“I wished to see Mr. Mansell.”
“Did he know you were coming?”
“No, sir.”
“Had no communication passed between you from the time you parted in the woods till you came upon each other in the depot you have just mentioned?”
“No, sir.”
“Had he no reason to expect to meet you there?”
“No, sir.”
“With what words did you accost each other?”
“I don’t know. I have no remembrance of saying anything. I was utterly dumbfounded at seeing him in this place, and cannot say into what exclamation I may have been betrayed.”
“And he? Don’t you remember what he said?”
“No, sir. I only know he started back with a look of great surprise. Afterward he asked if I were on my way to see him.”
“And what did you answer?”
“I don’t think I made any answer. I was wondering if he was on his way to see me.”
“Did you put the question to him?”
“Perhaps. I cannot tell. It is all like a dream to me.”
If she had said horrible dream, everyone there would have believed her.
“You can tell us, however, if you held any conversation?”
“We did not.”
“And you can tell us how the interview terminated?”
“Yes, sir. I turned away and took the train back home, which I saw standing on the track without.”
“And he?”
“Turned away also. Where he went I cannot say.”
“Miss Dare”—the District Attorney’s voice was very earnest—“can you tell us which of you made the first movement to go?”
“What does he mean by that?” whispered Hickory to Byrd.
“I think—” she commenced and paused. Her eyes in wandering over the throng of spectators before her, had settled on these two detectives, and noting the breathless way in which they looked at her, she seemed to realize that more might lie in this question than at first appeared.
“I do not know,” she answered at last. “It was a simultaneous movement, I think.”
“Are you sure?” persisted Mr. Ferris. “You are on oath, Miss Dare? Is there no way in which you can make certain whether he or you took the initiatory step in this sudden parting after an event that so materially changed your mutual prospects?”
“No, sir. I can only say that in recalling the sensations of that hour, I am certain my own movement was not the result of any I saw him take. The instinct to leave the place had its birth in my own breast.”
“I told you so,” commented Hickory, in the ear of Byrd. “She is not going to give herself away, whatever happens.”
“But can you positively say he did not make the first motion to leave?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Ferris bowed, turned toward the opposing counsel and said:
“The witness is yours.”
Mr. Ferris sat down perfectly satisfied. He had dexterously brought out Imogene’s suspicions of the prisoner’s guilt, and knew that the jury must be influenced in their convictions by those of the woman who, of all the world, ought to have believed, if she could, in the innocence of her lover. He did not even fear the cross-examination which he expected to follow. No amount of skill on the part of Orcutt could extract other than the truth, and the truth was that Imogene believed the prisoner to be the murderer of his aunt. He, therefore, surveyed the courtroom with a smile, and awaited the somewhat slow proceedings of his opponent with equanimity.
But, to the surprise of everyone, Mr. Orcutt, after a short consultation with the prisoner, rose and said he had no questions to put to the witness.
And Miss Dare was allowed to withdraw from the stand, to the great satisfaction of Mr. Ferris, who found himself by this move in a still better position than he had anticipated.
“Byrd,” whispered Hickory, as Miss Dare returned somewhat tremulously to her former seat among the witnesses—“Byrd, you could knock me over with a feather. I thought the defence would have no difficulty in riddling this woman’s testimony, and they have not even made the effort. Can it be that Orcutt has such an attachment for her that he is going to let his rival hang?”
“No. Orcutt isn’t the man to deliberately lose a case for any woman. He looks at Miss Dare’s testimony from a different standpoint than you do. He believes what she says to be true, and you do not.”
“Then, all I’ve got to say, ‘So much the worse for Mansell!’ ” was the whispered response. “He was a fool to trust his case to that man.”
The judge, the jury, and all the bystanders in court, it must be confessed, shared the opinion of Hickory—Mr. Orcutt was standing on slippery ground.
XXIX
The Opening of the Defence
Excellent! I smell a device.
Twelfth Night
Late that afternoon the prosecution rested. It had made out a case of great strength and seeming impregnability. Favorably as everyone was disposed to regard the prisoner, the evidence against him was such that, to quote a man who was pretty free with his opinions in the lobby of the courtroom: “Orcutt will have to wake up if he is going to clear his man in face of facts like these.”
The moment, therefore, when this famous lawyer and distinguished advocate rose to open the defence, was one of great interest to more than the immediate actors in the scene. It was felt that hitherto he had rather idled with his case, and curiosity was awake to his future course. Indeed, in the minds of many the counsel for the prisoner was on trial as well as his client.
He rose with more of self-possession, quiet and reserved strength, than could be hoped for, and his look toward the Court and then to the jury tended to gain for him the confidence which up to this moment he seemed to be losing. Never a handsome man or even an imposing one, he had the advantage of always rising to the occasion, and whether pleading with a jury or arguing with opposing counsel, flashed with that unmistakable glitter of keen and ready intellect which, once observed in a man, marks him
