
John stepped into the corridor, and extended his hands. The deputy snapped the steel on his wrists, and Stella drew the garlands of flowers from the basket.
“You don’t mind the flowers—do you officer? I’m going with you.”
“Certainly not, m’am,” he replied.
John saw that protest was useless, but he gazed at the garlands with amazement.
“What on earth are you going to do, my dear?”
“Just a little trick of love,” was the laughing answer.
She wound the flowers around each handcuff, placed in John’s hand the enormous bouquet of roses, and not a trace of steel could be seen.
“You can carry them for me,” she said, hurrying on before him.
Stella passed suddenly through the jail door to the little brick landing of the steps on which Steve Hoyle stood to give his signal.
Steve started in surprise at her appearance, stammered and flushed, and a murmur of uncertainty ran through the crowd.
In a moment the traitor had recovered himself, and glancing at Stella with a sneer of triumph, he shouted to his henchmen:
“Say what you please, boys—don’t mind the ladies!”
Stella turned her eyes, gleaming with a deadly purpose, straight on Steve, and a revolver flashed from her hand into his face. He dodged, trembled, and crouched against the wall, while she sternly said:
“Now lift your hand or open your mouth, you contemptible sneak and coward!”
A cry of terror swept the dark crowd, and scores broke and fled.
As John appeared in the doorway, Stella turned to the Negroes and in ringing tones cried:
“I dare one of you black loafers to offer a single insult to the man whose love I hold dearer than my life. I’ll kill you as I would a dog.”
Revolver in hand, with stern set face and flaming eyes she opened the way through which John Graham passed in silence.
At the station a crowd of friends gathered and cheered his departure.
Old Nicaroshinski slipped a hundred dollars in his hand and whispered in broken voice:
“Don’t—don’t you vorry, me poy, ve’ll puild a monumendt to you in de public squvare yedt!”
Stella was allowed to sit by his side in the car, and as the train started John looked at her a moment through dimmed eyes, and slowly said: “The glory of this hour has more than paid for all the pain and all the shame a thousand lives could hold!”
And then in low soft accents broken with sobs she confessed to him the story of her love and at the end with trembling lips asked:
“But you can’t hate me for it now, can you, my darling?”
For an answer he bent and tenderly kissed her hand, while she felt rather than heard the low passionate words: “I love you—I love you—I love you!”
CHAPTER X—UNDER BRIGHT SKIES—AN EPILOGUE
TIME slowly healed the poisoned wounds left by the fierce struggles of Reconstruction. John Graham’s case was never decided by the Supreme Court of the United States. Before the day arrived for the test of its appeal to the great tribunal which is the last bulwark of American liberties, he was hastily pardoned, and every man with him who languished in prison pens for similar political offences. The little politicians who had forced through Congress the venomous Conspiracy Acts in violation of the Constitution of the Republic did not dare to allow the Supreme Court the opportunity to overwhelm them with infamy.
The years have brought magic changes to the people of Independence. The growing city has ploughed a new street through the old Graham house and a dozen beautiful homes stand on the site of its wide lawn.
Poetic justice demanded that Steve Hoyle should pay the penalty of his treachery. But Time plays many a joke on Justice. The Honourable Stephen Hoyle is now one of our fattest, most solemn and most dignified judges of the Federal Courts.
Ackerman’s long talks on imaginary cotton mills had one important result. They planted in John Graham’s imagination the seeds of fortune. On his return from prison he quit the practice of law and began the manufacture of cotton goods. To please his wife he bought Inwood, whose wide acres of forest extend to the river. Here the Graham Brothers’ mills are located.
The Inwood mansion he restored on its original foundations, rebuilding it of native marble behind the stately old Corinthian pillars around one of which the ivy is yet allowed to hang in graceful festoons.
Ackerman, who is the Superintendent of the mills, lives but a stone’s throw from Inwood, and every day Susie’s and Stella’s children play together on the great lawn that still lies hidden in the heart of the ancient woods.