Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 35, Number 94, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 31 July 1903 — WHO WAS GUILTY [ARTICLE]

WHO WAS GUILTY

A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

CHAPTER XIX. The necessity of earning bread forced •M to seek labor. My money was all ■pent, and a day arrived when I was p—nilaas The ring and the cord were •till In my possession. I do not know tow It was that I was tempted to keep them about me; perhaps it was as a punishment which I obstinately inflicted upsb myself. When I was penniless I could have twisted the diamond out of the ring and sold the gold fo> a few sliilKngs, which really would have enabled me to live without labor for some considerable time. I did not, however, put it to this use. It did not belong to me; it belonged to the dead. The labor I obtained was of the lowest «nd most menial kind, and thus it was that, being far away north, I found myself working in the hop gardens. The pay was bad, but that mattered not; it ■uffleed for bread. The danger was that 1 herded with men and women of a degraded stamp, and that, like them, I was fast becoming brutalized. This enforced coutact with degradation caused in me a kind of revulsion. Hitherto I had kept mostly to myself, and the gloomy thoughts in which I indulged were created by my own lack of moral strength; but now that I was brought face to face with things I abhorred, I saw, as it- were, the reflection •f my own moral image, and the thoughts It engendered had a salutary effect upon me. It was this better phase of experience which led me into the companionship of a man of higher grade than the ether hop-pickers. The name of this -man was Stanmore. He must have'feeognized in me, as I recognized in him, a man es a superior stamp, and he confided to me that he was not hop-picking from necessity. “The fact is, Gnskell,” he said to me (I had to bear some name, and I chose that), “I am killing two birds with one atone. One bird is with me; the other 1 am Waiting for.” This, of course, was enigmatical to me, hut I did not ask for an explanation. He gave me one of his own prompting. “The bird that is here is in my portfolio; the bird I am waiting for is a woman.” I knew what he meant by his reference to his portfolio, which contained a number, of sketches be l»nd_ been making of the hop-pickers, selecting for 'choice the moat squalid and disreputable subjects. He had thrown out hints that I might look over these sketches, but I had not availed myself of the offer. The hop-picking was now over, and we were paid off. Upon Stanmore’s invitation I accompanied him to a respectable hotel and agreed to remain with him for two or three days. We engaged two ■ooms —a sitting room and another with two beds in it. Thus far he had persuaded me. but he could not induce me to join him at meals. I still adhered to my knmble fare, of which I partook in secret.

On the first night of our stopping nt the hotel we were in the sitting room, which was lit with ga?. Stanmore was busy’ with his sketches, with paints and brushes before him, he was engaged in perfecting them. “Gaskell,” he said, ‘‘.you are a strange follow, and that, 1 dare say, is the reaeon why I have taken to you. I like everything that is strange. But you are, Moreover, an enigma. Locked in your breast is a story it would entertain me bo hear.” Startled, I gazed at him, and half •rose. r “Pshaw!” he said. “Sit down again. I do not ask you to tell me your story, anless in a moment of confidence you choose to unbend. Now. I am in the humor to be more frank apd open. Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't take fife too seriously; it is not worth while. Those enjoy the most who accept it as • comedy. Tragedy or comedy, it is before you to take your choice. The same thing that will make you cry will make you laugh. It all depends upon the view you take. Some people are annoyed at being tickled; I enjoy it. If a man gives me a slap in the face I laugh and give kirn one in return. The laugh is an enjoyable condiment in the dish; the frown Imparts an objectionable flavor to the meat.” I could have argued with him that it was a matter of temperament, but it was ■ot my cue to say anything that might enlarge the field of .conversation; and I therefore hid my tongue. “All right." continued Stanmore, and I understood him to allude to my; silence; “it suits me. I was ever a voluble felk»w, and my tongue bids fair to grow rusty with the company I have kept these last two or three weeks. Now vou. Gaskell, are a man of education —no disguising it, old man—and I must let off steam, gratified that I have the opportunity of doing so in good company. I coma back to what I was saying—you Iran toward tragedy in your views. I toward comedy. Ah. that's right! look through my portfolio; you’ll find some fairish sketches there—half of them taken in foreign lands. Yes, as Beatrice says, when 1 was bom, ‘my mother cried: but then there was a star danced, and •nder that was I bom.’ I am grateful; ft might have been otherwise; a. blessed heritage. I was flogged at school; I laughed. I was expelled; I laughed. 1 mada some money; I laughed. I was •ebbed of it; I laughed. I married; I laaghed. My wife ran away from me; 1 fcagbed. I shall, in all probability, in this very town meet her; I shall laugh. Men prat® of different philosophies, but 1 will stake mine against the lot. There fc something in my portfolio that inter«sta yon; what is it?” H« came and leaned over my shoulder. 1 was looking at two sketches which waned strangely familiar to me. One was a duel scene, the other a case intealar. Where had I seen those pictures, ar their like, before? I coaid not recall, aad yet they haunted me. - “Nat bad,” said Stanmore. “I have ••M plenty of copies of those and of atftar pictures in ths portfolio. Contiaratal • objects most of them; they am faa moat popular.. Tragedy again. A ■htlli. I giro you my word, if I could «vra you. I would. However, I don't

suppose you will give me the opportunity. Now, if you had a wife as I had, you would sit down in sackcloth and ashes and tear your hair. You wouldn’t be any the better off for it, nor would it-the more incline her toward you by the measure of a hair’s breadth. Take my case. My wife runs away from mi, I make no attempt to discover her; I give her to understand that she is free to go her way. What is the consequence? After an interval of three years she finds out where I am, and suspects that I have money in my purse. She writes to me—oh, in such tender strains! May she come and see me? Of course she may. And, Gaskell, she will come, and not alone. She will bring the other fel-. low with her —or, rather, he will insist upon coming with her, telling her that he will keep out of my way. Little does she dream that this will exactly suit me. The fact is, I feel rather hampered, tied to my wife who is not my wife. Without knowing it, she will supply me with evidence against herself; I shall put her in the divorce court, from which I shall issue with a clean bill, to marry again if I please. And I may please, for I have a susceptible heart.” In this way did Stanmore rattle on till it was time for bed. It was while we were in bed and in the dark that he called: "Gaskell!” “Yes?” I answered. “I have got my wife in the toils,” he said, laughing heartily. “A detective is following her unawares." He continued to laugh for some time.

CHAPTER XX. It struck me on the following morning that he cast strange, compassionate glances at me. “I have received two letters,” he said; “one from my charming wife, the other from my detective. My wife will be here this evening. Both the letters are addressed to me at the postoffice; she does not know whore I am stopping. She herself will put up at a little inn, the name of which she gives me in her letter. It is called the Bull and Mouth. I am going to reconnoiter it.” A We walked together to the street in which it was situated, lingered a moment or two outside, and then returned to our own hotel. We should, hare, remained in the open had a stornf'of rain not come on, which rendered it advisable that we should take shelter Under n roof. Then said Stanmore, with another of those compassionate glances which I had already observed: “Gaskell, old man, I am going.: to show you something; hut you must first give me a promise." “What promise?” I asked. “That when you see what I have to show you, and when you hear the explanation I shall give, you will not run away from me.” “I give you the promise,” I said; “but I cannot stay with you over to-morrow night.” “Where are you going to, then?” “I do not know.” “Well, well,” he said, fearing that I might retract my promise; “I must be content. But I hope we shall meet again. There is a singular attraction in you, Gaskell, for which I cannot account. You promise me honorably, as a gentleman?”

I made a pitiful motion with my hands; I could not help it. There was so much true sincerity and feeling in his voice that it touched my heart. I could not, I could not restrain the little sob of thankfulness which burst from me. Was it possible that I. a murderer, a thief, could still win the respect of men? 1 turned from him, ashamed that he should witness my agitation. Then he took his sketchbook from his pocket, and, detaching a leaf, handed it to me, I stared at the drawing in dumb amazemeut. \ . It represented a bedroom, the bedroom he and I had occupied on the preceding night. On the table was a lighted candle, and nehr it stood a man, apparently just risen from his bed. In his right hand were two articles, upon which he was gazing with an expression of unutterable woe and despair upon his face. The man was myself. The articles I was gazing on were the ring und the cord. “It is yourself, you see,” said Stanmore. “Do you remember?” “No” * “It occurred last night, at 3 o’clock by my watch. I was awake, thinking of ray wife, amused at the surprise I had in store for her. A movement from the part of the room in which you slept attracted my attention. You rose from your bed, struck a match and lit the candle. I called, and asked you whether you were unwell; you did not answer. You searched your pockets, and produced therefrom a diamond ring and a piece of string. You approached the candle, and looked down upon them, with just that -expression upou your face I have caught so faithfully. I called to you rgain, nnd again you did not answer. Then I rose, got my sketch book and made the drawing. It struck me as a godd subject for a picture. It is seldom au artist has the chance of catching such an expression as that;- When the sketch was finished I came qaitc close to you and looked at the ring ntld the piece of string. It was a common, strong piece of cord, but the ring startled me, the diamond in it being of such extraordinary brilliancy. ‘lt is strange,’ thinks I, ‘that Friend Gaskell works as a hop-picker, and lives on bread and water’—l know that, you see—‘when he owus a ring which he could sell or pledge for a good many pounds.’ You were fast asleep, Gaskell, and I 'kraa more than ever convinced that you are the hero of aome strange story. For at least a quarter of an hour you stood in the attitude in ‘which you are depicted; then you put out the candle; in the dark you replaced the articles in your pocket, and I heard you creep into bed. That, is aIL” It was sufficient. Was It fated that I myself should be compelled by Inexorable Justice to supply evidence of my guilt? Not for my life did I care, but the honor and good name of my wife and daughter Wen in my keeping, and thee®

I must protect so long as It lay in my posyer., “Stanmore,” I said, “I moat go away at once; —at once.” “You are afraid of me.” “I am. Better for me never to speak to mortal man again.” “Look again at the sketch, Gaskell. Examine it well.” I obeyed, but saw nothing In It that I had not Been before. “I am skilled in the phases of expression,” he continued. “Frivolous person as I am, I claim to be subtle in my art. There is despair in the face of this drawing; but, Gaskell, it is not the despair of guilt; It is the despair of innocence. I decline to release you from your promise. You remain with me at least till to-morrow night. What do you want?” # This question was addressed to a waiter, who had entered the room without knocking. “A gentleman wishes to see you immediately, sir.” 'Let him come in.” The waiter, departing, returned ushering in a man, respectably dressed. The blood rushed to my head, and my heart beat violently; sot I recognized the detective who, with fwo other officers, had come to my house upon the morning after the murder of Mr. Wilmot. For a moment I thought that a trap had been set for me by Stanmore, and that, through him, justice had overtaken me. But one glance at his face convinced me I was in error. Evidently the detective was a stranger to him. “My name is Stanmore,” he said. “What is your business with me?” “I am a detective officer,” replied the man. He had looked at me when he entered and had turned away, apparently not recognizing vfy —my appearance was so changed, . “I do not ktaow you,” said Stanmore, “You are not the detective I employed.” “No, but I am working with him in this affair. Your wife has arrived and Is now safely lodged at the Bui? and Mouth. My partner is watching her and the man with her. She cannot escape.’^ “But why should she want to escape?” inquired Stanmore, who, I saw, was somewhat puzzled.

“That,” said the detective, “is what I have come to explain.” > “Shall I leave you, Stanmore?” I asked. ' >• “No, sir; you had best remain.” It was not Stanmore who answered me, but the detective. When I spoke he had turned toward me again, and his sharp eyes took in every detail of my appearance. “You had best remain, sir,” he repeated. “What I have to say may be of interest to you.” He now addressed Stanmore. “I have a story to tell which it will interest you t.o hear,” “Lets us hear it. then, by all means,” said Stanmore. “If it is -a long story, take a seat” (To l)c cotrthmed.t -