the pit and joined the crowd. The frightened chorus girls ran back on the stage.

The employes of the roof garden thought for a time that the shots came from the stage. Manager Lawrence had been intending to introduce some revolver shooting in the duel scene where the line occurs, “I challenge you, I challenge you to a du-u-el,” and the stage hands and other hangers on at the garden thought the innovation had been put on a night or two ahead of schedule.

They quickly found out their mistake, and had their hands full in a minute or two handling the people, who were pushing right and left, the women screaming to be let out.

During all the confusion and excitement nobody made any effort to stop young Thaw. He looked at White’s body, and then, still holding his revolver, walked leisurely to a clump of potted plants and back toward the elevator. Fireman Brudi saw a part of what had happened, saw Thaw shoot White, and knew who the young man was that was walking away with the revolver.

Brudi went up to him and caught him by the shoulder. Thaw smiled at him and made no resistance when Brudi told him he would have to wait until the police came. He was very pale, but otherwise cool and collected.

Brudi held Thaw lightly, while the crowd gathered around. It was a wait of several minutes before Policeman Debes of the Tenderloin station, appeared and took charge of Thaw. Debes telephoned to his station house for the reserves to handle the crowd and the desk sergeant sent ten policemen. Debes was waiting for the elevator to take Thaw to the police station.

Just before the elevator started, a slender, dark, pretty young woman, the same one with whom Thaw had been sitting before he sauntered away on his errand of death, came running into the car. She threw her arms around the prisoner and kissed him.

“Oh, Harry,” she cried. “Why did you do it, Harry?”

“It’s all right, dear wife,” he answered, kissing her. “He ruined you, and I fixed him. It’s all right.”

All this time the audience was terror stricken.

“Sing, you girls. Sing. For God’s sake keep on,” shouted the manager.

The girls sang. They danced as the silent form lay prostrate. Their faces were white. But they were on the stage and they quelled their emotion.

A man who sat at a table behind Mr. and Mrs. Thaw, told the following story of the tragedy:

“I noticed Harry Thaw and his wife when they came in. Thaw seemed to have been drinking and was very restless. He got up from the table several times and, leaving his wife, walked back toward the elevators. They were sitting at the Twenty-sixth street side of the house.

“At 10:30 Stanford White came in and took a seat at a table about five tables in front of the Thaws. He talked a while to Harry Stevens and then sat alone watching the show and resting his head on his right hand.

“As he walked down the aisle, Harry Thaw noticed him and got up from his seat. While White was talking to Stevens, Thaw walked over and stood behind some artificial shrubbery just a few feet away from them.

“When Stevens left, Thaw walked deliberately down the aisle and stood for a minute behind White. He pulled a revolver from his pocket and fired three shots. I think the first missed, but the other two took effect, and White rolled to the floor, upsetting the chair.”

With Thaw safely lodged in a police station cell, one of the greatest trials of a century faced the public. The inexorable hand of the law began its work the next day after the arrest, when Thaw was taken from his cell in the Tenderloin police station, photographed and measured by the Bertillon system, like a burglar or holdup man, arraigned in police court and held without bail. Perfectly calm, Thaw went through the hurried formalities in court, absolutely refusing to make any extended statement regarding the tragedy.

The policeman who arrested Thaw, gave this account of the shooting in the police court hearing.

“I found the people almost crazy, trying to get out of the place. I jumped into the mob and saw a woman lying down. She had fainted, and then I saw White.

“I said to Thaw: ‘Did you do it?’ and he replied: ‘Yes, I did it. That man ruined my life or wife.’ I don’t know which he said, but it sounded like that. Then he went on saying: ‘That man ruined my home. I guess he won’t ruin any more homes. Is he dead?’ I told him he was, and he said he was glad of it, and he was glad he ‘made a good job of it.’

“When I arrested Thaw, a woman, who Manager Lawrence told me was Mrs. Thaw, rushed up to Thaw and kissed him, and said: ‘I did not think you’d do it in that way!’ ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ Thaw told her. Then she whispered something into his ear. I don’t know what she said to him.”

“Down in the hall and in the street a lot of women gathered about us and shook hands with Thaw and sympathized with him. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you do it? they kept asking.’”

A statement credited to Thaw immediately after the arrest is this:

“We were all at a party in Martin’s. You can find out the names of the others there, but I was sitting some distance from my wife. Suddenly I saw her grow pale and begin to shiver, and I thought she was ill.

“I made a motion to inquire what was the matter and she called a waiter and wrote a note which she sent around the table to me.

“The note said ‘The dirty blackguard is here.’ Then I turned and saw that fat scoundrel sitting there, big and healthy, and then I saw her and how she was.”

“Did White make any motion to attack you?” was asked of Thaw.

“What?” said Thaw.

The question was repeated.

Thaw nodded his head in the affirmative.

From his pocket when he was searched there was taken a leather revolver shield such as policemen carry their weapons in. He had $168 in cash and several blank checks, besides a gold cigarette case.

Thaw did not display the least anxiety about his own welfare nor about the effects of his shots. He never asked a question about White. He did not ask any questions of the police at all. He seemed as unconcerned as if bailing out a chauffeur instead of facing an accusation of killing a man.

As he talked with a reporter he reverted again and again to his wife’s attack of shivering when she saw White in Martin’s.

“That poor, delicate little thing, all nervous and shaking like a reed,” he said, half to himself. “And there he was, the big healthy scoundrel. God!”

While the coroner’s proceedings were in progress in the city next day, the final scene of the tragedy as affecting White was carried out on Long Island. At St. James’ the funeral of the dead architect was held.

Friends and relatives of White left for the little town early to attend the ceremony. By the time they returned the grand jury had indicted the man who brought White’s career to a close and the coroner’s jury had held him, completing the legal formalities preceding the trial itself.

Thaw was restless in his cell in the Tombs from the time he entered it until he was arraigned. His wife visited him every time the rules of the prison allowed, and remained at his side as long as possible each time. His mother, an aged, feeble woman, also went to New York to comfort her offspring in his hour of trouble, and the Countess of Yarmouth, his sister, was among the visitors. Other visitors—unwelcome ones—were the alienists whom the state and the defense sent to examine the young man. Thaw fought the insanity plea vigorously, and at times almost fought the experts. Finally, however, he allowed the examinations into his mental condition.

CHAPTER IV.

Stanford White, Creator and Destroyer.

The unusual, the unexpected ruled the existence of this man of wonderful brain and creative genius. A giant in mental force and power, he could turn lightly from some vast enterprise to a revel passing all belief, having as its only purpose the snaring of some young girl—as Evelyn Nesbit was enmeshed. And he could turn quite as lightly from the anguished cry of his victim and forget her in the multiplicity of details surrounding his huge undertakings.

What a mind was this—at once an engine of creation and destruction, accepting the consequences in each instance as a matter of course. In view of the peculiarities of the man, it cannot be counted strange that he fell before the hand of the avenger in the temple he had builded to mirth, for the famed Madison Square Garden was a creation of his mind.

In the tower he had raised above it, overlooking the great Metropolis with all its joys, sorrows, struggles, its mighty forces that work for good and its uncounted army battling for sin, Stanford White had fitted out a den of Oriental magnificence wherein he could accomplish his purposes, far removed from the world at large.

It was here his wildest orgies were held. It was from the tower-chamber his young victims went forth to lives of bitterness and shame, and within the shadow of that tower White was whirled to eternity without a moment’s respite to atone for his sins or prepare for an accounting before the final tribunal where truth and not pretense avails. Whatever his offenses, his punishment was heavy, indeed.

Great as an architect, a lover of beauty in his work and in his play, a charming companion, a man of kindliness, possessed of many talents, a lover of all the pleasant things of life, but not bound by scruples or the dictates of morality—such was White. Within two days after his death, New York rang with stories of strange debauches in which White had played the part of host or one of the hosts. Anthony Comstock declared that he had tried to obtain evidence which would suffice to bring action against White for various alleged excesses. When White fell to the floor of Madison Square Roof Garden, in short, his personal reputation fell with him.

As an architect, he was admittedly a genius, and he left an impress upon the architecture of this country which will remain. He transformed the old, unsightly Harlem Railroad freight station into Madison Square Garden—one of the most beautiful edifices in New York. He aided in the designing of Trinity Church in Boston.

Among his famous works in New York were the Hall of Fame at New York University, the Washington arch, the Century, University and Metropolitan clubs, the William C. Whitney residence and the pedestal of the Farragut monument in Madison Square.

He was the son of Richard Grant White, the novelist and journalist, and was born in 1853. After being graduated from New York University he went to Europe to study architecture. He returned in 1881 and entered into partnership with Charles F. McKim and William R. Meade. The firm of McKim, Meade & White, largely through the genius of White, became one of the most prominent in the profession.

Mr. White was essentially a clubman, being a member of the Knickerbocker, Union, University, Automobile, Metropolitan, Players’, Lambs’ and New York Yacht clubs. He was a follower of the stage, a devout first-nighter, and had an extensive acquaintance among theatrical people.

White’s studio apartment in Madison Square tower was one of the most noted centers of revelry in the city. He used his studio in a professional way to paint in water colors and to work out architectural designs in matters that were separate from the firm work of McKim, Meade & White, but the chief use of the rooms was as a meeting place for gatherings of theatrical and other folk to whom night life was attractive.

The rooms were decorated with things that White had gathered in his frequent trips to Europe. The draperies and rugs, the furniture and adornments were of the florid style of three centuries ago that prevailed in Italy and France. His tastes ran to decoration quite as much as to architecture, and his apartments in the tower revealed the artistic side of the man more than any of his purely professional achievements.

His acquaintance among stage folk ran not so much to those who were regarded as the leaders in their

profession as to those who were willing to “make a night of it.” And it was from these “all nighters” that Mr. White drew the material for the “studio parties” that at one time brought notoriety to the Madison Square Garden tower.

In the field of decoration, White had established a place for himself unlike that of any architect. He was accustomed to make trips to Europe to secure collections of various kinds. He would get materials for a Francis I. room or a Louis XVI. room, bring them home, and store them to be sold later to some rich man who was looking for fads in household decorations. Sometimes he would collect windows and doors. At other times he would scour France and Italy for hangings and draperies.

After the tragedy there was great diversity of opinion in the architectural world as to White’s standing as an architect. Some of the architects did not hesitate to say that he was the greatest in the profession in his country since H. H. Richardson. Others asserted that he shone largely by the reflected light of his partners, McKim and Mead. It is certain that no architect was called upon oftener to serve on juries to pass upon the merits of designs for the great buildings of the country than White.

Those who decried his abilities said that much of the work ascribed to White was really the work of McKim or Mead. Their tastes ran to the severely classic designs and to what is known as the field of pure architecture. It was declared that White, a disciple of the French and Italian schools, could not have designed many of the buildings for which he got credit as a member of the firm of McKim, Mead & White. One architect said:

“The Boston Public library, the Columbia university buildings, the Villard house, the agricultural building at the Chicago World’s Fair, and other creations of the McKim firm were not and could not have been designed by White. All through them runs the genius of Mr. McKim. White ran to the lighter style of architecture, the florid, the modern, and not to the Grecian or the severe and monumental style of purely classic architecture.

“His mood was that of gayety and it expressed itself in his designs. The bases of St. Gaudens statues lent themselves to his mood, and some of his best work was done in connection with them. He was essentially an artist rather than an architect, and his influence in his firm was along the lines of the artistic rather than along the strict standards of architectural expression.”

There were current also numerous stories regarding White’s private life that were not of the creditable kind. It is not too much to say that he was frequently under suspicion, but there was always something Lacking in a legal way so that no open scandal attached to his name, although evil reports were frequent. No action was taken by the investigators, however, because of lack of tangible evidence.

One incident that contributed much to White’s bad reputation and which illustrates forcibly his view of a “good time” was the “Girl-in-a-Pie” affair, which was later to come out in evidence at the trial.

The famed “Girl-in-the-Pie” dinner was given to several artists and men about town, with several notorious “fashionable” women in attendance. The spread cost $350 a plate.

At the approach of dawn, four negroes entered, bearing a huge pie, which they placed on the table. A faint stir was observed beneath the crust just as the orchestra struck up the air of the nursery jingle:

The pie was burst asunder, and from inside there emerged the beautiful figure of a young girl, clad in black gauze draperies. She turned her pretty childish face upon the astonished guests, and poised as a bird about to fly, while two dozen golden canaries, released by her hand, flew about the room.

Then, when the tableau was complete, a man forced his way to the side of the table and with a smile assisted the child to the floor. The man was Stanford White.

The young girl, a model, then 15 years old, lived with her mother, but on the night of the banquet she disappeared, and remained in hiding for two years. Efforts of the police to find her were unsuccessful.

At last she returned, to tell a story of revolting mistreatment and desertion by the man who met his death at the hands of Harry Thaw.

“When I was lifted from the pie to a seat at the table I found myself queen of the revel,” she said. “It was dazzling at first,” she said, “but in the end it became a sad queendom.

“Mr. White was kind for a time, but when he went to Europe he instructed his clerks to get rid of me with as little trouble as possible. I never saw him again.”

Turned into the street to live as she might, this girl, not yet 18, finally married, but her husband, when he learned of her part in the “pie” banquet, brooded over the affair, and deserted his girl wife without attempting to avenge her wrongs. She died soon afterward.

Stanford White was as respectful to women of the stage who demanded respect as he was to his wife’s friends.

He was one of a group of men, old and young, who are oftenest seen in and near theaters where frothy nonsense charmingly unclad is enacted and in restaurants where musical comediennes tempt their dainty appetites with broiled lobster.

He knew many theatrical managers, and some of them often invited him behind the scenes—but not to inspect the architecture.

Stanford White was indefatigable in his pursuit of beauty in his work and in his play. He was generous and considerate. He would hide a $100 bill in a bouquet he ordered handed over the footlights; he would visit a poor, sick chorus girl when she thought herself friendless in a hospital.

Once in a while, Mr. White gave entertainments in the tower, at which the women and men of society were his guests. But there were other entertainments on which Venus, not Diana, should have looked down. At them, if a girl danced on the table she did not scratch the mahogany. Stanford White vastly admired adolescence. His death was a tragedy and is a warning. His last night was typical of his method of life.

He dined with his son; he went to his club. From his nearest kin and his honorable friends he turned to the structure his genius had raised, where was hid his “studio.” The lights and music of the roof garden enticed him. And in the presence of the woman who vows he ruined her life he perished by her husband’s hand. And the last jangle that sounded to him was a comedy song: “I could love a million girls.”

Madison Square garden, which he created and where he met his death, was known as his “pleasure house.”

What an awful warning, to the would-be-young-man-about-town! With all his subtle experience, with his fawning servants and paid detectives, even Stanford White with his millions could not avert the hand of vengeance. “Be sure your sin will find you out.” Sooner or later a settlement must be made. Lucky is he whose balance is on the right side of the ledger.

CHAPTER V.

Greatest Legal Battle of Age Opens.

The day will long be remembered because of the multiplicity of surprises it brought forth. Brevity of argument by counsel for state and defense was not the least of these. The opposing lawyers felt they were entering upon a stupendous game with life and death the stakes, and youth, beauty, love, hate, treachery and millions factors in the play.

Neither cared to show his hand and disclose the cards he held. It was Monday, February 4, 1907—a fateful day, coming after seven months and ten days’ imprisonment for Thaw in the Tombs.

The prosecution made a most remarkable record when it presented its opening statement in ten minutes and followed it with less than two hours of testimony, closing in time for the noon recess. The defense announced it would open its case with a statement by Attorney J. B. Gleason.

The purpose of the prosecution was readily apparent—throwing upon the defense the burden of disclosing its case, reserving the while the state’s hardest fire for rebuttal later when Thaw’s lawyers had exhausted themselves and their material.

Opening shots of the legal battle royal were fired by Assistant District Attorney Garvan, of counsel for the state.

He congratulated the jurors on their body having been completed and then outlined the purpose of the law, which was not seeking for vengeance, but to uphold the security of the state, he said. He urged the importance of the case and a strict observance of the law in order that a verdict, fair to all, might be reached.

It was the claim of the people, he said, that on the night of June 25, 1906, the defendant “shot and killed with premeditation and intent to kill” one Stanford White. He then briefly outlined the movements of

White, beginning with the Saturday preceding the tragedy and ending with the actual scene of the shooting on the Madison Square Roof garden.

“The purpose of punishment of crime is an example to the community,” thundered the prosecutor.

“The defendant is charged with the murder of Stanford White with premeditation on June 25, 1906. Mr. White was an architect, a member of the firm of McKim, Meade & White. On the Sunday before his death he went to his home on Long Island with his family. He returned to the city on Monday with his son and his son’s friend named King. They went to the Cafe Martin for dinner.

“Mr. White had previously purchased tickets to a theater. After dinner Mr. White drove his son and his son’s friend to the theater and then went himself to the Madison Square Roof garden, where a new play, ‘Mam’zelle Champagne,’ was to be produced.

“Stanford White went to the Madison Square Roof garden and sat alone at one of the small tables there, watching the first production of this play called ‘Mam’zelle Champagne.’

“The defendant was there with his wife and two friends, Truxton Beale and Thomas McCaleb. The defendant walked constantly about the place.

“In the middle of the second act the defendant’s party started to leave the roof. The defendant let his party go ahead and he lagged behind. Passing the table where Stanford White was sitting, this defendant wheeled suddenly, faced Mr. White, and deliberately shot him through the brain, the bullet entering the eye.

“Mr. White was dead.

“The defendant did not know this. He feared he had not completed his work, and he fired again, the bullet penetrating White’s cheek. Still, to make sure, he fired a third time.

“Mr. White, or rather the body of Mr. White, tumbled to the floor.

“The defendant turned, and facing the audience, held his revolver aloft with the barrel upside down to indicate that he had completed what he intended to do. The big audience understood. There was no panic.”

Mr. Garvan concluded by giving the details of Thaw’s arrest and indictment by the prosecution. He spoke always in a conversational tone. Thaw sat throughout with head downcast and face flushed.

Calm and as cold and easy of manner as though rehearsing a scene in some drama instead of a great tragedy of life, District Attorney Jerome requested the exclusion of all other witnesses and placed his first witness on the stand.

As Evelyn Thaw passed her husband in leaving she took his hand and held it for a moment, and, as she turned away, tears trickled down her cheeks.

Harry Thaw was visibly nervous and drummed on the table with his fingers.

Lawrence White, the son of the dead architect, was the first witness. Thaw again fastened his eyes on the table before him and did not once look at the witness.

Young White said he was 19 years old and a student at Harvard university. His mother, he said, was then living at Cambridge, Mass.

White was on the stand only a few minutes. He told of accompanying his father to the Cafe Martin for dinner, and said that when he left him to go with his chum, a boy named King, to the New York roof garden, it was the last time he saw his father alive.

Myer Cohen, a song writer and manager of the house which published the music of “Mam’zelle Champagne,” was called after an elevator man had detailed Thaw’s conversation when arrested.

Mr. Cohen was on the Madison Square Roof garden the night of the tragedy. He saw Thaw there for the first time during the initial act of the musical comedy. Cohen described on a diagram the position of the table at which White sat.

When asked by Mr. Garvan to indicate Thaw’s manner of approaching the architect that evening, the witness left the stand, and, walking up and down before the jury box, he illustrated the slow pace which he declared characterized Thaw’s deliberation in approaching his victim.

“He walked up to Mr. White’s table like this,” said the witness, indicating. “He made a slight detour, and coming up to Mr. White from behind suddenly faced him and fired three times.”

Henry S. Plaese, superintendent of the publishing company that owned the rights of “Mam’zelle Champagne,” was the next witness. He saw the defendant the night of the killing in the rear of the roof garden, opposite the center aisle. Mr. Plaese was standing with Mr. Cohen, the previous witness. Thaw stood before them for six or seven minutes, looking to the right and left.

After the first act he next saw Thaw just previous to the shooting. White was seated, facing the stage, his head leaning on his right hand. There was no conversation when Thaw approached White, and the former immediately began firing.

Thaw then retreated toward the rear of the garden, with his right hand elevated, “the barrel of the pistol being pointed upward.”

The weapon with which White was killed was brought into the case during the testimony of Paul Brudi, the fireman who disarmed Thaw after the fatal shots were fired. Brudi, who appeared on the stand in uniform, identified the pistol when it was shown to him, and said that after taking it from the prisoner he turned it over to the police.

“I remember hearing only two shots,” said Brudi in relating the events of the evening of the tragedy, “when I rushed up and grabbed the prisoner, who had his arms uplifted.”

“Did you hear the defendant say anything after the shooting?” asked Assistant District Attorney Garvan.

“Yes,” the witness replied, “he said ‘He ruined my wife.’”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

“Did you hear any one say anything to him?”

“His wife.”

“What did she say?”

“Look at the fix you are in.”

“Did he reply?”

“I did not hear him say anything else.”

Edward H. Convey, foreman of laborers at Madison Square garden, was called to further identify the pistol Brudi took from Thaw, and which Convey helped in turning over to the police. He was not cross-examined.

Policeman A. L. Debes, who arrested Thaw, was called. He identified the pistol, the bullets, and empty shells introduced as exhibit.

“Did you have any conversation with Thaw?” asked Mr. Garvan.

“I did,” he replied.

“I asked the prisoner if he had shot Stanford White, and he said, ‘I did.’ I then asked him why he shot him and he said, ‘Because he ruined my wife—or life.’”

“You could not distinguish whether he said wife or life?” was asked.

“No. Thaw then asked where we were going and I replied, ‘To the station house,’ and he said ‘All right.’ After this I turned him over to another officer and went up stairs to get witnesses.”

Coroner’s Physician Timothy Lehane, who performed the autopsy on Stanford White’s body, described the wounds made by three pistol shots.

The first bullet, he said, entered the right eye, passing downward and entering the brain; the second entered on the right side of the upper lip, and the third wound was on the right arm, the bullet ranging downward and passing out six inches from the point of entrance, making what is commonly called a flesh wound.

The witness then identified the various bullets and Mr. Garvan asked that they be formally received as evidence. The exhibits were passed across to the table of counsel for the defense. Thaw’s eyes wandered about from right to left, but not even a fleeting glance was thrown in the direction where the deadly bullets were being left.

Dr. Lehane declared cerebral hemorrhage, caused by the bullet wounds, produced death.

Dr. Sylvester Pechner, who was with a party on the Madison Square Roof garden the night of the tragedy, next was introduced as a witness for the prosecution. Dr. Pechner examined White soon after he fell and pronounced him dead. The architect’s death must have been instantaneous, the witness declared.

Dr. Pechner said that when his attention was attracted by the firing of the pistol, he saw Thaw standing over White.

He then saw the defendant “break his gun” and pull out the empty shells, and hold it aloft. Just after this Fireman Brudi took the man in charge.

Policeman Debes was recalled and Mr. Garvan asked him: “Did you hear any remark credited to the defendant’s wife that night?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it?”

“On the ground floor of the Twenty-sixth street entrance.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Harry, why did you do it?’ and he replied, ‘It will be all right.’”

This ended the state’s case—all the evidence depended upon to send the young millionaire to the electric chair having been presented in that brief session. The defense opened a little more than an hour later after a brief recess for luncheon.

“Harry Thaw believed he was acting upon the command of Providence when he killed Stanford White,” thundered Attorney Gleason in opening the case of the defense.

Thaw’s insanity at the time of the killing, Mr. Gleason said, was due to heredity and stress of circumstances. It would also be shown, he said, that the defendant had suffered from temporary or emotional insanity for years.

“You must disabuse your minds, gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “of any idea or impression that the defense in this case will rely upon anything but the constitution and the laws of the imperial state of New York. Upon these laws alone we will rely.

“You must dismiss all idea that we are to import into this case any so-called higher or unwritten law. We will rely upon all the defenses that the law allows.

“One of the defenses allowed by law is that of insanity.”

Mr. Gleason declared further that it would be shown that Thaw acted in self-defense and without malice, believing threats had been made against him by Stanford White. Mr. Gleason said that Thaw did not know the nature or quality of his act at the time he committed it.

The defendant killed Stanford White, he said. He believed that it was an act of Providence and that he was guided in that act by Providence.

“The defendant killed White, and he did not know that act was wrong. He was suffering from a mental unsoundness proceeded from a disease so that he did not know what he was doing. We will show that there was a mental unsoundness in his family.

“There will be witnesses produced here on both sides, but you are the ones who will judge of the fact of whether the defendant was insane or not when he killed Stanford White.

“It lies with you and you alone to decide whether or not Thaw was sane when he killed Stanford White. You must apply to yourselves the test of your ability to decide truly and wisely.

“It is for you to reach out with that human spirit which says to any man, no matter how degraded, ‘look up and be of good cheer. I, too, am a man, and would have done the same thing had I been placed in your position.’

“When you have heard all the testimony in this case and come to judge this defendant, I am sure you will be of the opinion that the defendant’s act was due to insanity and not one of crime.”

Mr. Gleason’s address required less than an hour. At its conclusion the way was clear for the greatest defense of modern times and the sacrifice of Evelyn Thaw—a feature without a parallel in modern jurisprudence.

CHAPTER VI.

“I Swear Harry K. Thaw Was Insane.”

The first witness for the defense was Dr. C. C. Wiley of Pittsburg, the Thaws’ family physician, who was connected with the Dixmont Insane Asylum. During Dr. Wiley’s examination, the young prisoner sat with paper and pencil, taking notes and consulting

constantly with his counsel. He was pale and nervous, and shuddered at the slightest unusual noise in the court room. Jerome went at the witness pitilessly, asked him trick questions, and endeavored a hundred times to trap him into an admission that Thaw might not have been insane at the time he killed White.

Jerome failed. When the day had closed the evidence as to insanity remained unshaken, but the witness was exhausted and so confused that he often took refuge in the answer “I don’t know,” or “I cannot recall.”

Mr. Gleason, attorney for Thaw, asked the expert a hypothetical question the answer to which immeasurably strengthened the plea that Thaw was insane. It was:

“Assuming that any man was proved to you, as an expert, to have attended a roof garden the day of June 25, 1906, the occasion of the opening of a theatrical entertainment which was largely attended, and that on walking out from the theater, with his wife near him, and apparently in a quiet and orderly manner; that that man should turn aside and fire three shots from a revolver into a man who was sitting at the table and to whom he did not speak; that this man then held the pistol above his head and walked quietly toward an elevator; that he gave up the pistol without resistance and did not make any attempt to escape, and that he said, ‘He ruined my wife,’ and that immediately thereafter he said to his wife, ‘I have probably saved your life,’ I ask you, sir, upon your judgment as an expert, whether you are able to give an opinion touching on the sanity of the man who made that answer?”

“I can,” said Dr. Wiley.

“Will you express that opinion?”

“I believe that that man — —”

District Attorney Jerome objected.

“You must not state a belief,” said Mr. Jerome, “that is not evidence. You must give an opinion.”

“My opinion,” said Dr. Wiley, “is that the man who committed the act described was suffering from insanity.”

Other striking assertions from Dr. Wiley’s testimony were:

“The act of Harry K. Thaw was that of an insane man.

“The remark Thaw made to his wife after the tragedy, ‘I have probably saved your life,’ is an indication of an insane delusion.

“I have examined 800 people as to their sanity, and should know the prisoner’s condition.

“When I examined Harry in the Tombs prison after the murder his actions were irrational.”

Dr. Wiley was on the stand for the defense all the first day, and at the opening of the second day a sensation came when Mr. Delmas took the helm of the defense, and called Benjamin Bowman as the second witness. Jerome had refused to allow Bowman to