At his office, next morning, the first object that caught his eye was the black, leather-bound scrapbook that Peixada had given him yesterday. It lay where he had left it, on his desk. Beginning by listlessly turning the pages, he gradually became interested in their contents. I shall have to beg the reader’s attention to an abstract of Mrs. Peix-ada’s trial, before my story can be completed; and I may as well do so now.
The prosecution set out logically by establishing the fact of death. A surgeon testified to all that was essential in this regard. The second witness was one ’Patrick Martin. I copy his testimony word for word from the columns of the New York Daily Gazette.
“Mr. Martin,” began the district-attorney, “what is your business?”
“I am a merchant, sir.”
“And the commodities in which you deal are?
“Ales, wines, and liquors, your honor.
“At retail or wholesale?”
“Both, sir; but mostly retail.”
“Where is your store situated, Mr. Martin?”
“On the southwest corner of Eighty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.”