“Did you know this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How came you to know it?”
“I had been over it before.”
“The whole distance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Hickory, were you well enough acquainted with the route not to be obliged to stop at any point during your journey to see if you were in the right path or taking the most direct road to your destination?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you got to the river?”
“I turned straight to the right and made for the bridge.”
“Did you not pause long enough to see if you could not cross the stream in some way?”
“No, sir. I don’t know how to swim in my clothes and keep them dry, and as for my wings, I had unfortunately left them at home.”
Mr. Orcutt frowned.
“These attempts at humor,” said he, “are very malapropos, Mr. Hickory.” Then, with a return to his usual tone: “Did you cross the bridge at a run?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you keep up your pace when you got to the highroad?”
“No, I did not.”
“You did not?”
“No, sir.”
“And why, may I ask?”
“I was tired.”
“Tired?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a droll demureness in the way Hickory said this which made Mr. Orcutt pause. But in another minute he went on.
“And what pace do you take when you are tired?”
“A horse’s pace when I can get it,” was the laughing reply. “A team was going by, sir, and I just jumped up with the driver.”
“Ah, you rode, then, part of the way? Was it a fast team, Mr. Hickory?”
“Well, it wasn’t one of Bonner’s.”
“Did they go faster than a man could run?”
“Yes, sir, I am obliged to say they did.”
“And how long did you ride behind them?”
“Till I got in sight of the station.”
“Why did you not go farther?”
“Because I had been told the prisoner was seen to walk up to the station, and I meant to be fair to him when I knew how.”
“Oh, you did; and do you think it was fair to him to steal a ride on the highway?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why?”
“Because no one has ever told me he didn’t ride down the highway, at least till he came within sight of the station.”
“Mr. Hickory,” inquired the lawyer, severely, “are you in possession of any knowledge proving that he did?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Byrd, who had been watching the prisoner breathlessly through all this, saw or thought he saw the faintest shadow of an odd, disdainful smile cross his sternly composed features at this moment. But he could not be sure. There was enough in the possibility, however, to make the detective thoughtful; but Mr. Orcutt proceeding rapidly with his examination, left him no time to formulate his sensations into words.
“So that by taking this wagon you are certain you lost no time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather gained some?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Hickory, will you now state whether you put forth your full speed today in going from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to the Quarry Station?”
“I did not.”
“What?”
“I did not put forth anything like my full speed, sir,” the witness repeated, with a twinkle in the direction of Byrd that fell just short of being a decided wink.
“And why, may I ask? What restrained you from running as fast as you could? Sympathy for the defence?”
The ironical suggestion conveyed in this last question gave Hickory an excuse for indulging in his peculiar humor.
“No, sir; sympathy for the prosecution. I feared the loss of one of its most humble but valuable assistants. In other words, I was afraid I should break my neck.”
“And why should you have any special fears of breaking your neck?”
“The path is so uneven, sir. No man could run for much of the way without endangering his life or at least his limbs.”
“Did you run when you could?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in those places where you could not run, did you proceed as fast as you knew how?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well; now I think it is time you told the jury just how many minutes it took you to go from Mrs. Clemmens’ door to the Monteith Quarry Station.”
“Well, sir, according to my watch, it took one hundred and five minutes.”
Mr. Orcutt glanced impressively at the jury.
“One hundred and five minutes,” he repeated. He then turned to the witness with his concluding questions.
“Mr. Hickory, were you present in the courtroom just now when the two experts whom I have employed to make the run gave their testimony?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know in what time they made it?”
“I believe I do. I was told by the person whom I informed of my failure that I had gained five minutes upon them.”
“And what did you reply?”
“That I hoped I could make something on them; but that five minutes wasn’t much when a clean fifteen was wanted,” returned Hickory, with another droll look at the experts and an askance appeal at Byrd, which being translated might read: “How in the deuce could this man have known what I was whispering to you on the other side of the courtroom? Is he a wizard, this Orcutt?”
He forgot that a successful lawyer is always more or less of a wizard.
XXXIII
A Late Discovery
Oh, torture me no more, I will confess.
King Lear
With the cross-examination of Hickory, the defence rested, and the day being far advanced, the court adjourned.
During the bustle occasioned by the departure of the prisoner, Mr. Byrd took occasion to glance at the faces of those most immediately concerned in the trial.
His first look naturally fell upon Mr. Orcutt. Ah! all was going well with the great lawyer. Hope, if not triumph, beamed in his eye and breathed in every movement of his alert and nervous form. He was looking across the courtroom at Imogene Dare, and his features wore a faint smile that indelibly impressed itself upon Mr. Byrd’s memory. Perhaps because there was something really peculiar and remarkable in its expression, and perhaps because of the contrast
