"Did you ever see that knife before?"
"I can't say, sir," turning it carelessly in his hands, and examining the spots upon the blade.
"Did you ever see one like it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you ever own one like it?"
"I do own one like it."
"Are such knives common?"
"They are—to the surgical profession."
"Do you own more than one knife of this sort?"
"I do not."
"Did you ever own more than one like this?"
"Not at the same time."
"Then you have lost a knife like this?"
"No; but I have broken two."
"When did you last see deceased alive?"
"Not since our encounter on the street; that was a week ago, I should think, perhaps longer."
"Who witnessed that affair?"
"Mr. Vandyck was with me; the others were strangers."
"That is all, Doctor Heath."
Lawyer O'Meara comes next; his testimony is brief, and impatiently given. He adds nothing new to the collected evidence.
Next comes the man Rooney, and he rehearses the scene at "Old Forty Rods," sparing himself as much as possible.
"We didn't really think he'd go to Doctor Heath's," he says in conclusion. "We all called it a capital joke, and agreed to go out and look him up after a little. He was reeling drunk when he went out, and we all expected to find him floored on the way. After a while, an hour perhaps, we started out, half a dozen of us, with a lantern, and went along the road he had taken; we went almost to Heath's cottage, looking all about the road as we went. When we did not find him, we concluded that he had gone straight home, and that if we staid out longer the laugh would be on us. So we went back, and agreed to say nothing about the matter to Burrill when we should see him."
"How near did you come to Doctor Heath's house?"
"Very near, sir; almost as near as we are now."
"But you were in the opposite direction."
"Just so, sir; we came from the town."
"Did you hear any movements; any sounds of any sort?"
"Nothing particular, sir; we were making some noise ourselves."
"Did you meet any one, either going or coming?"
"No, sir; but a man might easily have passed us in the dark on the other side of the road."
Five men confirm Rooney's statement, and every word weighs like lead against Clifford Heath.
John Burrill left the saloon to go to Doctor Heath's house; in drunken bravado, he would go at night to disturb and annoy the man who had, twice, in public, chastised him, and on both occasions uttered a threat and a warning; unheeding these, he had gone to brave the man who had warned him against an approach—and he has never been seen alive since; he has been found dead, murdered, hidden away near the house of the man who had said: "If he ever should cross my path, rest assured I shall know how to dispose of him."
These words distinctly remembered by all three of the women who witnessed the rescue in Nance Burrill's house, are repeated by each one in turn, and the entire scene is rehearsed.
Nance Burrill is called upon, and just as she comes forward, Mr. Lamotte beckons the coroner, and whispers a few words in his ear. The coroner nods, and returns to his place. Nance Burrill is sworn, and all listen eagerly, expecting to hear her rehearse the story of her life as connected with that of the dead man. But all are doomed to disappointment. She tells the story of the rescue in her cottage, much as did the others; she repeats the words of Clifford Heath, as did the others, and she turns back to her friends, leaving the case against the man who had been her champion, darker than before.
Raymond Vandyck is called; he does not stir from his position beside his friend, and his face wears a look of defiant stubbornness.
"Ray," says Clifford Heath, quietly, "your silence would be construed against me; go forward and tell the whole truth."
Then he obeys the summons; but the truth has to be drawn from him by hard labor; he will not help them to a single fact. For example:
"What do you know concerning this case?"
"Nothing," he says, shortly.
"Did you know that man," pointing to the body of Burrill; "in his life."
"I had not that honor."
"Ah—you have seen him."
"I believe so," indifferently.
"You can't swear to the fact, then?"
"I knew him better by reputation, than by sight."
The coroner wiggled, uneasily.
"You are a friend to Doctor Heath?"
"I am," promptly.
"Please relate what you know of his—difference with Mr. Burrill?"
"What I—know."
"Yes, sir."
"Why, I don't exactly know anything"
"Why, sir, did you not witness a meeting between the two?"
"I—suppose so."
"You suppose!"
"Well, I can't swear that the man I saw knocked down, if that is what you mean, was Burrill; it was night, and I did not see his face clearly."
"You believed it to be Burrill?"
"Yes."
"Dr. Heath so believed?"
"I don't know."
More uneasiness on the part of the coroner.
"Please state what Doctor Heath said to the man he knocked down?"
"Well, I can't repeat the exact words. He said what any one would have said under the circumstances."
"Ah! what were the circumstances?"
"The fellow was half drunk. He approached Dr. Heath in a coarse and offensive manner."
"Was his language offensive?"
"I didn't hear what he said."
"Did you hear what Dr. Heath said?"
"I did."
"You heard it distinctly?"
"Quite."
"Ah!" smiling triumphantly. "Then you can give us his words?"
"Not verbatim."
"Give us his meaning, then."
"His meaning, as nearly as I could understand it, was this: He would allow no man to insult him or to meddle with his affairs, and he finished with something like this: 'Keep my name off your lips, wherever you are, if you want whole bones in your skin.'"
"He said that?"
"Well, something like that; I may have put it too strong."
"Do you remember what Dr. Heath said by way of comment on the affair?"
"One of the men picked the fellow by the sleeve, and said, 'Come out of that, Burrill!' and then Heath turned to me and asked, 'Who the deuce is Burrill?'"
"And your reply?"
"I said—" stopping a moment and turning his eyes upon the two Lamottes—"I said, 'He is Jasper Lamotte's son-in-law.'"
"And then, sir?"
"Then Dr. Heath made about the same sort of comment others have made before him—something to the effect that Mr. Lamotte had made a very remarkable choice."
"Mr. Vandyck," says the coroner severely, "it seems to me that your memory is singularly lucid on some points, and deficient on others of more importance."
"That's a fact, sir," with cheerful humility. "I'm always that way."
"Ah!" with an excess of dignity. "Mr. Vandyck, I won't tax your memory further."
Ray turns away, looking as if, having done his duty, he might even survive the coroner's frown, and as he moves again to the side of the suspected man, some one in the audience above, a portly gentleman, with a diamond shining on his immaculate breast, makes this mental comment: "There is a witness who has withheld more than he has told." And he registers the name of Raymond Vandyck upon his memory.
This is the last witness.
While the jurymen stand aside to deliberate, there is a buzz and murmur among the people up above, and profound quiet below. Attention is divided between the gentlemen of the jury and Clifford Heath. The former are very much agitated. They look troubled, uneasy and uncomfortable. They gesticulate rapidly and with a variety of movements that would be ludicrous were the occasion less solemn, the issue less than a man's life and honor.
Finally the verdict is reached, and is pronounced:
The coroner's jury "find, after due deliberation, that John Burrill came to his death by two dagger, or knife strokes from the hand of Dr. Clifford Heath."
The accused, who, during the entire scene, has stood as immovable as the sphynx, and has not once been startled, disturbed, or surprised from his calm by anything that has been brought forward by the numerous witnesses, lifts his head proudly; lifts his hat, too, with a courtly gesture, to the gentlemen of the jury, that may mean total exoneration from blame, so far as they are concerned, or a haughty defiance, and then, after one sweeping glance around the assembly, a glance which turns for an instant upon the faces of the Lamottes, he beckons to the constable; beckons with a gesture that is obeyed as if it were a command.
"Corliss," he says, just as he would say—"give the patient a hot drink and two powders." "Corliss, I suppose you won't want to lose sight of me, since I have suddenly become public property. Come with me, if you please; I am going home; then—I am at your service."
And without more words, without let or hindrance, without so much as a murmur of disapproval, he lifts himself out of the cellar, and walks, at a moderate pace, and with firm aspect, toward his cottage, closely followed by Corliss, who looks, for the first time, in his official career, as if he would gladly be a simple private citizen, at that moment.
The coroner's inquest is over; there remains now nothing save to remove the body to a more suitable resting place, and to disperse.
Jasper Lamotte moves about, giving short orders in a low tone. He is pallid and visibly nervous. If it were his own son who lay there in their midst, stiff and cold, and saturated with his own blood, he could scarcely appear more agitated, more shocked and sorrowful. He is really shocked; really sorry; he actually regrets the loss of this man, who must have been a constant crucifixion to his pride.
This is what they whisper among themselves, as they gather in knots and furtively watch him, as he moves about the bier.
It has been a shock to Frank Lamotte, too, although he never had seemed to crave the society of his brother-in-law, and always turned away from any mention of his name, with a sneer.
Two men, who withdraw quickly from the crowd, are Lawyer O'Meara and Ray Vandyck. As they come up out of the cellar and go out from the hateful place, Ray breaks into bitter invective; but O'Meara lays a firm hand upon his arm.
"Hold your impulsive tongue, you young scamp! Do you want to be impeached for a prejudiced witness? You want to help Heath, not to hurt him; and let me tell you, he will need strong friends and shrewd helpers, before we see him a free man again."
Ray grinds out something profane, and then paces on in wrathful silence.
"You are right, of course," he says, after a moment's pause, and in a calmer tone. "But, good God! to bring such a charge against Heath, of all men! O'Meara," suddenly, "you must defend him."
"I intend to," grimly. "And in his interest I want to see you as soon as the vicinity is quiet; we must think the matter over and then see Heath."
"Heath puzzles me; he's strangely apathetic."
"He'll puzzle you more yet, I'm thinking. I half think he knows who did the deed, and don't intend to tell." He pauses, having come to the place where their ways diverge. "Come around by dark, Vandyck, we can't lose any time, that is if the buzzards are out of the way."
"The buzzards will follow the carrion," scornfully. "I'll be on hand, Mr. O'Meara."
He goes on, looking longingly at Clifford Heath's cottage, as he passes the gate, and the little lawyer begins to pick his way across the muddy street, not caring to go on to the proper crossing.
"Mr. O'Meara."
He turns nervously, to encounter the gaze of a large gentleman with a rosy face, curling, iron-gray hair, and beard, and a blazing diamond in his shirt front.
"Eh! sir; you addressed me?"
"I did," replies the gentleman, in a low, energetic tone, strangely at variance with his general appearance, at the same time coming close and grasping the lawyer's hand with great show of cordiality, and before the astounded little man can realize what he is about. "Call me Wedron, sir, Wedron, ahem, of the New York Bar. I must have an interview with you, sir, and at once."
O'Meara draws back and replies rather frigidly:
"I am glad to know you, sir; but if your business is not too urgent—if another time will do—"
"Another time will not do? my business concerns Clifford Heath."
"Then, sir, I am at your service."