Although Rush stood with his head stretched forward, he thought it wise to let the man tell his story in his own way. Interruptions would have been of little avail; the Judge would sustain the district attorney if it were patent the witness were telling the truth; and as he was completely in the dark himself it were better to wait until he got a promising lead. He knew that no man's brain could work more quickly than his.
Mr. Mott being solemnly sworn, deposed that on the night of the shooting he had been taking supper with his friend Miss Lacke, who lived at Number 3 Dawbarn Street, just round the corner from Elsinore Avenue. He left her house at a little before eight, as he was obliged to catch the eight-ten for New York. As he closed the gate behind him, he saw David Balfame walk unsteadily past, shouting "Tipperary"; and being a friend of many years' standing, had concluded to follow and see Balfame safely inside the house. He would lose but a minute or two, and it seemed to him a decent act, for it was possible the man might fall and hurt himself before he reached his home. Mott was so close behind him that he must have just escaped the shot or shots himself, and although he jumped backward he saw distinctly somebody run out of the grove and toward the back of the house. Whether it was a man or a woman he had no idea, but the figure was tall—yes far taller than either young Kraus or Frieda. Then, he said, he doubled on his tracks and got back into Dawbarn Street as quickly as he could. He blushed as he admitted this, but added that he knew from the shouts on Gifning's veranda that men were hastening to Balfame's aid, and he had to catch the eight-ten or lose his night train to the West and a big piece of business. Moreover, he didn't like the idea of giving testimony against anybody; he abhorred the institution of capital punishment. For the same reason he did not come forward until the District Attorney ferreted him out, as he was afraid the running figure might have been Mrs. Balfame and she was the last person he wished to harm, innocent or guilty.
No one could doubt that he told the truth and hated to tell it. Nor could any one jump to the conclusion that he was the assassin; he had as little motive for killing Balfame as any of the other men of Brabant County with whom he had been for years on the same cordial terms.
All that Rush could do was to make him admit that perhaps he was naturally confused by the flash, the report almost in his ear, the man sinking at his feet, and only fancied he saw a running form; the delusion would be natural in the circumstances, particularly as his thoughts seemed to have been concentrated upon getting out of the way. Mr. Mott admitted almost too eagerly that this might be true, but added that when the district attorney, who was a cousin of Miss Lacke, as well as an old friend of his own, had squeezed the story out of him bit by bit (the form of extraction was supplied by Mr. Rush), that had been his impression; he seemed to have that tall running figure imprinted upon his retina, as it were. Of course it might be just imagination. He wished to God he could swear it was. When asked sharply if even one of his parents was German, he recovered his poise and replied haughtily that he was straight American and as pro-Allies as the best man in the country. He had never entered Old Dutch's beer garden; his choice was a hotel bar, anyhow; he avoided saloons.
Rush had a diabolical power of making a witness look ridiculous, but the American mind is essentially a just mind, normally unemotional, and a very magnet for facts. As the Judge adjourned the court until Monday the sob-sisters trailed out dejectedly, after a vain endeavour to get close to Mrs. Balfame; the young men sauntered forth with their heads in the air, and Rush's lips were so closely pressed together that his face looked pure granite. As a matter of fact, his heart felt like water.
Mrs. Balfame, who had not permitted herself to show a flicker of interest while Mott was on the stand, rose as the Judge left the room. She smiled upon each of her friends separately and kissed the prominent ladies of Elsinore who had sat beside her throughout that trying day.
"Please don't come over to the jail," she said. "I know you are worn out, and I have a bad headache. I must lie down. But do please come to-morrow. You are all too good. Thank you so much."
Then with a faint smile and a light step she followed the sheriff through the long tunnel, a horrible vision dancing before her eyes.