The Light that Lies

by George Barr McCutcheon

When he learned that a true bill had been returned against him by the Grand Jury, his first impulse was to return to his own country and fight the charge. Reflection convinced him that he was safe as long as he remained in his sequestered home in Switzerland, and he made up his mind to remain there and die with unlifted disgrace bearing down upon his good name rather than to return and face the probability of having to account for his absence. That, and that alone, was responsible for his decision to remain where he was. No one knew of his whereabouts, not even his own kith and kin. He was as safe as if he were already dead. Then, in solemn, unforgettable tones he declared that he had never taken a penny belonging to the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company, that he was innocent of the charge brought against him, notwithstanding the fact that appearances were sufficient to convict.

Time brought a change in him. He decided to return and face his accusers. He did not hope to convince them that he was innocent. He only wanted the opportunity to stand before the world and proclaim his innocence. He had no testimony to offer. He could only say that he had not done this monstrous thing of which he was accused.

His testimony was given as a simple statement. He was allowed to tell his brief story without the interpolation of a single question by his counsel. Succinctly but with scant bitterness, he recited the story of his own unfair treatment at the hands of his former partners. He touched very casually upon that phase of the matter, as if it were of small consequence to him now. There were no harsh words for the men who had tricked him. One could not help having the feeling that he looked upon them as beneath his notice.

He came home of his own free-will, after years of deliberation. He had been influenced by no one in this singular crisis. He was alone in the world. Except for his beloved granddaughter, there was no one else who could suffer through the result of this trial. He was prepared to accept the verdict of the twelve gentlemen who listened to him and who had listened to the testimony of others before him.

There was not a sound in the court-room when he paused and drew a long deep breath. Every eye was upon him. Then, in a clear, resonant voice he said:

“Gentlemen, I repeat that I am absolutely innocent of this charge. I ask you to believe me when I say this to you. If you do not believe me, I must be content to accept your judgment. I do not ask you to discredit the testimony of the men who have appeared against me. They have told all they know about the circumstances, I dare say, and I am convinced that they are honest men. They have only shown you that there was a colossal theft, that a large sum of money is unaccounted for in their business. They have not shown you, however, that I am the man who took it. They have only shown you that fifty thousand dollars is missing and unaccounted for. I admit I was responsible as treasurer of the company for the safe-keeping and guardianship of all that money. It disappeared. I can only say to you, gentlemen, that I did not take it.”

His voice was husky. There was a long pause, and then he settled back in his chair and turned wearily to the district attorney for crossexamination. It was then that the crowd knew he had finished his story. A deep breath came from the lips of every one, as if for many minutes it had been withheld.

Sampson's gaze involuntarily sought Alexandra Hildebrand's face. He did not mean to look at her. He could not resist the impulse, however. It was stronger than the adamantine resolution he had made. The light of triumph was in her glowing eyes, the flush of victory in the cheek. Her grandfather had cleared himself!

Sampson's heart ached as it sank to depths from which it would never rebound. He turned hopelessly to the man in the witness chair, and waited for the district attorney to open his grilling cross-examination. He knew what the State would demand: why did he go away? Who replaced a large portion of the amount originally missing? Why did he sell his real-estate and his interest in the business? A hundred vital questions would be discharged at him, and he would—But, even as he delved in these dismal reflections, the district attorney arose in his place and said, clearly, distinctly—although no man at first believed his ears:

“No questions, your Honour.”