THE FOOL OF THE FAMILY.
So McCausland was right, after all. The oaf had just been captured by the local police of Woodlawn, and inquiry had vindicated the inspector's surmise.
Far back in our story there was mention of a half-witted brother of the Lacy girls, who jumped from the Harmon building and were killed. Nature had made one of her capriciously unequal divisions of talent in this family, gifting the daughters with all graces and allurements of character, but misshaping their elder brother, Peter, both in body and mind. And Fate, instead of rectifying the hard allotment by the merciful removal of the oaf, had deprived the household instead of its fairer inmates, leaving the monster to flourish on, sleeping, breathing, performing all animal functions healthily, but reflecting only sorrow into the heart of the mother who bore him.
The death of his sisters had converted this harmless driveller into a maniac, nursing one deadly thought. At the Lacy common table the case of Robert Floyd was, of course, followed with keen interest, especially since the shyster, Slack, had persuaded certain advisory relatives, and through them the mother, that some compensation in money for the loss of her girls might result from an appeal to the courts. Shagarach's name, as the defender, the possible savior of Floyd, this wrecker of their household peace, had impressed itself on the addled intelligence of the oaf, and being sufficiently taught to read and endowed with the cunning of his sort, he had begun with the incoherent letters to the lawyer, and ended with three assaults which had so nearly cost him his life. Floyd, behind the prison bars, was beyond his reach; but if the criminal records of the time had included any attempt to force a way into a jail cell it is probable that the maniac would have essayed an imitation of this. For, as McCausland had keenly noted, each of his attacks had been made under suggestion from the daily chronicles.
Since the fire he had wandered away from home—though previously a devoted house-haunter—probably making the rude hut in the forest his abode and indulging his mania amid that forest solitude in long fits of brooding. Just why he chose this habitation the mother could not say, unless it was to be near his sister's grave. From time to time he had returned, always to beg a little money or some articles of necessity, and when questioned on his doings he had manifested a temper which he was rarely known to exhibit before.
The mystery of his identity with the peddler was explained by Mrs. Lacy when Shagarach asked her the whereabouts of her son during June. It seems there was a street vender named Hotaling, who added to his revenue in summer time by hiring young men to exploit the outlying suburbs with spring produce. Strictly speaking, a license would be required, even though their sales were made beyond the city limits. But Hotaling dispensed with this formality, and the teamsters he employed were unsteady fellows, of the least savory appearance, whom he rewarded with a commission, keeping their accounts correct by the terror by which he personally inspired them. Among Hotaling's possessions was a green cart, and the driver selected to occupy its seat had been Peter Lacy, who had wit enough to harness a horse and make change (indeed, he was very shrewd at a bargain), and who accepted a pittance as recompense. The simpleton's district had been Woodlawn. But his road from the city market took him close to Cazenove street.
When, the next morning, the district attorney announced that Harry Arnold and Bertha would testify, closing the case for the prosecution, Shagarach knew that his time was at hand.
"Mr. Hodgkins has attested the existence of a will and the accused himself at the preliminary hearing admitted knowing that he was virtually disinherited. We have, however, thought it well to strengthen this vital point by calling a witness who will testify to the same admission made upon another occasion. Mr. Harry Arnold."
"You are a nephew of the late Prof. Arnold?"
"Yes, sir; his brother's son," answered Harry. He was just the least bit nervous, his glances wandering from Shagarach's face to his mother's and then resting with a brighter expression on that of Rosalie March, who had come into the court-room to-day for the first time. The wild rose in her cheeks was blooming warmly through the gossamer she wore to hide them and her blue eyes were lifted trustfully to her lover's. Once they caught Emily's and she bowed with a smile. Emily returned the bow, but her heart was too full for smiling. She was sorry Rosalie had come that morning, for Shagarach's manner told her that he was condensing his thoughts in the resolve to wring the truth from Harry.
"And a cousin of the accused?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your relations have always been pleasant, I presume?"
"We have never had any permanent falling-out."
"And are so still?"
"Yes, sir, on my part. I hope with all my heart the jury will find him innocent," answered Harry, with every appearance of candor.
"Have you ever had any conversation with him on the subject of your uncle's will?"
"Only once."
"When was that?"
"Within a week after the fire."
"And where?"
"At the county jail."
"It was while the accused was in custody of the sheriff, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you happen to visit the accused at that time?"
"I was his only living kinsman. My visit was one of sympathy."
"And what statement did the accused make regarding his knowledge of the will?"
"Why, I believe he owned incidentally that he was disinherited, but everybody knew it then. It was all over the town. So was I, it seems, for that matter," added Harry.
"Everybody's knowledge is nobody's knowledge. We cannot take things for granted because rumor has spread them broadcast. We want your specific testimony that the accused acknowledged having learned from his uncle that he was to receive only an insignificant fraction of the fortune which all his life he had been expecting."
"That is my recollection of it."
"Was there any further conversation on the subject?"
"No, sir; it came up incidentally."
Shagarach paused a moment before beginning the cross-examination. Harry eyed him and during every second of the pause the witness' color mounted. Something in the lawyer's appearance still confused him. "This was a visit of sympathy?" asked Shagarach.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you have seen the accused frequently since his imprisonment, I presume?"
"Well, no, I have not."
"When did you see him last previous to yesterday?"
"Well, not since the first week."
"Not since this visit of sympathy, do you mean?"
"That was the last time."
"Then all your sympathy expended itself in that single visit?"
"No, not exactly."
"Why didn't you renew it?"
"Rob and I didn't part good friends."
"Indeed? And what was the cause of your disagreement?"
"Some thoughtless words of mine."
"Then you were at fault?"
"Wholly. I have been sorry since."
"But you have kept your repentance to yourself until now, have you not?"
"Well——"
"And volunteered to testify against your cousin?"
"No, sir; I was subpoenaed."
"From what quarter do you suppose these rumors of Floyd's disinheritance arose?"
"I don't know."
"Consider that answer carefully."
"I have done so. I don't know. I read it in the papers."
"You knew Floyd was disinherited before your visit to his cell?"
"No, sir."
"You knew you yourself were disinherited before the fire?"
"No, sir."
"You knew a will had been made?"
"Yes, sir."
"From whom?"
"From my mother."
"Your mother and yourself share most items of family interest between you?"
"Naturally we do. We have no secrets from each other."
"Wasn't it your mother who first informed Mr. McCausland that Robert had been disinherited?"
"I don't know."
"Yet you read the papers, you said."
"I must have skipped that item."
"How did Mrs. Arnold know this fact?"
"I don't know."
"You are very rich, Mr. Arnold?"
"Yes, we are considered wealthy."
"So rich that I presume you were indifferent whether Prof. Arnold added to your fortunes or not by a bequest of his property?"
"He may have thought we didn't need anything more."
"How large a stud of horses do you keep?"
"In all? Only six."
"How many servants?"
"Six."
"For a family of two?"
"My mother and myself. But then, we entertain a good deal."
"You have a summer residence at Hillsborough?"
"Yes, sir."
"And a house at Woodlawn?"
"Yes, sir."
"The supplies for your table are not generally purchased from a common street vender, I presume?"
"I don't know. I don't attend to the commissariat."
"Shouldn't you suppose they would come from market?"
"Game and such things, yes."
"And greens?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"When did you first hear of the burning of Prof. Arnold's house?"
"That's hard to say at this distance of time."
"I wish you would try to recollect."
"Why, I think the morning afterward—Sunday morning. Yes, it was in the Sunday papers. I remember now."
"You remember distinctly?"
"Yes, sir."
"What paper?"
"The Beacon. We take no other."
The Beacon was the paper upon which Robert was employed, thus forming a curious bond of communication between the two Arnold households.
"You were not in town, then, that afternoon?"
"No, sir."
"Positive of that?"
"Why, yes; I was ill—or, rather, just convalescing from a fever. Dr. Whipple called, I believe, to see me that very Saturday."
"In the forenoon or afternoon?"
"Afternoon."
"About what hour?"
"About 3:45."
"And this fire started at 3:30?"
"I heard a witness say so in the testimony yesterday."
"Of your own knowledge you couldn't say when it started?"
"No, sir."
Harry was red as fire during all these rapid questions, some apparently aimless, some sharply pointed.
"A man could not start that fire in Cazenove street at 3:30 and reach your house in Woodlawn at 3:45, could he?"
"Not very well."
"He might, however, start the fire at 3:28 and reach your house at 3:48?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "Twenty minutes isn't long."
"Isn't there a train which leaves the Southern depot at 3:29?"
"I never use the Southern depot."
"Never?"
"Well, not enough to know the trains."
"I have not said that you did, Mr. Arnold. It happens, however, that there was a train—an express train—which left the Southern depot at 3:29 on June 28, arriving in Woodlawn at 3:45. A person starting from Prof. Arnold's house at 3:28 could have caught that train, could he not?"
"In one minute? Yes, by hurrying."
"And, leaving the train at Woodlawn at 3:45, he could have arrived in your house at 3:48, could he not?"
"Yes, sir, by walking briskly."
"Across the fields?"
"Across the fields."
"Wasn't it 3:48 when Dr. Whipple visited you on that Saturday of the fire?"
"Why, of course I could not swear within a minute or two."
"But a minute or two is momentous at times—when a train is to be taken, for example."
"Oh, yes."
"What were you doing all Saturday afternoon before the doctor arrived?"
"Why"—Harry hesitated—"I was ill in my chamber."
"Reading?"
"Perhaps. Killing time lazily."
"You have frequently to do that, I presume?"
"Sir?"
"You have no orderly programme arranged for every day?"
"Well, it varies."
"But never includes any useful occupation, I believe?"
"Well, I can afford to enjoy life."
"You are rich, you said. How fortunate to be rich! The great problem of life then is solved for you by the drawing of a quarterly check?"
"Well, not exactly."
"If you require money, however, you simply ask for it and it comes forth like the genii of the lamp?"
"I can usually meet what expenses I incur."
"Do you remember a man named Reddy?"
"Reddy?" repeated Harry, coloring a shade more and glancing over at Rosalie.
"Reddy," repeated Shagarach, insistently.
"What is his business?"
"He is dead," said the lawyer, and the witness knew that evasion was futile.
"Oh, yes, I knew that Reddy—slightly."
"Do you remember forfeiting several thousand dollars to him one evening in a certain room?"
"Yes."
Harry was driven to the wall. He set his teeth, and now, finally at bay, his spirit seemed to return.
"Where did that money come from?"
"From my mother."
"And from whom did she get it?"
Harry hesitated.
"From one Simon Rabofsky, a money-lender, was it not?"
"Yes."
"She had sold her family jewels, had she not?"
"Yes."
"She kept you in funds?"
"Yes, but she knew nothing of my habits."
"Then you lied to her to obtain money?"
"Yes."
"And you lied to the court awhile ago when you said that you were rich?"
"No, sir; it was only a temporary embarrassment."
"Have the jewels been redeemed?"
"I believe not."
"Do rich people generally pawn their family heirlooms and permit them to be sold?"
"Well, no."
"Then you were so circumstanced that your disinheritance under your uncle's will might seriously incommode you?"
"Well, his money might afford us relief."