Hand and Ring
By Anna Katharine Green.
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Book I
The Gentleman from Toledo
I
A Startling Coincidence
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Macbeth
Something wicked this way comes.
The town clock of Sibley had just struck twelve. Court had adjourned, and Judge Evans, with one or two of the leading lawyers of the county, stood in the doorway of the courthouse discussing in a friendly way the eccentricities of criminals as developed in the case then before the court. Mr. Lord had just ventured the assertion that crime as a fine art was happily confined to France; to which District Attorney Ferris had replied:
“And why? Because atheism has not yet acquired such a hold upon our upper classes that gentlemen think it possible to meddle with such matters. It is only when a student, a doctor, a lawyer, determines to put aside from his path the secret stumbling-block to his desires or his ambition that the true intellectual crime is developed. That brute whom you see slouching along over the way is the type of the average criminal of the day.”
And he indicated with a nod a sturdy, ill-favored man, who, with pack on his back, was just emerging from a grassy lane that opened out from the street directly opposite the courthouse.
“Such men are often seen in the dock,” remarked Mr. Orcutt, of more than local reputation as a criminal lawyer. “And often escape the penalty of their crimes,” he added, watching, with a curious glance, the lowering brow and furtive look of the man who, upon perceiving the attention he had attracted, increased his pace till he almost broke into a run.
“Looks as if he had been up to mischief,” observed Judge Evans.
“Rather as if he had heard the sentence which was passed upon the last tramp who paid his respects to this town,” corrected Mr. Lord.
“Revenons à nos moutons,” resumed the District Attorney. “Crime, as an investment, does not pay in this country. The regular burglar leads a dog’s life of it; and when you come to the murderer, how few escape suspicion if they do the gallows. I do not know of a case where a murder for money has been really successful in this region.”
“Then you must have some pretty cute detective work going on here,” remarked a young man who had not before spoken.
“No, no—nothing to brag of. But the brutes are so clumsy—that is the word, clumsy. They don’t know how to cover up their tracks.”
“The smart ones don’t make tracks,” interposed a rough voice near them, and a large, red-haired, slightly humpbacked man, who, from the looks of those about, was evidently a stranger in the place, shuffled forward from the pillar against which he had been leaning, and took up the thread of conversation.
“I tell you,” he continued, in a gruff tone somewhat out of keeping with the studied abstraction of his keen, gray eye, “that half the criminals are caught because they do make tracks and then resort to such extraordinary means to cover them
