Part 14

“Where, man, where? And whose was the hand?” gasped O’Brien.

“Wait a moment! Upon reflection I realized that the only part of a man’s apparel likely to give way in a desperate struggle would be a coat pocket; that the hand of the girl had grasped the edge of the pocket and in so doing had closed upon an old envelope in the pocket, which was torn and remained in her hand with a couple of threads from the cloth of the coat when the murderer finally wrenched the coat out of her lifeless fingers.”

“Quite likely,” exclaimed the Chief impatiently.

“But hurry along, man,” urged the officer.

“This afternoon I examined under the most powerful microscope procurable in Boston the threads that your assistant has in safe keeping. I recognized the color and material of which those threads are made. I know the coat whence the threads came, and the owner of the coat,” declared Chapman emphatically.

“His name,” almost yelled the astonished detective.

“David Chapman,” was the cool and triumphant reply.

The Chief glared at the exultant amateur with wonder, in which a doubt of the man’s sanity was mingled.

“It is the coat of the suit I wore while ‘slumming’ in my investigations concerning the negro race. It has hung in my private closet in the office until some time within the last two months, when it was abstracted by some one having keys to the private offices of J. Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap, Walter Burton and I alone possess such keys. Burton, like me, is tall and slim, the suit will fit him; Burton is of the negro race; I heard Burton play the tune of which the few notes are part when I went to his house on the only occasion that I ever visited the ‘Eyrie;’ Burton’s shoes—I tried an old one today which was left at the office some months ago—exactly fit the tracks left by the murderer. Burton having no suit that he could wear as a disguise while rambling the streets in search of adventure, found and appropriated my old ‘slumming’ suit. You will find that suit, blood-stained, the coat pocket torn, now hidden somewhere in the ‘Eyrie’ if it be not destroyed. Walter Burton is guilty of the Malloy assault and murder!” Chapman had risen from his chair, his face was aflame with vindictiveness and passion, his small eyes blazing with satisfied hatred as he almost yelled, in his excitement, the denunciation of Burton.

“Great God! man, it can’t be,” gasped the Chief of Detectives, saying as he regained his breath,

“Burton and the Dunlaps are not people to make mistakes with in such a horrible case as this.”

“Burton has withdrawn from our firm. He has provided himself with a large sum of currency. He is leaving the country. Tomorrow night he dines with Mr. Dunlap to complete the arrangements for the severance of his relations with the house of J. Dunlap. Captain Jack Dunlap will dine with Mr. Dunlap on that occasion, and I shall be there to draw up any papers required. The coast will be clear at the ‘Eyrie;’ go there upon the pretext of arresting Victor, Burton’s valet, on the charge of larceny; search throughout the premises; if you find the garments, and the coat is in the condition I describe, come at once to the Dunlap mansion and arrest the murderer, or it will be too late, the bird will have flown.” The veins in Chapman’s brow and neck were fairly bursting through the skin, so intense were the passion and vehemence of the man who, straining forward, shouted out directions to the detective.

O’Brien sat for several minutes in silence, buried in deep meditation, glancing ever and anon at Chapman, who, chafing with impatience, fairly danced before the desk. The official arose and, walking to the window, stood for some time gazing out upon the lighted street below. Suddenly he turned and came back to Chapman, whom he held by the lapel of the coat, while he said,

“Chapman, I know that you hate Burton. I know also of your fidelity to the Dunlaps. You would never have told this to me, even as much as you hate Burton, if it were not true. This disclosure and disgrace, if it be as you suspect, will wound those dear to you.”

This phase of the situation had evidently not occurred to David Chapman in his zeal for satisfaction to his all-consuming hatred of Burton. He dropped his eyes, nervously clasped and unclasped his hands, while his face paled as he faltered out,

“Well—maybe you had best not act upon my suggestions; I may be all wrong.”

“There, Mr. Chapman, is where I can’t agree with you. I am a sworn officer of this commonwealth, and, by heavens! I would arrest the governor of the state if I knew it to be my duty. Not all the money of the Dunlaps or in the whole of Massachusetts could prevent me from laying my hand on Walter Burton and placing him under arrest for the murder of the Malloy girl, if I find the clothing you mention in the condition you describe. I shall wait to make the search at the ‘Eyrie’ until tomorrow night, that if there be a mistake it shall not be an irreparable one,” said the conscientious Chief of Detectives sternly, in a determined tone of voice.

“But I may be mistaken,” urged the agitated amateur detective.

“You have convinced me that there are grounds for your statements; I know them now, and, knowing them, by my oath of office, must take action,” quietly replied O’Brien.

“Then promise to keep my connection with the case a secret, except what may be required of me as a witness subpoenaed to appear and testify,” cried the now remorseful Chapman.

“That I will, and readily too, as it is but a small favor in comparison to the great aid you have been to our department, and is not in conflict with my duty. I shall also collect and hand over to you all of the reward.”

“Never mind the reward; keep it for your pension fund,” replied the regretful Superintendent of J. Dunlap, who had played detective once too often and too well for his own peace of mind.

XIX

Never had there assembled beneath the roof of the Dunlap mansion since the old house was constructed, a company so entirely uncomfortable as that around the table in the library on the night that Walter Burton dined for the last time with Mr. Dunlap.

John Dunlap’s mind was filled with doubts concerning what was his duty with regard to Burton, having due consideration for the memory of his deceased brother, and as to what would have been the wish of that beloved brother under existing circumstances. Recognizing, as John Dunlap did, the influence that his personal antipathy for Burton had upon his conduct, he was nervous and uncomfortable.

Burton felt the restraint imposed upon him irksome, even for the time of this brief and final visit to the home where his best emotions had been aroused, and the purest delights of his artificial existence enjoyed. He was anxious to be gone, to be free, to forget, and was impatient of delay.

Jack Dunlap, pale and somewhat thin, still carrying his arm bound to his breast, felt the weight of the responsibility resting upon him in releasing Lucy’s husband from a promise that for months had held him near her should the husband’s presence be required at any moment, and was correspondingly silent and meditative.

Nervous, expectant and fearful, David Chapman sat only half attentive to what was said or done around him. His ears were strained to catch the first sound that announced the coming of the visitors which he now dreaded.

“The terms of the settlement of my interest in your house, Mr. Dunlap, are entirely too liberal to me, and I only accept them because of my anxiety to be freed from the cares of business at the earliest possible moment, and am unwilling to await the report of examining accountants,” said Walter Burton as he glanced over the paper submitted to him by Chapman.

“Do you expect to leave the city at once?” asked Mr. Dunlap in a hesitating, doubtful voice.

“Yes, I will make a tour through the Southern States, probably go to California and may return and take a trip to Europe. I have promised Captain Dunlap to keep your house informed of my movements and address at all times, and shall immediately respond, by promptly returning, if my presence in Boston be called for,” replied Burton.

“I confess, Burton, that my mind is not free from doubt as to the propriety of allowing you to withdraw from our house. I should like to act as my brother James would have done. His wishes are as binding upon me now as when he lived,” said Mr. Dunlap in a low and troubled voice.

“It is needless to rehearse the painful story of the last few months, Mr. Dunlap. Had your brother lived he must have perceived the total vanity of some of his most cherished wishes regarding the union of his granddaughter and myself. Heirs to his name and estate must be impossible from that union under the unalterable conditions. My wife’s dementia and her irrational aversion to my presence would have influenced him as it does you and me, and—I might as well say it—I am aware of the fact and realize the naturalness of the sentiment. I am _persona non grata_ here.”

There was a tinge of bitterness in the closing sentence and Burton accompanied it with a defiant manner that evinced much concealed resentment.

As Burton ceased speaking, the eyes of the four men sitting at the table turned to the door, hearing it open. The footman who had opened it had hardly crossed the threshold when he was pushed aside by the firm hand of Chief of Detectives O’Brien, who, in full uniform, followed by a man in citizens’ dress carrying a bundle under his arm, entered the room.

Mr. Dunlap hurriedly arose and advancing with outstretched hand exclaimed,

“Why! Chief, this is an unexpected pleasure—”

“Mr. Dunlap, stop a moment.” There was a look in the official’s eyes that froze Mr. Dunlap’s welcome on his lips and nailed him to the spot on which he stood. Chapman glanced at Burton, on whom O’Brien’s gaze was fastened. Burton had risen and stood trembling like an aspen leaf without a single shade of color left in cheeks or lips. Jack Dunlap’s face flushed somewhat indignantly as he rose and walked forward to the side of his kinsman.

“With all due regard for that high respect I entertain for you, Mr. Dunlap, it has become my painful duty to enter your house tonight in my official capacity and arrest one accused of the most serious crime known to the law.” While O’Brien was speaking he moved toward the table, never removing his eyes from Burton.

“What do you mean, sir?” cried Jack in a wrathful voice, interposing himself between O’Brien and the table.

“Stand aside, Captain Dunlap!” said the Chief sternly. Quickly stepping to Burton’s side and placing his hand on his shoulder he said,

“Walter Burton, I arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth, on the charge of murder.”

With a movement too quick even for a glance to catch, the Chief jerked Burton’s hands together and snapped a pair of handcuffs on the wrists of the rapidly collapsing man.

The eyes of all present were fixed, in stupified amazement, on O’Brien and Burton, and had not seen what stood in the open doorway until a low moan caused Jack to turn his head. He saw then the figure of Lucy slowly sinking to the floor.

Lucy in her wanderings about the house was passing through the hall when the uniformed officer entered. Attracted by the unusual spectacle of a man in a blue coat ornamented with brass buttons, she had followed the policeman and overheard all that he had said, and seen what he had done.

“I will furnish bail in any amount, O’Brien,” exclaimed Mr. Dunlap, staying the two officers by stepping before them as they almost carried Burton, unable to walk, from the room.

“Please stand aside, Mr. Dunlap,” said the Chief kindly.

“Don’t make it harder than it is now for me to do my duty,” and gently pushing the old gentleman aside, O’Brien and his assistant bore Burton from the library and the Dunlap mansion.

“Help me, quick! Lucy has fainted!” called Jack, who, crippled as he was, could not raise the unconscious wife of Burton.

When Mr. Dunlap reached Jack’s bending figure, Lucy opened her eyes, gazed about wildly for an instant, gasped for breath as if suffocating, and suddenly sprang unassisted to her feet, as if shot upward by some hidden mechanism.

“Walter! My husband! Where is he? Where is grandfather? What has happened?” she cried out, in a confused way, as one just aroused from a sound sleep.

Jack and Mr. Dunlap stared at her for a moment in wonderment; then something in her eyes gave them the gladsome tidings, in this their hour of greatest trouble, that reason had resumed its sway over loved Lucy’s mind; she was restored to sanity. The shock had been to her heart and restored her senses, as a similar shock had deprived her of them. The experts had predicted correctly.

“Walter is in trouble, danger. I heard that policeman say murder! Save my husband, Jack! Uncle John! Where is my grandfather?”

Jack finally gathered enough of his scattered composure to reply somehow to the excited young woman. He said all that he dared say so soon after the return of reason to her distracted head.

“Be calm, Cousin Lucy! Your grandfather is absent from the city. You have been ill. Your Uncle John and I will do all in our power to aid Walter if he be in danger.”

She turned her eyes toward her Uncle John and regarded him steadily for the space of a minute, and then she whirled about and faced Jack, crying out in clear and ringing tones,

“I will not trust Uncle John. He dislikes Walter and always has, but you! you, Jack Dunlap, I trust next to my God and my good grandfather. Will you promise to aid Walter?”

“I promise, Lucy. Now be calm,” said Jack gently.

There was no madness now in Lucy’s bright, gleaming, hazel eyes; womanly anxiety as a wife was superb in its earnestness. She was grand, sublime as with the majestic grace of a queen of tragedy she swept close to her cousin, then raising herself to her greatest height, with her hand extended upward, pointing to heaven, she commanded as a sovereign might have done.

“Swear to me, Jack Dunlap, by God above us and your sacred honor, that you will stop at nothing in the effort to save my husband. Swear!”

“I swear,” said the sailor simply as he raised his hand.

The woman’s manner, speech, and the scene did not seem strange to those who stood about her. She was suddenly aroused to reason to find the object of her tenderest love in direst danger; her stay, prop and reliance, her grandfather, unaccountably absent. In that trying stress of circumstances, the intensity of the feeling within her wrought-up soul found expression in excessive demands and exaggerated attitudes.

“Now go! my Jack; hurry after Walter and help him,” she urged as with nervous hands she pushed him toward the door.

Next morning, when the newspapers made the startling announcement that a member of the firm of J. Dunlap, Boston’s oldest and wealthiest business house, had been arrested on the charge of that nameless crime and the murder of the Malloy girl, the entire city was stunned by the intelligence.

A crowd quickly gathered around the city jail. Threatful mutterings were heard as the multitude increased in numbers about the prison. When Malloy came and his neighbors clustered about the infuriated father of the outraged victim, that slow and slumbering wrath that lies beneath the calm, deceptive surface of the New England character began to make itself evident. “Tear down the gates!” “Lynch the fiend,” and such expressions were heard among the men, momentarily growing louder, as the cool exterior of the Northern nature gave away.

Soon many seafaring men were seen moving among the most excited of the mob, saying as they passed from one group to another, “It’s not true! You know the Dunlaps too well!” “Keep quiet, it’s a lie!” “Dunlap offered a reward for the arrest of the villain; it can’t be as the papers say!”

One sailor-man, who carried a crippled arm, mounted a box and made a speech, telling the people there must be a mistake and begging them to be quiet. When he said that his name was Dunlap, the seafaring men began to cheer for “Skipper Jack,” and the mob joined in. Seeing one of the Dunlap name so calm, honest and brave in their very midst, the mob began to doubt, and shaking their heads the people moved gradually away and dispersed, persuaded that naught connected with the worthy Dunlap name could cause such foul wrong and disgrace to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

The best legal talent of New England was retained that day for the defense of Burton. When they had examined the circumstantial evidence against Burton they frankly told Jack Dunlap that an alibi, positively established, alone could save the accused man.

The unselfish sailor sought the seclusion of his cabin on board his ship, that lay at anchor in the harbor, there to ponder over the terrible information given him by the leading lawyers of Boston.

Uncomplainingly the man had resigned his hope of the greatest joy that could come to his strong, unselfish soul—Lucy’s love. For the sake of her whom he loved he had concealed his suffering. He had smothered the sorrow that well nigh wrenched the heart out of his bosom, that he might minister to her in the hour of her mental affliction. He had shed his blood in shielding with his breast the man whom she had selected in his stead. All this he had done as ungrudgingly and gladly as he had tended her slightest bidding when as wee maid she had ruled him.

Love demanded of this great heart the final and culminating sacrifice. Could he, would he offer up his honor on the altar of his love?

To this knight by right of nature, honor and truth were dearer far than his blood or his life. Would he surrender the one prize he cherished highest for his hopeless love’s sake?

“I will swear that you were aboard my ship with me every hour of the night on which the crime of which you stand accused was committed. An absolute alibi alone can save you. May God forgive you! May God forgive me! and may the people of Massachusetts pardon

Perjured Jack Dunlap.”

Such was the letter sent by the sailor, by well paid and trusty hand, to the successful suitor for Lucy’s hand, now closely mewed within the prison walls of Boston’s strongest jail.

Could any man’s love be greater than the love of him who sent that letter?

XX

The court room was crowded, not only by the casual visitors to such places, who are ever in search of satisfaction to their morbid curiosity, but also by the most fashionable of Boston’s elite society.

The preliminary examination in the case of the Commonwealth vs. Walter Burton was on the docket for hearing that day.

Nearly a month had elapsed since the arrest; all that an unlimited amount of money could accomplish had been done to ameliorate the terrible position of the prisoner. More than a million dollars was offered in bail for the accused, and it was hoped that by a preliminary examination such a strong probability of the establishment of an alibi could be presented, that the Court would make an order permitting the acceptance of bail for the appearance of the accused after the report of the Grand Jury.

Neither old John Dunlap nor Burton’s wife was present. Jack had insisted that they must not be in the court-room when he was called upon to give his evidence.

Lieutenant Thomas Maxon, bronzed, stalwart, and serious, sat beside his friend Jack Dunlap among the witnesses for the defense.

With a face of ghastly white, Jack Dunlap, his arm still in a sling, stared straight before him, heedless of the stir and flutter around him while the audience was waiting the appearance of the judge and the accused.

There was a look of desperate resolve and defiance on Burton’s face as he entered the court-room between two officers and took his seat at the counsel table behind the lawyers who appeared for the defense.

The prosecuting attorney proceeded, when the case was called, to present the case for the Commonwealth with the coldness and emotionless precision that marks the movements of an expert surgeon as he digs and cuts among the vitals of a subject on the operating table.

Chapman was much embarrassed and very nervous on the witness stand; his testimony was fairly dragged from his livid, unwilling lips; he interjected every doubt and possible suspicion that might weigh against his evidence and weaken the case of the Commonwealth. When he left the stand he staggered like one intoxicated as he walked back to his seat among the witnesses.

When the case of the people was closed, the leading counsel for the defense, one most learned in the law, arose and, making a few well-chosen introductory remarks, turned to a bailiff and said,

“Call Captain John Dunlap.”

For the first time in his life Jack Dunlap seemed afraid to look men in the eyes. Neither glancing right nor left, he strode with a determined air to the witness stand and took his seat. His face wore the hue of death. His jaws were so clamped together that they seemed to crush his teeth between them.

They asked his name, age and occupation and then his whereabout on the night of the crime for which the prisoner stood accused.

The witness made answer briefly to each of these questions without removing his gaze from the wall above the heads of the audience, and seemed collecting himself for an ordeal yet to come.

“Who was with you on board your ship, the ‘Adams,’ that night?” was the next question of the lawyer for the defense.

“Stop! Do not answer, Jack!” came in clear, commanding tones from the mouth of the prisoner as he sprang to his feet. His lawyers about him tried to pull him down into his chair, but he struggled and shook himself free and stood where all could see him.

Burton looked around him defiantly at the assembled crowd in the court-room, holding up his hand with palm turned toward Jack, in protest against his giving answer to the last question. Then, throwing back his head, he said in a loud and steady voice,

“I must and do protest against this further sacrifice in my behalf on the part of that noble, generous, grand man on the stand. Already he has far exceeded the belief of the most credulous in sacrificing himself for those whom he loves. That I may prevent this last and grandest offering, the honor of that brave man, I tell you all that I am guilty of the crime as charged, and further, I hurl into your teeth the fact that by your accursed affectation of social equality between the White and Negro races, which can never exist, you are responsible in part for my crime, and you are wholly answerable for much agony to the most innocent and blameless of mortals on earth. Your canting, maudlin, sentimental cry of social intercourse between the races has caused wrong, suffering, sorrow, crime, and now causes my death.”

As Burton ceased speaking he swiftly threw a powder between his lips and quickly swallowed it.

The audience, judge, lawyers, bailiffs, all sat still, chained in a trance of astonishment as the accused man uttered this unexpected phillipic against a sometime tradition of New England, and likewise pronounced his guilt by this open and voluntary confession.

None seemed to realize that the prisoner’s speech was also his valedictory to life, until they saw him reel, and, ere the nearest man could reach him, fall, face downward, upon the court-room floor, dead.

Like the last ray of the setting sun, Burton’s expiring speech and deed had been the parting gleam of the nobility begotten by the blood of the superior race within his veins, and reflected on the bright surface of the civilization and culture of the white race. The predominance of animalism in the negro nature precludes the possibility of suicide in even the extremest cases of conscious debasement. Suicide is almost unknown among the negro race.

* * * * *

“Chapman found dead at his desk in the office! My God! What more must I bear in my old age! Oh! God, have mercy upon an old man!”