Part 9

In common with everyone in the court-room, save Ilingsworth and his daughter, Leslie had expected just such an ending. All through the trial she had longed for the words that would relieve her from the thraldom of uncertainty in which she was held; yet when the foreman had pronounced the verdict it had shocked her inexpressibly, left her indescribably sad. For some moments she had struggled to regain her composure, and fearful of a break-down, she had fled, but not in time to escape seeing Ilingsworth slump down into his seat with a faint moan. At the door the sound of many voices and exclamations of pity had reached her ears. She halted, and looking back she saw that the commotion was the result of some woman who had fainted. And then it was that she saw, too, the never-to-be-forgotten picture of Elinor Ilingsworth, friendless and helpless, looking hopelessly down upon her father while she endeavoured to soothe him with endearing words. Impulsively Leslie had started back, a vague intention of putting her arms around the girl's neck, of taking possession of her, as it were, and carrying her, who needed care so much, to her own home. But like a flash the futility of such a course had dawned upon her. For the realisation had been borne in upon her that it was her own testimony, more than anyone else's, that had been the means of convicting the girl's father; and that for her to offer words of sympathy to the daughter would be a mockery if not an insult. It was, therefore, with a sigh that Leslie had again retraced her steps, forcing herself to be content with giving the girl a glance of infinite pity.

* * * * *

"Conceding that Leslie's testimony did for him," Wilkinson was now saying to his cronies at his club, gulping down his Scotch, "conceding that, but who set her on--made her testify? It was I who bit into that fellow's heel, and don't you forget that I'm proud of it."

Morehead stared through the cloud of collecting smoke.

"I wish, Patrick," he proceeded to say to Durand, in his own calm way, "that you could have been there for just one reason: I am anxious to know whether my view of the effect of Peter's testimony on the jury is correct."

Patrick Durand waved his hand.

"You ought to know, Colonel."

"Don't you think it had a good effect on 'em, Morehead?" queried his client.

Morehead rose and stretched his legs, and without glancing, even, at Wilkinson, he said bluntly:

"Durand, I watched them closely--each one of the twelve. And, mark my words, if it hadn't been for Leslie, I don't believe one man in the twelve would have believed a word that Peter said."

Wilkinson turned red.

"What the devil do you mean, Morehead?" he roared. "Is this an insult?"

Morehead never flinched.

"Sit down, Wilkinson," he commanded curtly. "I'm talking to Mr. Durand. What do you think, Patrick?"

Patrick Durand glanced over the rims of his glasses at the ceiling.

"Representative men, were they, Colonel?" he asked.

"A good mixture," said the Colonel. "I never saw a better...."

Durand drew a long breath.

"It looks bad--mighty bad, Colonel, for us," he observed calmly.

"What do you mean? How bad for us?" insisted Wilkinson, his face still red with the imputation cast upon him.

Durand looked at him long and searchingly, doubtful whether to take him into their confidence or not. Presently he said:

"It's just this, Brother Wilkinson: If an ordinary jury isn't going to believe a man when he tells the truth, what are they going to do when he deliberately lies?"

"But hang it, man," exploded Wilkinson, "I didn't lie; I told the truth."

"Yes, Wilkinson, you told the truth in this Ilingsworth case, but it's your own case we're thinking about. There'll be a jury in that, too."

"You fellows make me tired," growled Wilkinson. "My case--if it ever comes to trial----"

"Oh, don't you worry about that! It will come to trial, all right," put in Flomerfelt, speaking for the first time, and helping himself to a fresh cigar.

"It won't if my overtures to District Attorney Murgatroyd are accepted," retorted Peter V.

The two eminent counsel lifted up their eyes in mild surprise.

"You don't mean to say you're going to bribe Murgatroyd?" came in chorus.

"Why not?"

"You've got enough indictments against you already, Peter," they warned him, "without having Murgatroyd charge you with an attempt to bribe."

"No, indeed, you can't bribe Murgatroyd," spoke up Flomerfelt, with a knowing smile. "Though I'll tell you what, Colonel," he went on, "there is a chap who's not above suspicion on that staff."

Morehead winked.

"The hold-over from the last administration?"

"You mean Leech?" gasped Wilkinson.

Flomerfelt nodded.

"It's better to hear you say the name than to say it ourselves, Peter," remarked Morehead.

"Why, then the case needn't come to trial!" exclaimed Peter V., joyously. "We can get at Leech."

"Not in a hundred years!" ejaculated Flomerfelt. "Murgatroyd stands behind these indictments in your case, don't you forget that. And even if Leech tries them, Murgatroyd will be there to see.... The Assistant District Attorney won't be able to move out of the beaten track. Your case will come to trial, never fear."

"Well, then, let it come," grunted Wilkinson, a little ruffled by the demeanour of Flomerfelt and his counsel. "But by that time this man Ilingsworth will be dead; we'll shove everything on him."

"I don't believe Ilingsworth will be dead," remarked Morehead. "Indeed I do not."

"Well, even if he isn't," retorted Wilkinson, huskily, "he's wholly discredited. A man who'll murder may commit other crimes; the jury will believe anything of Ilingsworth by the time we're through with him."

Morehead held up his hand.

"Durand and I have gone over this whole thing; have looked up every man on Flomerfelt's list; they won't stick to us, that's all. Wilkinson, your crowd are down on you. And what's more, the _Morning Mail_ now stands behind Ilingsworth, and they're going to stick by him. So if we make this attempt to unload iniquity on Ilingsworth and fail, we'll do two things we don't want to do: One is, we'll make the dangerous admission that there has been iniquity; and the other, psychological problem as it is, is quite as much to be feared----"

"Fire ahead," interrupted Wilkinson.

"I'm banking on Beekman--banking on his personality with his jury, and I don't want the ghost of a doubt to show in his face. That's why I sent him to Europe. Of course we need the evidence he's getting over there--it's good stuff. But I sent him now in order that he shouldn't even read, save in a casual way, this story of Ilingsworth. A true story is a mighty bad story, Peter. So we'll cut Ilingsworth out of this case. If the People produce him--and I'm satisfied they won't--why we'll try to get him on the cross-examination. Durand and I have talked it all over, and our game is going to be a game of denial from start to finish. I doubt whether the People make out the case against you. If they don't we've got 'em nailed. And if the judge sends the case to the jury, we'll deny everything the People put up against us. But it's a lucky thing for you that they'll believe your daughter Leslie."

"It's a pity, Wilkinson," said Flomerfelt, with something like a sneer, "that while you were about it, you didn't swing this thing in a more careful way. Of course it's too late now. You bit off more than you could chew that time! You thought you could get away with the goods--got careless! I've seen many a safecracker do the same thing."

Wilkinson flushed.

"Do you mean to compare me with----" he began; but Flomerfelt left the question unanswered.

"This is no Sunday-school picnic, and you may as well understand it now, Peter," said Morehead. "We've got to work for our living in this case, and you've got to do your share, have got to understand that it's a running fight from now on to the end."

"I'll do my part," Wilkinson assured them, burying his hands in his pockets. "But I want you to find out who the judge is going to be, and when the time comes, give me the names of the jury, and I'll get at them all right."

Colonel Morehead rose to his lanky height and clutched the shoulder of his opulent client.

"Wilkinson," he cried, shaking a lean hand in the other's face, "you don't know what you're talking about! And you might as well make up your mind now that you can't touch Murgatroyd, and you can't touch the Court. And Murgatroyd is there to see that you don't touch the jury. We--Durand and I--have got charge of this thing. You keep your hands off...."

"But you're going to pull me out, aren't you?"

" ... In our own way. So far I've always had my own way in my cases," declared Patrick Durand, "and if I can't have it in this one, why, I'll retire, that's all."

"Yes, you must do as they say, Peter V." advised Flomerfelt, suavely, and then lowering his voice so that the others should not hear, he added: "If in the course of human events it should become necessary to lay a bribe in order to get you clear, I'll attend to that myself."

XI

"Guilty, your Honour."

The voice was the tremulous voice of the foreman of a jury. His hand shook as it held the slip of paper from which he read the portentous words.

The Court leaned over toward him.

"I didn't catch that," said the Court.

Once more the foreman drew himself together, and moistened his lips before he repeated in shrill tones:

"Guilty, your Honour--guilty as charged in the indictment."

For a brief moment there was a silence; then the spacious court-room broke into subdued uproar.

"Jumpin' Jerusalem, I didn't think they'd have the nerve to do it!" came from a voice somewhere in the crowd; and judging from the expression on the faces of the people, this remark was fairly indicative of their opinion.

The Court rapped for silence, and nodded to Beekman, the active counsel for the defence.

"If the Court please," began Beekman, his face pale, and his voice trembling with surprise and disappointment, "we move to set aside the verdict and for a new trial on the ground that the verdict is against the weight of evidence, against the charge of the Court, contrary to...."

A heavy hand was laid upon Beekman's arm.

"Hold on there! I want that jury polled!" The speaker of these words was Peter V. Wilkinson; for this trial was his trial; and this verdict was the verdict in his case. "Morehead, get 'em to poll that jury!" Again he spoke as one accustomed to command, and not as a prisoner before the bar.

"Poll the jury," directed the Court.

The clerk started to obey.

"Now, Morehead," went on Wilkinson in a hoarse whisper, "I want you to place in my hands--my hands, you understand--the name and address of every mother's son upon that jury. I won't forget 'em, let me tell you that."

"John T. Wyatt," droned the clerk.

And Wyatt, juror, stiffened for an instant, hesitated, and then taking a big grip on himself, answered as his foreman had: "Guilty." Every man in the box made the same answer; but as every man voiced his verdict, he met the sullen, defiant, vengeful gaze of a man who never forgot, who never forgave, and each man felt that instant as if, somehow, he were in the tightening grasp of the big millionaire at the counsel table.

"Now make your motions, Beekman," whispered Morehead.

And Beekman made a motion to set aside the verdict; made a motion in arrest of judgment; made a motion for a new trial.

Wilkinson watched the face of the Court as he had watched the faces of the jurymen.

"This is Gilchrist's chance to square himself, Morehead," he announced huskily. "He's got to give us a new trial, or we'll know the reason why."

But Judge Gilchrist merely swept the court-room with a weary glance.

"Motion denied," he said briefly, and with as much concern as if he brushed away a fly. He now turned to the jury. "Gentlemen," he went on gratefully, "you are discharged for the balance of the week--after this long, protracted trial--with the thanks of the Court, for the fairness, justice and impartiality of your verdict. Good-day, gentlemen."

"Wha--what!" gasped Wilkinson in a voice that could be heard all over the court-room. "Does he mean to say that this verdict is just--does he, Morehead?"

Colonel Morehead frowned with vexation.

"Keep quiet, Wilkinson," was all he said.

The Court waited until the jury had filed out, watching them as they went. Then his glance returned to the coterie of counsel at the table.

"Counsellor," he remarked to Beekman, "what day will be most convenient to you for sentence? And you, Mr. Leech?"

Up to this time Leslie, who had been sitting at the counsel table with her father, had listened in a sort of daze to the proceedings of the court. She had heard all the testimony, understanding it as best she could, and had gathered from her father's manner and that of his counsel, particularly Beekman's, that the whole thing was a mere matter of form, from which her father would come out unscathed and unscarred. The verdict had simply added to this vagueness; but when the Court had pronounced the significant and ugly word 'sentence,' it brought her up, as it were, all standing; and half-rising from her seat she held out her hand in an imploring gesture.

"Sentence?" she cried out in her excitement. "No, he can't mean that...."

There was a titter from the women on the benches; it brought Leslie to her senses, and flushing and confused she sank back and covered her face with her hands.

"Leslie, brace up!" said Beekman, leaning over her, his voice showing his deep emotion. "It will come out all right. We'll win out on appeal."

Flomerfelt stepped to the fore and plucked Beekman by the sleeve.

"Let me have a word with you," he requested, whispering something in his ear.

Beekman at once addressed the Court.

"If your Honour please," he began, "may we have a brief consultation among counsel before we ask your Honour to set a day?"

"Certainly," agreed the Court, "you may step into the ante-room."

Six counsel and Flomerfelt and Wilkinson--eight in all--filed into the ante-room.

"Shut that door, Eliot," said Morehead. "Now, Flomerfelt, what's your idea?"

* * * * *

Out in the court-room J. Newton Leech, who had prosecuted for the People, left the side of Murgatroyd and went over to Leslie to offer his sympathy.

"Miss Wilkinson, this has been pretty hard on you."

"I don't understand it at all," the girl answered, turning her pale, tired face to his.

"I wouldn't worry," he went on, with something more than mere professional courtesy in his eyes.

And indeed Leech spoke truly when he said that the trial had been most distressing to Leslie. It had been doubly so, perhaps, because of the lack of the usual dramatic features. Forgery, perjury, larceny, ominous charges to be sure, had figured in the case, but their proof consisted in large account books, private memoranda, original reports from the State banking offices, notes, stock transfers, in fact, everything to weary and little to excite.

District Attorney Murgatroyd, like the accusing ghost of Hamlet's father, had stalked silent, brooding, imperturbable, behind his assistant, Leech, dictating nothing openly, but seeing, knowing that no stone was left unturned. For the first two days of the trial the People apparently had made but little inroads upon the integrity of Peter V. Wilkinson; but at the end of that time, some new and powerful influence had made itself felt: shrewd accountants entered the court-room and sat at the Assistant District Attorney's elbow; a financier or two kept at Murgatroyd's side; absolutely unassailable witnesses took the stand.

It was about this time that Morehead had nudged Durand and whispered:

"The _Morning Mail_ and Ougheltree of the National Banks are at work. Here's where our trouble begins."

But although these two practitioners well knew, even at that early stage of the game, that the chances weighed heavily against them, not once did they flinch, not once did they permit the set expression of confidence to leave their faces. On the contrary, they turned to their leader and said:

"Beekman, the jury isn't even nibbling at this stuff. We've got a walk-over."

But Beekman could not bring himself to their point of view. With growing fear he listened to the evidence of the People as it piled up against his client. Nevertheless, Beekman had--just the thing that Morehead had said he had--an unaltering faith in Wilkinson. He was partisan to the last degree. And so quite naturally his intellect rejected the proofs of the People. Not that he did not appreciate their weight, but rather that he didn't believe their truth.

And what a fight he had put up for his client! To this day Beekman's summing up is remembered.

"We didn't make any mistake in getting him," Morehead had told Durand after the address to the jury.

Even Murgatroyd had been moved to admiration by his closing arguments, turning black into white, as he did, because it looked white to him, and the District Attorney had said to his Assistant:

"Leech, you couldn't do that in a thousand years--not the way he does it. And if it were not for public opinion, it is pretty certain that Beekman would get an acquittal from this jury. As it is...."

And not for one moment had Murgatroyd felt that the case was safe until the foreman's tremulous tones had quavered forth upon the heavy air of Sessions.

* * * * *

During the first few minutes of the time that was passed in the ante-room behind closed doors, Beekman's face wore an air of profound dejection. Instead of joining, as was to be expected, in an animated discussion that the others were having, he had taken a seat by himself, and was reproaching himself with dereliction of duty. Imagine, then, his astonishment when presently the little coterie gathered about him and began to laud him for his good work.

"You're a wonder, youngster!" they told him. "And you may consider yourself engaged again right now, if we get a new trial."

"But they beat me! I failed!" replied Beekman, a look of bewilderment on his face. For he had expected reproaches, and here was genuine applause as for a winner instead of for a loser.

"Thought you were going to get me out of this?" growled Wilkinson, staring about him; for he knew that these men in some way were responsible for his losing his case.

"We are," returned Durand, grimly; but his eyes flashed a wireless message to the eyes of Colonel Morehead. And this wireless message ran about like this: "We are going to get him out of this ... but how?"

Colonel Morehead's glance travelled quickly around the room in a comprehensive way; then settled upon Wilkinson, and he said:

"Gentlemen, I think Peter V. had better be sentenced now."

"Now! Thunder and guns, not now! Give me another chance to get at the Court, or at Murgatroyd. I need time--put it off as long as possible," Wilkinson said, the tremour in his voice only half concealed.

"Time is dangerous," declared Morehead, with a shake of the head. "We don't want public opinion nor the _Morning Mail_ to get to work. The public--except your own depositors--didn't believe that you were going to be convicted; they believed you to be only technically guilty. But give the populace two days to consider the fact that you've been convicted--convicted of forgery--I don't say you're guilty, Wilkinson--and let the _Morning Mail_ hammer that in for a week, the Judge is bound to feel the force of this public opinion. It's the one thing from which no public officer can escape."

"Let Gilchrist sentence now, and you'll get off with a fine," interposed Flomerfelt; "that was my suggestion."

"That's the whole idea," said Patrick Durand. "The less delay there is, the lighter it will be."

* * * * *

Meanwhile Assistant District Attorney Leech had been moderately successful in his attempt to soothe Leslie. His manner and his words, "I wouldn't worry," had seemed a guarantee to her that her troubles were about to vanish. She began to reason that nothing could happen to her father. Nothing ever did happen to respectable men like him--big men, rich men. And so she watched with increasing confidence the eight men file back into the court-room.

"If the Court please," Beekman was saying gravely, at her side, "instead of fixing a future day for sentence, we suggest that the Court pronounce its sentence now."

The suggestion fell like a bomb-shell in the midst of the crowd. Even District Attorney Murgatroyd rose to his feet in surprise.

"I see no reason," he began, and then remembering that he was not trying the case, he nodded to his assistant; Leech took the cue and pressed to the fore.

"This is an important case, your Honour," he contended, "and one that demands deliberation. It seems to me that it would be preferable to defer sentence until--say, Thursday of next week."

The Court quickly waved Leech back to his seat and addressed himself to the prisoner.

"What does the defendant say? Are you ready for sentence now?"

"I am," said Wilkinson, and rising at Morehead's nudge he stood glaring at the Court. Beekman was at his side, and extended his hand, saying:

"Before sentence is pronounced, if your Honour please, I should like to say a word or two on behalf of the defendant."

The Court likewise waved him back.

"I heard all you told the jury," remarked Judge Gilchrist, somewhat sharply. "You exhausted the subject, there's nothing left to say. I have the floor."

There was a pause during which the Court slowly took off his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief and put them on again.

"This is an unusual case," he began, looking sternly at the defendant.

Back on the benches the crowd leaned forward eagerly.

"What will he give him?" asked someone.

On the rear seat, Burns of the Ideal Dairy, who never missed a big trial, turned to his friend Porteous, the Park Row hardware man, and remarked:

"I'll bet you another fifty, Billy, that he fines him a cold million dollars--that or more."

The hardware man only laughed.

"Done," he answered. "Judge Gilchrist wouldn't dare to fine him over fifty thousand dollars--and----"

"Hush!" whispered Burns. "He's speaking now."

" ... confined for ten years in State's Prison at hard labour," concluded the Court.

The people looked at one another aghast; but Murgatroyd smiled a smile of complete satisfaction. As for Leslie, she turned a startled, half-reproachful glance at the Assistant District Attorney, and then her face went white and her head sank slowly down upon her arm that lay upon the table. Unconsciously Beekman rested his hand lightly upon her shoulder, and although the court-room seemed whirling about his head, he presently found himself counting the heart throbs that shook her frame. At the table Wilkinson's counsel exchanged glances, only Morehead and Durand apparently retaining their self-possession, and proceeded to gather their papers together, and scoop them into capacious leather bags, shutting the bags loudly with a snap.

Wilkinson's face was scarlet, his eyes flashing fire. From the instant of the rendition of the jury's verdict he had been a spluttering volcano of righteous indignation; but now, as he glared at the Court, he was searching in his mind for some torture, some vengeance fitting for a judge who dared....

"Do you mean to tell me, Gilchrist," he shouted so that all might hear, and advancing toward him, "that you've got the nerve to----"

The Court rapped for order.

"Clear the court-room!" he ordered; and turning to Beekman he added: "Counsellor, your client is beside himself. Take charge of him, or I'll have somebody do it for you."