CHAPTER X.
APPEARANCES AND DISAPPEARANCES.
"Now for Sir Galahad in jail!" said Harry, touching the bay with thepoint of his whip.
"He was an awfully virtuous cad!" laughed Kennedy. Sunburst had offeredto convey Idler safely home, while Kennedy, the black-eyed, accompaniedHarry, himself none the better for his morning bottle-bout, to theclubhouse in town. On the way they would make the visit to Robert.
There was evidently a strong dash of the Arnold blood in Harry. Heshowed more resemblance to his cousin than to the proud, thin-lippedwoman who had sat through Floyd's preliminary trial. A stranger mighteven confuse them at the first glance, though Harry was five years theolder of the two. It could not be gainsaid that he bore his age well.His movements were leopard-like in their swiftness and ease and his eyesshone with mesmeric power. The little darkness under their lids might bea peculiarity of complexion, but occasionally, in moments of repose, ashadow, no more, seemed to cross the cheek and make it look worn. Hiscompanions had noticed that the cue-point wavered a trifle in his handsof late and that his masse shots sometimes failed to draw the balls. Buthe was still facile princeps among gentlemen boxers of the city; and hislong, brown arms were a delight to watch on the river, crossing andrecrossing in the graceful rhythm of the practiced oarsman.
Arnold's true nature was hard to judge, for circumstances had conspiredto spoil him from the cradle. A comely child, he had been allowed tocarry the knickerbocker period of tossing curls and gratified whims farinto his teens, and the discovery that her darling was a man, and nolonger a painted picture to be gazed at and displayed, had come upon hismother suddenly, like an unforeseen catastrophe. It had cost her many apang to realize that she, who aspired to be sole mistress of his heart,shared now only a divided affection with a score of alien interests.Still she continued to indulge and anticipate his desires. They wererich and social station was her birthright. But it was with a jealousgnawing in her heart that she would sign the check for his new pleasureyacht or watch him pat the neck of his steeplechaser Aladdin.
The dislike she bore to Robert Floyd was a natural consequence of hisuncle's partiality. The families were outwardly upon good terms. Ifearly influence counts, there could not well be much similarity of tastebetween the youth whose steps had been guided by the virile head ofBenjamin Arnold and the idol of that indulgent, worldly mother who neverforgot that she belonged to the Brewsters of Lynn.
"Hold her ten minutes," said Harry, giving the reins to Kennedy at theouter gate of the jail. His name was a sufficient passport to theofficer who guarded the outer turnstile, and he was directed across abricked yard to the jail building proper. Here a more detailedexplanation was exacted. Harry answered the questions suavely but notwithout some suppressed impatience. A few moments of delay, which hebeguiled with an incessant finger-tattoo, and he was conducted tomurderers' row.
"This isn't much like home, Rob," was his greeting, fortified by a handextended through the cell bars. Floyd pressed it somewhat coldly.
"I'm grateful for the visit, Harry," he said.
"I was deucedly down with malaria when uncle died, you know."
"I was sorry to hear that from your mother."
"Yes, might have come around to the trial, I suppose; but motherwouldn't have it. You understand how she feels. Besides, what good couldI do?"
"You are better now?"
"Awoke this morning as fresh as a new-born babe. Going down to playwith the foils awhile. Can't stop long."
Was it the glow of convalescence or of wine that shone in Harry's face?He made one or two imaginary passes with his cane, regardless of thefeelings of the prisoner, to whom such a picture of prospectiveenjoyment could hardly be soothing.
"But I say, Rob," he cried, apparently remembering himself, "this ishard on you. What do you think of it all?"
Floyd eyed his cousin, as if the appropriate answer were not easy tofind.
"It is hard," he replied.
"What would Uncle Ben say if he were alive?"
"Uncle Benjamin would be the first to proclaim my innocence," saidRobert, his voice vibrant with emotion.
"To tell the truth, Rob, I don't know whether to be sorry his oldscrawl's canceled or not. I had my doubts how I fared at Uncle Ben'shands. Mother said my half was hunky, but you know uncle hadn't thatrespect for my precious person she has." Harry's laugh showed that hewas well aware of his mother's weakness in that regard. "How was it? Doyou know? Did the old gentleman forget me?"
"I believe we were treated nearly alike," answered Robert.
"Gad, then I owe you $5,000,000----"
"Did you come here to insult me?"
At this outburst of indignation the sheriff's deputy drew near.
"That was nothing, Rob," said Harry, sobering up. "Only my cursedthoughtlessness. I'm sorry, on my word, you've got into the fix."
"Carry your condolences somewhere else."
"Oh, well----"
"I was always literal and I mean now what I say. Your apology only makesthe matter worse."
There is nothing more subversive of dignity than an unpremeditatedsneeze. Not that Saul Aronson had much dignity to spare. On thecontrary, he was an extremely modest young man, with apparently onegreat passion in his life, the service of Shagarach. On this occasionhis resounding ker-choo proclaimed from afar the arrival of thatpersonage and threw a ridiculous damper on the rising temper of thecousins. Seeing the two strangers approach, Harry fumbled out a farewelland withdrew with an air of languid bravado. Shagarach watched him as hepassed.
"Follow that young man for a few hours," he said to Aronson. "I shouldlike to know his afternoon programme."
Aronson hung on his master's lips and trotted off to obey his command.
"I am Shagarach, come to defend you," he said to the prisoner, stillflushed with the remembrance of the quarrel.
"Who sent you to defend me?" was the curt reply.
"Your friend, Miss Barlow."
"Emily?"
Robert's voice grew softer.
"I have some questions to ask you."
"What have I done to be questioned as if I were a cut-throat? What haveI done to be jailed here like some wild beast, before whom life wouldnot be safe if he were let at large?"
"I know you are innocent, Floyd."
Only the falsely accused can tell how the first assurance of trust fromanother revives hope and faith in their kind. Robert Floyd was no man tolean on strangers, yet Shagarach's words were as soothing to him as agentle hand laid on a feverish forehead.
"Your cousin Harry came here to verify his knowledge of the will, whichdisinherited him, did he not?"
"Harry was disinherited, that is true."
"How came you to give up the profession of botanist, in which your uncletrained you?"
"Men interest me more than vegetables."
"But you refused your uncle's wealth, that would have given you poweramong men."
"It was not mine. I had not earned it. I feared the temptation."
"You are a journalist, I believe?"
"Six months ago I happened to report a conference of charities for theBeacon. Today I am eking out my income by occasional work for thatpaper."
Shagarach thought of his own first brief. A youth, imperfectlyacquainted with English, was charged with the larceny of an overcoatfrom his fellow-lodger. Something about him enlisted the sympathy of akind-hearted lady who drew Shagarach into the case because of hisknowledge of the Hebrew jargon which the prisoner spoke. The youth wasacquitted and was now a student of law, being no other than Shagarach'sassistant and idolater, Aronson. That was years ago. Today hundredsflocked to hear his pleading of a cause, judges leaned over alertly, asif learning their duty from him, and the very hangers-on of thecourtroom acquired a larger view of the moral law when Shagarachexpounded it.
"My own beginnings were as humble," he said.
"You are a criminal lawyer by choice, people say."
"The moral alternative of innocence or
guilt, of liberty orimprisonment--sometimes, as now, of life or death--exalts a cause in myeyes far above any elevation to which mere financial litigation canattain."
Robert looked his visitor over thoughtfully. The criminal lawyer was notreputed the highest grade of the guild. But there was a sneer, too, inmany quarters for the journalist. He, too, must mingle in the reek ofcities, share Lazarus' crust and drink from the same cup with thechildren of the slums.
"And you have risen to the defense of murderers," he said.
"Men accused of murder," answered Shagarach.
"You are reputed to be uniformly successful."
"That is no miracle. My clients are uniformly innocent. My first step isto satisfy myself of that."
"When were you first satisfied of my innocence?"
"When I saw you here."
"I am to be removed to the state prison while the jail is repaired,"said Robert, who had indulged dreams of some powerful intervention whichshould procure his release. "How long before a final hearing will begiven me?"
"Two months at most. The evidence against your cousin is growing rapidlyunder my hands."
"It was 'evidence' that brought me here. Is your 'evidence' againstHarry no more valuable?"
"I am not prosecuting Harry Arnold, but every item that points to hisguilt guides the finger of suspicion away from you."
Shagarach was satisfied with his interview. He had elicited proof to hisown mind of Robert's innocence and legal evidence of Harry'sdisinheritance under the will. To fasten knowledge of the fact upon thecousin would now be an easier task.
"Miss Barlow will be permitted to see you," was his parting assurance tothe prisoner before he hurriedly returned to his office, to find anunexpected client awaiting him.
John Davidson, the marshal, had a friendly habit, the legacy of acountry bringing-up, which his acquaintances found both useful andagreeable. Our tired Emily, trudging to Shagarach's with the heavymessage of a day's failure, must have agreed with them heartily. Atleast, she did not decline his invitation when the kindly old gentlemandrove up behind her and urged her to share his seat in the carriage.
"I am bringing him some evidence now," said Emily in answer to themarshal's first question, after he had settled her according to hisliberal ideas of comfort and clucked his horse to a gentle trot.
"Evidence--no need of evidence, miss. If Shagarach has your case, thatwill be prima-facie evidence in itself of your sweetheart's innocence."
"He is a wonderful man. But do people like him?"
"Like him? Well, 'like' is a medium word, you see, used for mediumpeople. He's a good deal of a sphinx to us all, my dear. But aren't youa brave girl to be tramping the streets for your sweetheart? Don't mindbeing called sweethearts, I hope? That was the old-country word when Icourted Elizabeth. But I believe young folks now call it fiancee,inamorata--French words and Italian, as though they were ashamed tospeak it out in good old English."
"Oh, we prefer sweethearts a hundred times. But I see Mr. Shagarach'ssign."
The marshal handed her out with old-fashioned gallantry, threw hishorse's head-weight on the curbstone and accompanied her upstairs.Neither Aronson, nor Jacob, the office boy, answered his knock, but athroaty falsetto, somewhat the worse for wear, was intoning anevangelical hymn within. Strange quavers ad libitum and a constantbeating of the foot, occasionally heightened to a break-down stamp,intermingled with the air. It was only by giving a rap with his wholeclenched hand that the marshal was able to arouse the attention of thismusical inmate.
"Evenin', Mr. Davidson. Keepin' house, you see."
"Good evening, Jupiter." Then to Emily: "This is Pineapple Jupiter."
"Cullud gospel-preacher, missus. Belong to the mission upstairs. Buy amission paper, missus?"
His complexion was as black as a coal shovel, but everything artificialabout him made the antithesis of the swan to the raven. His suit was ofbleached linen, his shirt bosom, choker and spotless cravat, all thecolor of snow. Even his wool was wintry and the rolling eyes andbrilliant teeth gave his ensemble the effect of a pen-and-ink sketch, orone of those black-and-white grotesques that recently captured a passingvogue.
"When will Shagarach return?" asked Davidson, but a light step on thestairs, which Emily knew to be his, rendered an answer needless. Thelawyer bowed with his usual stateliness and ushered them in.
"Remain outside till Jacob comes, Jupiter," he said. The negro salaameddeferentially.
"As a result of today's inquiries," Shagarach folded his arms, "twodesirable witnesses are missing. The peddler, as I surmised, is not apeddler; and the incendiary, who could assist us materially in ourresearches, still remains in the Arnold mansion."
Emily's face was puzzled at this enigmatic opening.
"That is to say, he was not seen by any one coming out. I believe,however, that he succeeded in getting away unobserved, as I think I hadthe pleasure of meeting him this afternoon."
"The incendiary?" cried Emily, and the marshal echoed her.
"At the county jail."
Emily's heart fluttered. Had Shagarach become a convert to the belief inRobert's guilt? And if so?
"You know Harry Arnold?" he asked.
"I have never met him." She colored a little, for she was not descendedfrom the Brewsters of Lynn. "But it seems to me your argument againsthim is inferential, Mr. Shagarach." Twenty times she had gone over it onher pillow the night before.
"Were the a priori case against Mr. Floyd as strong, you would have morereason than you have to be apprehensive, Miss Barlow," said Shagarach,in that ringing tone of his, from which all the sap of emotion seemedpurposely wrung out, leaving only a residuum of dry logic.
Immediately he began writing a letter, as if to terminate the interview,and John Davidson reached for his hat, casting a glance down at hiscarriage in the street. Then with an effort Emily unburdened herself ofthe portentous message which she had come to deliver.
"I have done my best," she said. "But Bertha Lund is not to be found."
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery Page 10
