This etext was prepared by Charles Keller.
WITHIN THE LAW
BY
MARVIN DANA
FROM THE PLAY OF
BAYARD VEILLER
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. The Panel of Light
II. A Cheerful Prodigal
III. Only Three Years
IV. Kisses and Kleptomania
V. The Victim of the Law
VI. Inferno
VII. Within the Law
VIII. A Tip from Headquarters
X. A Legal Document
X. Marked Money
XI. The Thief
XII. A Bridegroom Spurned
XIII. The Advent of Griggs
XIV. A Wedding Announcement
XV. Aftermath of Tragedy
XVI. Burke Plots
XVII. Outside the Law
XVIII. The Noiseless Death
XIX. Within the Toils
XX. Who Shot Griggs?
XXI. Aggie at Bay
XXII. The Trap That Failed
XXIII. The Confession
XXIV. Anguish and Bliss
CHAPTER I. THE PANEL OF LIGHT
The lids of the girl's eyes lifted slowly, and she stared at the
panel of light in the wall. Just at the outset, the act of
seeing made not the least impression on her numbed brain. For a
long time she continued to regard the dim illumination in the
wall with the same passive fixity of gaze. Apathy still lay upon
her crushed spirit. In a vague way, she realized her own
inertness, and rested in it gratefully, subtly fearful lest she
again arouse to the full horror of her plight. In a curious
subconscious fashion, she was striving to hold on to this
deadness of sensation, thus to win a little respite from the
torture that had exhausted her soul.
Of a sudden, her eyes noted the black lines that lay across the
panel of light. And, in that instant, her spirit was quickened
once again. The clouds lifted from her brain. Vision was clear
now. Understanding seized the full import of this hideous thing
on which she looked.... For the panel of light was a window, set
high within a wall of stone. The rigid lines of black that
crossed it were bars - prison bars. It was still true, then: She
was in a cell of the Tombs.
The girl, crouching miserably on the narrow bed, maintained her
fixed watching of the window - that window which was a symbol of
her utter despair. Again, agony wrenched within her. She did
not weep: long ago she had exhausted the relief of tears. She
did not pace to and fro in the comfort of physical movement with
which the caged beast finds a mocking imitation of liberty: long
ago, her physical vigors had been drained under stress of
anguish. Now, she was well-nigh incapable of any bodily
activity. There came not even so much as the feeblest moan from
her lips. The torment was far too racking for such futile
fashion of lamentation. She merely sat there in a posture of
collapse. To all outward seeming, nerveless, emotionless, an
abject creature. Even the eyes, which held so fixedly their gaze
on the window, were quite expressionless. Over them lay a film,
like that which veils the eyes of some dead thing. Only an
occasional languid motion of the lids revealed the life that
remained.
So still the body. Within the soul, fury raged uncontrolled.
For all the desolate calm of outer seeming, the tragedy of her
fate was being acted with frightful vividness there in memory.
In that dreadful remembrance, her spirit was rent asunder anew by
realization of that which had become her portion.... It was then,
as once again the horrible injustice of her fate racked
consciousness with its tortures, that the seeds of revolt were
implanted in her heart. The thought of revenge gave to her the
first meager gleam of comfort that had lightened her moods
through many miserable days and nights. Those seeds of revolt
were to be nourished well, were to grow into their flower - a
poison flower, developed through the three years of convict life
to which the judge had sentenced her.
The girl was appalled by the mercilessness of a destiny that had
so outraged right. She was wholly innocent of having done any
wrong. She had struggled through years of privation to keep
herself clean and wholesome, worthy of those gentlefolk from whom
she drew her blood. And earnest effort had ended at last under
an overwhelming accusation - false, yet none the less fatal to
her. This accusation, after soul-wearying delays, had culminated
to-day in conviction. The sentence of the court had been imposed
upon her: that for three years she should be imprisoned.... This,
despite her innocence. She had endured much - miserably
much! - for honesty's sake. There wrought the irony of fate. She
had endured bravely for honesty's sake. And the end of it all
was shame unutterable. There was nought left her save a wild
dream of revenge against the world that had martyrized her.
"Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord."... The
admonition could not touch her now. Why should she care for the
decrees of a God who had abandoned her!
There had been nothing in the life of Mary Turner, before the
catastrophe came, to distinguish it from many another. Its most
significant details were of a sordid kind, familiar to poverty.
Her father had been an unsuccessful man, as success is esteemed
by this generation of Mammon-worshipers. He was a gentleman, but
the trivial fact is of small avail to-day. He was of good birth,
and he was the possessor of an inherited competence. He had, as
well, intelligence, but it was not of a financial sort.
So, little by little, his fortune became shrunken toward
nothingness, by reason of injudicious investments. He married a
charming woman, who, after a brief period of wedded happiness,
gave her life to the birth of the single child of the union,
Mary. Afterward, in his distress over this loss, Ray Turner
seemed even more incompetent for the management of business
affairs. As the years passed, the daughter grew toward maturity
in an experience of ever-increasing penury. Nevertheless, there
was no actual want of the necessities of life, though always a
woful lack of its elegancies. The girl was in the high-school,
when her father finally gave over his rather feeble effort of
living. Between parent and child, the intimacy had been unusually
close. At his death, the father left her a character well
instructed in the excellent principles that had been his own.
That was his sole legacy to her. Of worldly goods, not the value
of a pin.
Yet, measured according to the stern standards of adversity, Mary
was fortunate. Almost at once, she procured a humble employment
in the Emporium, the great department store owned by Edward
Gilder. To be sure, the wage was infinitesimal, while the toil
was body-breaking soul-breaking. Still, the pittance could be
made to sustain life, and Mary was blessed with both soul and
body to sustain much. So she merged herself in the army of
workers - in the vast battalion of those that give their entire
selves to a labor most stern and unremitting, and most ill
rewarded.
Mary, nevertheless, avoided the worst perils of her lot. She did
not flinch under privation, but went her way through it, if not
serenely, at least without ever a thought of yielding to those
temptations that beset a girl who is at once poor and charming.
Fortunately for her, those in closest authority over her were not
so deeply smitten as to make obligatory on her a choice between
complaisance and loss of position. She knew of situations like
that, the cul-de-sac of chastity, worse than any devised by a
Javert. In the store, such things were matters of course. There
is little innocence for the girl in the modern city. There can
be none for the worker thrown into the storm-center of a great
commercial activity, humming with vicious gossip, all alive with
quips from the worldly wise. At the very outset of her
employment, the sixteen-year-old girl learned that she might eke
out the six dollars weekly by trading on her personal
attractiveness to those of the opposite sex. The idea was
repugnant to her; not only from the maidenly instinct of purity,
but also from the moral principles woven into her character by
the teachings of a father wise in most things, though a fool in
finance. Thus, she remained unsmirched, though well informed as
to the verities of life. She preferred purity and penury, rather
than a slight pampering of the body to be bought by its
degradation. Among her fellows were some like herself; others,
unlike. Of her own sort, in this single particular, were the two
girls with whom she shared a cheap room. Their common decency in
attitude toward the other sex was the unique bond of union. In
their association, she found no real companionship. Nevertheless,
they were wholesome enough. Otherwise they were illiterate,
altogether uncongenial.
In such wise, through five dreary years, Mary Turner lived. Nine
hours daily, she stood behind a counter. She spent her other
waking hours in obligatory menial labors: cooking her own scant
meals over the gas; washing and ironing, for the sake of that
neat appearance which was required of her by those in authority
at the Emporium - yet, more especially, necessary for her own
self-respect. With a mind keen and earnest, she contrived some
solace from reading and studying, since the free library gave her
this opportunity. So, though engaged in stultifying occupation
through most of her hours, she was able to find food for mental
growth. Even, in the last year, she had reached a point of
development whereat she began to study seriously her own position
in the world's economy, to meditate on a method of bettering it.
Under this impulse, hope mounted high in her heart. Ambition was
born. By candid comparison of herself with others about her, she
realized the fact that she possessed an intelligence beyond the
average. The training by her father, too, had been of a superior
kind. There was as well, at the back vaguely, the feeling of
particular self-respect that belongs inevitably to the possessor
of good blood. Finally, she demurely enjoyed a modest
appreciation of her own physical advantages. In short, she had
beauty, brains and breeding. Three things of chief importance to
any woman - though there be many minds as to which may be chief
among the three.
I have said nothing specific thus far as to the outer being of
Mary Turner - except as to filmed eyes and a huddled form. But,
in a happier situation, the girl were winning enough. Indeed,
more! She was one of those that possess an harmonious beauty,
with, too, the penetrant charm that springs from the mind, with
the added graces born of the spirit. Just now, as she sat, a
figure of desolation, there on the bed in the Tombs cell, it
would have required a most analytical observer to determine the
actualities of her loveliness. Her form was disguised by the
droop of exhaustion. Her complexion showed the pallor of
sorrowful vigils. Her face was no more than a mask of misery.
Yet, the shrewd observer, if a lover of beauty, might have found
much for delight, even despite the concealment imposed by her
present condition. Thus, the stormy glory of her dark hair,
great masses that ran a riot of shining ripples and waves. And
the straight line of the nose, not too thin, yet fine enough for
the rapture of a Praxiteles. And the pink daintiness of the
ear-tips, which peered warmly from beneath the pall of tresses.
One could know nothing accurately of the complexion now. But it
were easy to guess that in happier places it would show of a
purity to entice, with a gentle blooming of roses in the cheeks.
Even in this hour of unmitigated evil, the lips revealed a
curving beauty of red - not quite crimson, though near enough for
the word; not quite scarlet either; only, a red gently
enchanting, which turned one's thoughts toward tenderness - with a
hint of desire. It was, too, a generous mouth, not too large;
still, happily, not so small as those modeled by Watteau. It was
altogether winsome - more, it was generous and true, desirable for
kisses - yes! - more desirable for strength and for faith.
Like every intelligent woman, Mary had taken the trouble to
reinforce the worth of her physical attractiveness. The instinct
of sex was strong in her, as it must be in every normal woman,
since that appeal is nature's law. She kept herself supple and
svelte by many exercises, at which her companions in the chamber
scoffed, with the prudent warning that more work must mean more
appetite. With arms still aching from the lifting of heavy bolts
of cloth to and fro from the shelves, she nevertheless was at
pains nightly to brush with the appointed two hundred strokes the
thick masses of her hair. Even here, in the sordid desolation of
the cell, the lustrous sheen witnessed the fidelity of her care.
So, in each detail of her, the keen observer might have found
adequate reason for admiration. There was the delicacy of the
hands, with fingers tapering, with nails perfectly shaped,
neither too dull nor too shining. And there were, too, finally,
the trimly shod feet, set rather primly on the floor, small, and
arched like those of a Spanish Infanta. In truth, Mary Turner
showed the possibilities at least, if not just now the realities,
of a very beautiful woman.
Naturally, in this period of grief, the girl's mind had no
concern with such external merits over which once she had
modestly exulted. All her present energies were set to precise
recollection of the ghastly experience into which she had been
thrust.
In its outline, the event had been tragically simple.
There had been thefts in the store. They had been traced
eventually to a certain department, that in which Mary worked.
The detective was alert. Some valuable silks were missed.
Search followed immediately. The goods were found in Mary's
locker. That was enough. She was charged with the theft. She
protested innocence - only to be laughed at in derision by her
accusers. Every thief declares innocence. Mr. Gilder himself was
emphatic against her. The thieving had been long continued. An
example must be made. The girl was arrested.
The crowded condition of the court calendar kept her for three
months in the Tombs, awaiting trial. She was quite friendless.
To the world, she was only a thief in duress. At the last, the
trial was very short. Her lawyer was merely an unfledged
practitioner assigned to her defense as a formality of the court.
This novice in his profession was so grateful for the first
recognition ever afforded him that he rather assisted than
otherwise the District Attorney in the prosecution of the case.
At the end, twelve good men and true rendered a verdict of guilty
against the shuddering girl in the prisoner's dock.
So simple the history of Mary Turner's trial.... The sentence of
the judge was lenient - only three years!
CHAPTER II. A CHEERFUL PRODIGAL.
That which was the supreme tragedy to the broken girl in the cell
merely afforded rather agreeable entertainment to her former
fellows of the department store. Mary Turner throughout her term
of service there had been without real intimates, so that now
none was ready to mourn over her fate. Even the two room-mates
had felt some slight offense, since they sensed the superiority
of her, though vaguely. Now, they found a smug satisfaction in
the fact of her disaster as emphasizing very pleasurably their
own continuance in respectability.
As many a philosopher has observed, we secretly enjoy the
misfortunes of others, particularly of our friends, since they
are closest to us. Most persons hasten to deny this truth in its
application to themselves. They do so either because from lack of
clear understanding they are not quite honest with themselves,
from lack of clear introspection, or because, as may be more
easily believed, they are not quite honest in the assertion. As a
matter of fact, we do find a singular satisfaction in the
troubles of others. Contemplation of such suffering renders more
striking the contrasted well-being of our own lot. We need the
pains of others to serve as background for our joys - just as sin
is essential as the background for any appreciation of virtue,
even any knowledge of its existence.... So now, on the day of
Mary Turner's trial, there was a subtle gaiety of gossipings to
and fro through the store. The girl's plight was like a
shuttlecock driven hither and yon by the battledores of many
tongues. It was the first time in many years that one of the
employees had been thus accused of theft. Shoplifters were so
common as to be a stale topic. There was a refreshing novelty in
this case, where one of themselves was the culprit. Her fellow
workers chatted desultorily of her as they had opportunity, and
complacently thanked their gods that they were not as she - with
reason. Perhaps, a very few were kindly hearted enough to feel a
touch of sympathy for this ruin of a life.
Of such was Smithson, a member of the executive staff, who did
not hesitate to speak his mind, though none too forcibly. As for
that, Smithson, while the possessor of a dignity nourished by
years of floor-walking, was not given to the holding of vigorous
opinions. Yet, his comment, meager as it was, stood wholly in
Mary's favor. And he spoke with a certain authority, since he
had given official attention to the girl.
Smithson stopped Sarah Edwards, Mr. Gilder's private secretary,
as she was passing through one of the departments that morning,
to ask her if the owner had yet reached his office.
"Been and gone," was the secretary's answer, with the terseness
characteristic of her.
"Gone!" Smithson repeated, evidently somewhat disturbed by the
information. "I particularly wanted to see him."
"He'll be back, all right," Sarah vouchsafed, amiably. "He went
down-town, to the Court of General Sessions. The judge sent for
him about the Mary Turner case."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," Smithson exclaimed. Then he added,
with a trace of genuine feeling, "I hope the poor girl gets off.
She was a nice girl - quite the lady, you know, Miss Edwards."
"No, I don't know," Sarah rejoined, a bit tartly. Truth to tell,
the secretary was haunted by a grim suspicion that she herself
was not quite the lady of her dreams, and never would be able to
acquire the graces of the Vere De Vere. For Sarah, while a most
efficient secretary, was not in her person of that slender
elegance which always characterized her favorite heroines in the
novels she affected. On the contrary, she was of a sort to have
gratified Byron, who declared that a woman in her maturity should
be plump. Now, she recalled with a twinge of envy that the
accused girl had been of an aristocratic slimness of form. "Oh,
did you know her?" she questioned, without any real interest.
Smithson answered with that bland stateliness of manner which was
the fruit of floor-walking politeness.
"Well, I couldn't exactly say I knew her, and yet I might say,
after a manner of speaking, that I did - to a certain extent. You
see, they put her in my department when she first came here to
work. She was a good saleswoman, as saleswomen go. For the
matter of that," he added with a sudden access of energy, "she
was the last girl in the world I'd take for a thief." He
displayed some evidences of embarrassment over the honest feeling
into which he had been betrayed, and made haste to recover his
usual business manner, as he continued formally. "Will you
please let me know when Mr. Gilder arrives? There are one or two
little matters I wish to discuss with him."
"All right!" Sarah agreed briskly, and she hurried on toward the
private office.
The secretary was barely seated at her desk when the violent
opening of the door startled her, and, as she looked up, a cheery
voice cried out:
"Hello, Dad!"
At the same moment, a young man entered, with an air of care-free
assurance, his face radiant. But, as his glance went to the
empty arm-chair at the desk, he halted abruptly, and his
expression changed to one of disappointment.
"Not here!" he grumbled. Then, once again the smile was on his
lips as his eyes fell on the secretary, who had now risen to her
feet in a flutter of excitement.
"Why, Mr. Dick!" Sarah gasped.
"Hello, Sadie!" came the genial salutation. The young man
advanced and shook hands with her warmly. "I'm home again.
Where's Dad?"
Even as he asked the question, the quick sobering of his face
bore witness to his disappointment over not finding his father in
the office. For such was the relationship of the owner of the
department store to this new arrival on the scene. And in the
patent chagrin under which the son now labored was to be found a
certain indication of character not to be disregarded. Unlike
many a child, he really loved his father. The death of the
mother years before had left him without other opportunity for
affection in the home, since he had neither brother nor sister.
He loved his father with a depth of feeling that made between the
two a real camaraderie, despite great differences in temperament.
In that simple and sincere regard which he bore for his father,
the boy revealed a heart ready for love, willing to give of
itself its best for the one beloved. Beyond that, as yet, there
was little to be said of him with exactness. He was a spoiled
child of fortune, if you wish to have it so. Certainly, he was
only a drone in the world's hive. Thus far, he had enjoyed the
good things of life, without ever doing aught to deserve them by
contributing in return - save by his smiles and his genial air of
happiness.
In the twenty-three years of his life, every gift that money
could lavish had been his. If the sum total of benefit was
small, at least there remained the consoling fact that the harm
was even less. Luxury had not sapped the strength of him. He
had not grown vicious, as have so many of his fellows among the
sons of the rich. Some instinct held him aloof from the grosser
vices. His were the trifling faults that had their origin
chiefly in the joy of life, which manifest occasionally in
riotous extravagancies, of a sort actually to harm none, however
absurd and useless they may be.
So much one might see by a glance into the face. He was well
groomed, of course; healthy, all a-tingle with vitality. And in
the clear eyes, which avoided no man's gaze, nor sought any
woman's unseemly, there showed a soul untainted, not yet
developed, not yet debased. Through all his days, Dick Gilder had
walked gladly, in the content that springs to the call of one
possessed of a capacity for enjoyment; possessed, too, of every
means for the gratification of desire. As yet, the man of him
was unrevealed in its integrity. No test had been put upon him.
The fires of suffering had not tried the dross of him. What real
worth might lie under this sunny surface the future must
determine. There showed now only this one significant fact:
that, in the first moment of his return from journeyings abroad,
he sought his father with all eagerness, and was sorely grieved
because the meeting must still be delayed. It was a little
thing, perhaps. Yet, it was capable of meaning much concerning
the nature of the lad. It revealed surely a tender heart, one
responsive to a pure love. And to one of his class, there are
many forces ever present to atrophy such simple, wholesome power
of loving. The ability to love cleanly and absolutely is the
supreme virtue.
Sarah explained that Mr. Gilder had been called to the Court of
General Sessions by the judge.
Dick interrupted her with a gust of laughter.
"What's Dad been doing now?" he demanded, his eyes twinkling.
Then, a reminiscent grin shaped itself on his lips. "Remember
the time that fresh cop arrested him for speeding? Wasn't he
wild? I thought he would have the whole police force
discharged." He smiled again. "The trouble is," he declared
sedately, "that sort of thing requires practice. Now, when I'm
arrested for speeding, I'm not in the least flustered - oh, not a
little bit! But poor Dad! That one experience of his almost
soured his whole life. It was near the death of him - also, of
the city's finest."
By this time, the secretary had regained her usual poise, which
had been somewhat disturbed by the irruption of the young man.
Her round face shone delightedly as she regarded him. There was
a maternal note of rebuke in her voice as she spoke:
"Why, we didn't expect you back for two or three months yet."
Once again, Dick laughed, with an infectious gaiety that brought
a smile of response to the secretary's lips.
"Sadie," he explained confidentially, "don't you dare ever to let
the old man know. He would be all swollen up. It's bad to let a
parent swell up. But the truth is, Sadie, I got kind of homesick
for Dad - yes, just that!" He spoke the words with a sort of
shamefaced wonder. It is not easy for an Anglo-Saxon to confess
the realities of affection in vital intimacies. He repeated the
phrase in a curiously appreciative hesitation, as one astounded
by his own emotion. "Yes, homesick for Dad!"
Then, to cover an excess of sincere feeling, he continued, with a
burst of laughter:
"Besides, Sadie, I was broke."
The secretary sniffed.
"The cable would have handled that end of it, I guess," she said,
succinctly.
There was no word of contradiction from Dick, who, from ample
experience, knew that any demand for funds would have received
answer from the father.
"But what is Dad doing in court?" he demanded.
Sarah explained the matter with her usual conciseness:
"One of the girls was arrested for stealing."
The nature of the son was shown then clearly in one of its best
aspects. At once, he exhibited his instinct toward the quality
of mercy, and, too, his trust in the father whom he loved, by his
eager comment.
"And Dad went to court to get her out of the scrape. That's just
like the old man!"
Sarah, however, showed no hint of enthusiasm. Her mind was ever
of the prosaic sort, little prone to flights. In that prosaic
quality, was to be found the explanation of her dependability as
a private secretary. So, now, she merely made a terse statement.
"She was tried to-day, and convicted. The judge sent for Mr.
Gilder to come down this morning and have a talk with him about
the sentence."
There was no lessening of the expression of certainty on the
young man's face. He loved his father, and he trusted where he
loved.
"It will be all right," he declared, in a tone of entire
conviction. "Dad's heart is as big as a barrel. He'll get her
off."
Then, of a sudden, Dick gave a violent start. He added a
convincing groan.
"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, dismally. There was shame in his
voice. "I forgot all about it!"
The secretary regarded him with an expression of amazement.
"All about what?" she questioned.
Dick assumed an air vastly more confidential than at any time
hitherto. He leaned toward the secretary's desk, and spoke with
a new seriousness of manner:
"Sadie, have you any money? I'm broker My taxi' has been waiting
outside all this time."
"Why, yes," the secretary said, cheerfully. "If you will - - "
Dick was discreet enough to turn his attention to a picture on
the wall opposite while Sarah went through those acrobatic
performances obligatory on women who take no chances of losing
money by carrying it in purses.
"There!" she called after a few panting seconds, and exhibited a
flushed face.
Dick turned eagerly and seized the banknote offered him.
"Mighty much obliged, Sadie," he said, enthusiastically. "But I
must run. Otherwise, this wouldn't be enough for the fare!" And,
so saying, he darted out of the room.
CHAPTER III. ONLY THREE YEARS.
When, at last, the owner of the store entered the office, his
face showed extreme irritation. He did not vouchsafe any
greeting to the secretary, who regarded him with an accurate
perception of his mood. With a diplomacy born of long
experience, in her first speech Sarah afforded an agreeable
diversion to her employer's line of thought.
"Mr. Hastings, of the Empire store, called you up, Mr. Gilder,
and asked me to let him know when you returned. Shall I get him
on the wire?"
The man's face lightened instantly, and there was even the
beginning of a smile on his lips as he seated himself at the
great mahogany desk.
"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, with evident enthusiasm. The smile grew
in the short interval before the connection was made. When,
finally, he addressed his friend over the telephone, his tones
were of the cheerfulest.
"Oh, good morning. Yes, certainly. Four will suit me
admirably.... Sunday? Yes, if you like. We can go out after
church, and have luncheon at the country club." After listening
a moment, he laughed in a pleased fashion that had in it a
suggestion of conscious superiority. "My dear fellow," he
declared briskly, "you couldn't beat me in a thousand years.
Why, I made the eighteen holes in ninety-two only last week." He
laughed again at the answer over the wire, then hung up the
receiver and pushed the telephone aside, as he turned his
attention to the papers neatly arranged on the desk ready to his
hand.
The curiosity of the secretary could not be longer delayed.
"What did they do with the Turner girl?" she inquired in an
elaborately casual manner.
Gilder did not look up from the heap of papers, but answered
rather harshly, while once again his expression grew forbidding.
"I don't know - I couldn't wait," he said. He made a petulant
gesture as he went on: "I don't see why Judge Lawlor bothered me
about the matter. He is the one to impose sentence, not I. I am
hours behind with my work now."
For a few minutes he gave himself up to the routine of business,
distributing the correspondence and other various papers for the
action of subordinates, and speaking his orders occasionally to
the attentive secretary with a quickness and precision that
proclaimed the capable executive. The observer would have
realized at once that here was a man obviously fitted to the
control of large affairs. The ability that marches inevitably to
success showed unmistakably in the face and form, and in the
fashion of speech. Edward Gilder was a big man physically,
plainly the possessor of that abundant vital energy which is a
prime requisite for achievement in the ordering of modern
business concerns. Force was, indeed, the dominant quality of
the man. His tall figure was proportionately broad, and he was
heavily fleshed. In fact, the body was too ponderous. Perhaps,
in that characteristic might be found a clue to the chief fault
in his nature. For he was ponderous, spiritually and mentally,
as well as materially. The fact was displayed suggestively in
the face, which was too heavy with its prominent jowls and
aggressive chin and rather bulbous nose. But there was nothing
flabby anywhere. The ample features showed no trace of weakness,
only a rude, abounding strength. There was no lighter touch
anywhere. Evidently a just man according to his own ideas, yet
never one to temper justice with mercy. He appeared, and was, a
very practical and most prosaic business man. He was not given
to a humorous outlook on life. He took it and himself with the
utmost seriousness. He was almost entirely lacking in
imagination, that faculty which is essential to sympathy.
"Take this," he directed presently, when he had disposed of the
matters before him. Forthwith, he dictated the following letter,
and now his voice took on a more unctuous note, as of one who is
appreciative of his own excellent generosity.
"THE EDITOR,
"The New York Herald.
"DEAR SIR: Inclosed please find my check for a thousand dollars
for your free-ice fund. It is going to be a very hard summer for
the poor, and I hope by thus starting the contributions for your
fine charity at this early day that you will be able to
accomplish even more good than usually.
"Very truly yours."
He turned an inquiring glance toward Sarah.
"That's what I usually give, isn't it?"
The secretary nodded energetically.
"Yes," she agreed in her brisk manner, "that's what you have
given every year for the last ten years."
The statement impressed Gilder pleasantly. His voice was more
mellow as he made comment. His heavy face was radiant, and he
smiled complacently.
"Ten thousand dollars to this one charity alone!" he exclaimed.
"Well, it is pleasant to be able to help those less fortunate
than ourselves." He paused, evidently expectant of laudatory
corroboration from the secretary.
But Sarah, though she could be tactful enough on occasion, did
not choose to meet her employer's anticipations just now. For
that matter, her intimate services permitted on her part some
degree of familiarity with the august head of the establishment.
Besides, she did not stand in awe of Gilder, as did the others in
his service. No man is a hero to his valet, or to his secretary.
Intimate association is hostile to hero-worship. So, now, Sarah
spoke nonchalantly, to the indignation of the philanthropist:
"Oh, yes, sir. Specially when you make so much that you don't
miss it."
Gilder's thick gray brows drew down in a frown of displeasure,
while his eyes opened slightly in sheer surprise over the
secretary's unexpected remark. He hesitated for only an instant
before replying with an air of great dignity, in which was a
distinct note of rebuke for the girl's presumption.
"The profits from my store are large, I admit, Sarah. But I
neither smuggle my goods, take rebates from railroads, conspire
against small competitors, nor do any of the dishonest acts that
disgrace other lines of business. So long as I make my profits
honestly, I am honestly entitled to them, no matter how big they
are."
The secretary, being quite content with the havoc she had wrought
in her employer's complacency over his charitableness, nodded,
and contented herself with a demure assent to his outburst.
"Yes, sir," she agreed, very meekly.
Gilder stared at her for a few seconds, somewhat indignantly.
Then, he bethought himself of a subtle form of rebuke by
emphasizing his generosity.
"Have the cashier send my usual five hundred to the Charities
Organization Society," he ordered. With this new evidence of his
generous virtue, the frown passed from his brows. If, for a
fleeting moment, doubt had assailed him under the spur of the
secretary's words, that doubt had now vanished under his habitual
conviction as to his sterling worth to the world at large.
It was, therefore, with his accustomed blandness of manner that
he presently acknowledged the greeting of George Demarest, the
chief of the legal staff that looked after the firm's affairs.
He was aware without being told that the lawyer had called to
acquaint him with the issue in the trial of Mary Turner.
"Well, Demarest?" he inquired, as the dapper attorney advanced
into the room at a rapid pace, and came to a halt facing the
desk, after a lively nod in the direction of the secretary.
The lawyer's face sobered, and his tone as he answered was tinged
with constraint.
"Judge Lawlor gave her three years," he replied, gravely. It was
plain from his manner that he did not altogether approve.
But Gilder was unaffected by the attorney's lack of satisfaction
over the result. On the contrary, he smiled exultantly. His
oritund voice took on a deeper note, as he turned toward the
secretary.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "Take this, Sarah." And he continued, as
the girl opened her notebook and poised the pencil: "Be sure to
have Smithson post a copy of it conspicuously in all the girls'
dressing-rooms, and in the reading-room, and in the lunch-rooms,
and in the assembly-room." He cleared his throat ostentatiously
and proceeded to the dictation of the notice:
"Mary Turner, formerly employed in this store, was to-day
sentenced to prison for three years, having been convicted for
the theft of goods valued at over four hundred dollars. The
management wishes again to draw attention on the part of its
employees to the fact that honesty is always the best policy....
Got that?"
"Yes, sir." The secretary's voice was mechanical, without any
trace of feeling. She was not minded to disturb her employer a
second time this morning by injudicious comment.
"Take it to Smithson," Gilder continued, "and tell him that I
wish him to attend to its being posted according to my directions
at once."
Again, the girl made her formal response in the affirmative, then
left the room.
Gilder brought forth a box of cigars from a drawer of the desk,
opened it and thrust it toward the waiting lawyer, who, however,
shook his head in refusal, and continued to move about the room
rather restlessly. Demarest paid no attention to the other's
invitation to a seat, but the courtesy was perfunctory on
Gilder's part, and he hardly perceived the perturbation of his
caller, for he was occupied in selecting and lighting a cigar
with the care of a connoisseur. Finally, he spoke again, and now
there was an infinite contentment in the rich voice.
"Three years - three years! That ought to be a warning to the rest
of the girls." He looked toward Demarest for acquiescence.
The lawyer's brows were knit as he faced the proprietor of the
store.
"Funny thing, this case!" he ejaculated. "In some features, one
of the most unusual I have seen since I have been practicing
law."
The smug contentment abode still on Gilder's face as he puffed in
leisurely ease on his cigar and uttered a trite condolence.
"Very sad! - quite so! Very sad case, I call it." Demarest went
on speaking, with a show of feeling: "Most unusual case, in my
estimation. You see, the girl keeps on declaring her innocence.
That, of course, is common enough in a way. But here, it's
different. The point is, somehow, she makes her protestations
more convincing than they usually do. They ring true, as it
seems to me."
Gilder smiled tolerantly.
"They didn't ring very true to the jury, it would seem," he
retorted. And his voice was tart as he added: "Nor to the judge,
since he deemed it his duty to give her three years."
"Some persons are not very sensitive to impressions in such
cases, I admit," Demarest returned, coolly. If he meant any
subtlety of allusion to his hearer, it failed wholly to pierce
the armor of complacency.
"The stolen goods were found in her locker," Gilder declared in a
tone of finality. "Some of them, I have been given to
understand, were actually in the pocket of her coat."
"Well," the attorney said with a smile, "that sort of thing makes
good-enough circumstantial evidence, and without circumstantial
evidence there would be few convictions for crime. Yet, as a
lawyer, I'm free to admit that circumstantial evidence alone is
never quite safe as proof of guilt. Naturally, she says some one
else must have put the stolen goods there. As a matter of exact
reasoning, that is quite within the measure of possibility. That
sort of thing has been done countless times."
Gilder sniffed indignantly.
"And for what reason?" he demanded. "It's too absurd to think
about."
"In similar cases," the lawyer answered, "those actually guilty
of the thefts have thus sought to throw suspicion on the innocent
in order to avoid it on themselves when the pursuit got too hot