Counsel. "You seem to have forgotten that Hilliard, the deceased, did not arrive at the pavilion until Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock. What have you to say to that?"
Witness. "Well, there were other people who got beatings besides him."
Counsel. "Then that is what you meant to refer to in your affidavit, when speaking of Hilliard's blood upon the floor. You meant beatings of other people?"
Witness. "Yes sir—on Tuesday."
The witness was then forced to testify to minor details, which, within the knowledge of the defence, could be contradicted by a dozen disinterested witnesses. Such, for instance, as hearing the nurse Davis call up the morgue, the morning after Hilliard was killed, at least a dozen times on the telephone, and anxiously inquire what had been disclosed by the autopsy; whereas, in fact, there was no direct telephonic communication whatever between the morgue and the insane pavilion; and the morgue attendants were prepared to swear that no one had called them up concerning the Hilliard autopsy, and that there were no inquiries from any source. The witness was next made to testify affirmatively to minor facts that could be, and were afterward, contradicted by Dr. Wildman, by Dr. Moore, by Dr. Fitch, by Justice Hogman, by night nurses Clancy and Gordon, by Mr. Dwyer, Mr. Hayes, Mr. Fayne, by Gleason the registrar, by Spencer the electrician, by Jackson the janitor, and by several of the state's own witnesses who were to be called later.
By this time the witness had begun to flounder helplessly. He contradicted himself constantly, became red and pale by turns, hesitated before each answer, at times corrected his answers, at others was silent and made no answer at all. At the expiration of four hours he left the witness-stand a thoroughly discredited, haggard, and wretched object. The court ordered him to return the following day, but he never was seen again at the trial.
A week later, his foster-mother, when called to the witness-chair by the defence, handed to the judge a letter received that morning from her son, who was in Philadelphia (which, however, was not allowed to be shown to the jury) in which he wrote that he had shaken from his feet the dust of New York forever, and would never return; that he felt he had been ruined, and would be arrested for perjury if he came back, and requested money that he might travel far into the West and commence life anew. It was altogether the most tragic incident in the experience of the writer.