“Except for the furniture in our apartment and what money he had in the bank, I inherited nothing. There was no estate.”
Bundy started and stared.
“What? Nothing, you say? No estate?” Apparently he had never been so much surprised in all his life. “Then from what, may I ask, was his income derived?”
“From an annuity that died with him.”
In a crescendo of bewilderment which, though feigned, was well acted, Bundy lifted his hands.
“And did you know of this beforehand?” he asked.
“I knew of it before we were married,” the witness replied.
Bundy mopped his red face.
“Dear me! Dear me! Who would have supposed that my learned opponent, the district attorney, could be so grievously in error?”
Yet at once, in mitigation of that error, in obvious sympathy, too, he threw out:
“But there is Exhibit B, there is the will! Can you tell me why your late husband so elaborately devised to you nothing whatever?”
“Mr. Ferrol believed that through experiments in which he was engaged, he might at any moment become very wealthy.”
“Ah! And what was the nature of these experiments?”
“Alchemy.”
“Alchemy!” You would have thought that Bundy’s eyes were going to pop from his head. “So he was an alchemist! And was it the elixir of life that he was seeking?”
“No—the transmutation of metals.”
“Oho! That was it, was it? And do you recall anything that he may have said on the subject?”
“He said that when the experiments were concluded he would project gold as a hose projects water; that we would wade in it.”
“And did Mr. Ferrol say what was necessary to bring about a result so—er—remarkable?”
“He said that the blood of a human being was indicated.”
“Ah! And did he tell you how he proposed to procure this—er—this ingredient?”
“He said he might carve up Sir William Ramsay.”
Blandly Bundy rubbed his hands and as blandly remarked:
“Mr. Ferrol being at the time in this city and Sir William in England?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say that there would be any preliminaries to the carving?”
“He said he would first dose him with muscarin.”
“And you feared that it was himself he might dose?”
“Precisely.”
“And it was for this reason that you removed it?”
“It was.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ferrol. One question more—in regard to this gentleman, Mr. Asher. Is he a relative or connection of yours?”
“Mr. Asher is my second cousin.”
“Ah! Quite so. And prior to your husband’s death, did you see him often?”
“Since my marriage, I have seen him but twice—once yesterday, in the Tombs, and again today in court.”
Much as a nurse might look at an ill-treated child, Bundy cocked an eye.
“Did Mr. Ferrol object to your seeing him?”
The defendant, who thus far had held herself as if, in the vast room, she and Bundy were alone, seemed at the moment transiently aware that others were present.
“So far as I was concerned, Mr. Ferrol objected to nothing and insisted on but one thing.”
“And what was that?” asked Bundy, who at once clapped a hand to his mouth as if now he had put his foot in it.
“That I should have my way in everything.”
Bundy looked up at the ceiling. Where else could a nature so rare have gone? Then, leisurely returning to earth and his client, he shifted.
“Mrs. Ferrol, it has been shown that just before your husband’s death he was greatly excited. An alchemist is not supposed to be an excitable person. Can you tell these gentlemen what he was excited about?”
“He told me that after many disappointments he had recovered the alkahest, snared the chimera, got the secret of the transmutation of metals, and that with it he would make me the richest woman in the world.”
“And when you left him he was elated over that prospect?”
“Very much so indeed.”
“But you knew that until results were obtained there would be nothing but his annuity?”
“Yes.”
“Then you had nothing to gain by your husband’s death?”
The defendant, her eyes two disks of flame, bent forward.
“Say rather that I had everything to lose—perhaps even my life, which is now in jeopardy.”
Gravely Bundy considered it. Then, mopping his face, he smiled—smiled at the press table, smiled at the jury, smiled at her.
“Do not, I beg of you, Mrs. Ferrol, distress yourself on that account. The district attorney would have these gentlemen believe that you poisoned your husband, sordidly, for his money, and passionately, for another man.” Bundy coughed, gestured, and added: “I think I have very thoroughly disposed of my learned friend’s contentions. I—”
Severely the court interrupted:
“Reserve anything of that kind for your summing up!”
Bundy bowed. He had scored a point, and just when it would have the greatest effect. Conscious of which, he became a compound of irony and good humor, Falstaff and Mercutio in one.
“I am deeply grateful for your honor’s instructions.” He turned to his client. “Thank you, Mrs. Ferrol!” He turned to Melvale. “Your witness! And, by the way, let me beg of you, don’t go at this witness as you did at the last, like a common scold.” He turned to his client again. “I apologize in advance for any rudeness on the part of the district attorney.”
Meanwhile, from behind the bar, objections had exploded like shell from a rapid-fire gun; but through the running fire of them Bundy held to his own, held to his trench, extracting bit by bit this curious story, which I could see interested even the judge. Benevolently over and down at the defendant he looked, and from the look I could divine the tenor of his coming charge.
Probably Melvale divined it also—if not then, at any rate after he had finished with the cross-examination, during which he fished but one item of reportable interest. It was to the effect that the defendant had been engaged to Asher, and that owing to a misunderstanding on her part the engagement had been broken; after which she had married Ferrol, who was old enough to be her father.
Melvale, smoothing what hair he had left as if it were some costly fur, threw
