I I
The next afternoon she sat in a front seat in the courtroom and bent eyes of sad sympathy upon Harry McCurtney. There were others who looked on him in the same way. They were not, to be sure, quite like the beautiful woman, but then they were fair enough to have filled up a motion-picture background.
What woman under thirty could look upon him without some such sad emotion? He was very young; he was very handsome. The brown eyes were as soft and liquid as the eyes of a thoughtful Byron—or a calf. That tall forehead and that long, pale face—they brought home all the romantic melancholy of life to a woman under thirty. Even the twelve good men and true felt some ruth as they glanced on him who was about to die; but being hardheaded fellows, those twelve, they looked away again and cleared their throats and frowned. Metaphorically speaking, they were rolling up their sleeves and preparing to grasp the knife from the hands of blind justice.
The hero knew it. He turned those large, soft eyes on the jurors, and then flicked them swiftly away and let them journey from one fair face to another along the benches of the courtroom. And at last, as one overcome by the woes of life, he bowed his head and veiled his eyes with his long, white, tremulous fingers. A beautiful hand! It should have rested upon velvet; should have toyed with locks of golden hair, or blue-black hair— Elizabeth’s hair was blue-black.
The crowd had not come to hear the plea of Hole-inthe-Wall Barrett, simply because it was not known until the last moment that he was taking over the case for the defense; but the moment his burly figure appeared, swaggering toward a chair, a hum and then a whisper and then a voice passed through the crowd. His honor removed his glasses and frowned. The clerk rapped for order.
From that moment everyone waited; everyone was expectant. The prosecution was uneasy; the district attorney drank many glasses of water; the jurors set their teeth as if they were resolving their collective minds that they would not be budged from their duty even by a John Barrett. They scowled and nudged one another with assurances of immovability; they smiled upon the district attorney; they frowned upon Harry McCurtney and John Barrett.
The proceedings passed quickly. The district attorney made a very eloquent speech, painting in colors of crimson and black the damnable crime of this treacherous boy who could poison his uncle while the murdered man was drinking his nephew’s long life and happiness. The jury shook its collective head and scowled again on John Barrett, as if they dared him to come on and fight now. But all the time Hole-in-the-Wall Barrett sat teetering slowly back and forth in his armchair, staring blankly from face to face and picking his teeth. As has been said before, he was not only a villain, but a very vulgar man.
The prosecutor’s case was in. There was only the plea of John Barrett to be heard. The judge frowned his defiance on Barrett; the district attorney did likewise; the jury deepened its scowls; the fair mourners covered their faces and waited.
Barrett rose in the most matter-of-fact manner, with the most unmoved face, and crossed to the table on which stood the damning exhibit, the vial of poison. He finished picking his teeth, but continued to chew the toothpick. Indeed, he was a very vulgar man.
“Your honor and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “the prosecution has proved conclusively that certain drops from this bottle were poured by the defendant into a glass of whisky, which was drunk by William McCurtney, who thereafter died.”
It was like the fall of the first sods on the coffin. The defense was throwing down its cards. McCurtney raised his head; a greenish-yellow was invading the pallor of his poetic face. Something extremely un-poetic was in his eyes.
“The court has been informed by various experts that the contents of this bottle are deadly poison. If they are, unquestionably the defendant is guilty of murder, most damnable murder.”
It was a strange exordium. The crowd frowned with wonder and waited for the appeal which must follow— sounding periods, moving eloquence. But it must be always remembered that our villain was a most vulgar man.
He raised the little vial.
“The proof of the pudding,” he said, “is in the eating.”
And he drank the liquid in the vial—he drained it slowly to the last drop. Then he turned and extended an arm of command over the jury, which had arisen to the last man, staring upon him with pallid faces and open mouths.
“Now set that man free!” he thundered, and strode from the courtroom.
The man was set free. The jury was out one and one-half minutes before it reached its verdict. And the first one to get to the acquitted man, who sat as if stunned, with wandering eyes, was Elizabeth Barrett. Love will find a way, even through a courtroom jam.
A note was brought to McCurtney; they read it together.
“Bring Elizabeth to my house, McCurtney,” ran the note. “I have something to say to you both.”
As they sat in her car, she said:
“He knows, Harry!”
“Knows what?” asked Harry.
“About us,” said Elizabeth tenderly.
“About which?” said the hero vaguely.
“About our love, dear,” explained the beautiful woman.
“My God!” said the hero. “Stop the car! Turn it about!”
“Harry!” cried the beautiful woman. “You aren’t afraid?”
“Afraid?” stammered the hero. “No, of course not!”
“Poor dear! Of course that hideous trial has destroyed your nerves; but think of the long years of beautiful peace which we will spend together!”
“John Barrett!” muttered the hero. “He knows?”
“I told him.”
“Elizabeth, were you mad, to tell that brute of a man?”
“He didn’t care. In fact, that’s how I induced him to defend you.”
The hero wiped his brow.
“He won’t oppose,” said the beautiful woman, and she looked out the window with something of a sigh. “He won’t hinder us in anything. I suppose—I suppose the divorce will be easily granted me. And then—”
“Yes, yes!” murmured the hero. “But let’s talk about that later. The important thing now is John Barrett.”
“We’ll talk to him in a moment. It won’t take long. I suppose he wants to make the necessary arrangements for the—the divorce.”
She leaned back against the cushion and smiled that twentieth-century smile.
“By Heaven!” said the hero, “I don’t really know whether you’re glad or sorry, Elizabeth.”
“Neither do I,” she answered, and then, opening her eyes suddenly to the matter of fact: “Neither do I know whether I’m gladder to have my freedom, or sorrier to wade through the disgrace of the divorce court.”
“Hm!” said the hero.
The car stopped in front of the columned entrance to the Barrett home.
“Aren’t you coming, Harry?” she asked with some impatience.
“Give me time, dear,” said the hero. “My wits are still back there in the courtroom waiting for John Barrett to begin his appeal.”
“And mine,” said the beautiful woman, “are in the bright future!”
And again she smiled the twentieth-century smile.
I I I
They entered, and a servant told them that Mr. Barrett expected them in his private library. They climbed to the third story.
“This climb,” smiled Elizabeth, when they arrived, a little breathless, at the door,