Part 8

It was the crisis of the trial. It was the crucial moment. It was the crossroads, whence one path led to freedom and the other ran darkly away to shame and death. Molineux knew it. Osborne knew it. They eyed each other like men who are to meet in the death struggle. The Assistant District Attorney was evidently nervous. He moistened his lips with ice water and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he threw one leg across the table in his free and easy way and leaned forward. Having failed by direct questions to tangle the little prisoner in the net, he attacked him indirectly—and not very chivalrously—by dragging in the name of that unhappy woman who is now Molineux’s wife. Of course, from the viewpoint of a prosecuting officer, all is fair in law. It is fair to help a witness, fair to throw mud at a woman—even though she is outside the case and aloof—but it is not always wise. In a low voice he began questioning the prisoner.

“Did Barnet pay any attention to your wife?” he asked.

Molineux’s face hardened. He brought his jaws together; a glimmer like that of steel leaped into his misty eyes; but that was all. He answered the question quietly enough, but it was evident that the introduction of his wife’s name touched him on the raw. All that was chivalrous in him came to the surface. And in spite of the fact that he was rusted in prison for four years, there is still a deal of chivalry in him.

He admitted that Barnet had paid many attentions to Miss Cheeseborough in the days before he and she had become betrothed. It was another indirect way of getting Barnet into the case and of insinuating a motive for murder.

“Did you give your wife an engagement ring?” the Assistant District Attorney asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I should like to explain that, Mr. Osborne.”

“I am not trying to entrap you, Mr. Molineux,” said the prosecutor, sweetly, “but suppose you answer my question. Wasn’t that ring bought November 18, 1898—one week after Barnet died?”

“There were two rings,” said Molineux.

Then he told the story of the ring. It was a strange romance to listen to in the stifling home of crime. It was like a lily blooming in a pesthouse. As Molineux told it his voice softened into wonderful tenderness. He did not look at Osborne. He did not seem to see the jury or the crowded, morbid court-room. He was living again the days of love.

“There were two rings,” he repeated. “One was a mizpah ring—like this one,” and he drew the ring from his finger. “My mother gave this ring to me long ago. I have always worn it. Miss Cheeseborough admired it, and I gave her one like it for a Christmas present. Then, when we became engaged, she said that should be her engagement ring—she would have no other. But when we came to arrange for our wedding she decided that the mizpah ring should be our wedding ring. It was sentiment,” he added; “it was her wish. And so I bought the second ring, of which Mr. Osborne has just spoken.”

All this was said very simply. There was, however, such pathos in the voice, so fine a sincerity in the face, that the effect upon the jury and upon the audience was extraordinary. It was the first time that Molineux had shown his heart—he held it out for the Assistant District Attorney to peck at. And there was a pause. Mr. Osborne fumbled his papers and hesitated. Then he asked a few unimportant questions, which did not mask his defeat. Abruptly he sat down. The famous duel had been fought and lost. Molineux had outpointed him at every turn. For a while the Mad Mullah of the District Attorney’s office sulked, refusing comfort. In vain Jerome hugged him round the neck and patted his shoulder.

It has lasted fifteen minutes. In that time the case was virtually tried. Osborne’s last attack was not his best. The Apache who goes out for a scalp should not loiter by the way to throw stones at a woman. So far from helping his case by bringing in Mrs. Molineux, he hurt it.

Osborne’s attack upon the prisoner’s wife paved the way for his most telling defeat. It opened the door for Molineux. It permitted him to recount the romance of the ring. It gave him an opportunity to show that there was more in him than a keen and wary brain—that there was a heart. And that went home to the jury. All the world loves love, and a juryman is like the rest of us—part of the world.

He gave Molineux his opportunity, for the man who defends a woman is always in the right.

And he used it superbly. There were no heroics. There was only the story of the ring. There was only romance. There was only a hint of true love and an old love story. That was all, but it turned the truculent prosecutor’s attack into utter defeat. Osborne knew it. Molineux knew it. The great cross-examiner’s promised flaying of Molineux had miscarried. Had Osborne been retained for the defence he could have done no more for the pallid little prisoner. He flung himself into his chair and sat there, gulping ice water, mopping his red face.

The prisoner kept his seat in the witness chair.

Governor Black arose. His hands in his pockets, a smile on his face, he looked at his client.

“I have no questions to ask,” he said cheerfully. “That is all, Mr. Molineux.”

The prisoner went back to his accustomed place. The old father got him by the hand. They laughed softly as they gripped hands. The little prisoner was years younger than he was two days ago. His eyes looked human and bright. At last he could see the sunlight shining. He and hope were together again. His lawyers shook his hand again and again. The old General whispered to him, proud and happy. It was as though the case was already won.

And it all happened in fifteen minutes—in ten minutes—in five minutes—while Molineux was telling the story of the ring.

A better witness never took the stand. Unguided, without a single interruption from his counsel, he foiled the great Apache of the prosecution at every turn. If he did not win his case, it is because the case is past winning. He won, at all events, the sympathy of the swarming spectators. He impressed, in any case, the wearied jurors.

Again it was rapier first and bludgeon second.