“Then we come to the crux of the whole position. It is at the moment when this perverted woman he clearly loves better than his life, incriminates herself by confession. He promptly breaks through his barrier of silence and hurls himself to save her, by confessing, in a clear convincing manner, to his own perpetration of the crime.”
Pansarta drew a deep sigh and the smile left his eyes to be replaced by his slight frown of authority.
“We need to go no further. The details of evidence no longer matter. They can be dismissed. Their value does not arise now. The story lying back of those two opposing confessions is no concern of the Court at this moment. In other circumstances it may very deeply concern the Court. This morning I shall direct the jury to find the prisoner ‘not guilty.’ And, Superintendent Croisette,” he added, smiling over at the officer, “it will be for your police to begin again.”
He ceased speaking. And as he did so the counsel for the prosecution inclined his head in reluctant approval. John Danson was frankly pleased. But the police officer found nothing in the learned Judge’s statement of the case to drag him from his preoccupation.
There came a sharp tap at the door communicating with the court. It was a begowned official to announce that all was in readiness for the opening of the court.
The Judge waved him away.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued, as the door closed on the banished man, “having given you my ruling I want to pass from reality to the realms of conjecture. This case intrigues me deeply. I warned you that it is for Croisette’s police to begin again. I meant that. I meant that literally because I am convinced that neither the prisoner nor the woman, Annette, had anything to do with the killing of Sinclair. I am breaking a long-established rule of my life in saying that. But I will go farther. I am no less convinced that each of them honestly believes that the other committed the crime. And, furthermore, each believes they have irrefutable evidence of the other’s guilt.”
The Judge rose from his chair and passed over to his wig and robes laid across the back of a chair.
“I think,” he proceeded, adjusting his robes on his ample person, “that this man they call the Wolf is an unusual character. He is a disreputable bootlegger. No doubt he is a ruffian. I am quite sure he would readily have claimed the privilege of shooting this man, Sinclair. But he is nevertheless a man who claims my respect for other virtues. As for the girl, Annette,” he went on, arranging his heavy wig before a mirror, “she seems to be a perverted, wayward, half-breed wench, without moral scruple. She’s headlong, wild, and steeped in the savagery of her Indian forbears. But she’s a woman. And she is quite beautiful. Furthermore, I rather think she is a woman who has found in the ashes of the conflagration she set going in Buffalo Coulee all that to which every woman has a right, and which, sooner or later, in her life comes her way. So, gentlemen,” he added, facing the men at the table, an imposing figure in his resplendent robes, and with a smile that seemed to permeate his whole being, “if you will favor me by preceding me into the court, I will do my best to persuade everybody that a scallawag bootlegger and potential killer, can still be a brave and gallant man.”