CHAPTER XIII
THE TRUTH AT LAST
It was nearly two weeks after my little dinner that I sat late oneafternoon alone in my office. The rain without pattered dismally againstthe single window that looked into a deserted court and within the roomwas dimly lighted by the fading daylight and the fire that flickered onthe hearth. The gloom of the close of a rainy winter's day was overeverything and my thoughts and heart seemed full of the vague shadowsthat haunted the room. I was awaiting the coming of Miles, who thatmorning had sent me word that he had something to report. During thepast fortnight he had been persistently engaged in working on his newtheory of the case, but with what results I did not know, for he hadtold me nothing.
I also had at first made an effort to accomplish something along thesame lines, for I had found inaction almost unbearable, but it provedto no purpose. The time had passed for analyses of conditions; what wasnow needed was expert detective work, and this I could not do, and so Ihad to give it up and in despair resign myself to idly waiting on Miles.
I might have sought the companionship of Van Bult and Davis, for theywere about as usual, doing the same old things in the same old way, butI was not disposed to engage in their amusements and I doubt much ifthey were anxious for the society of a man in a condition of mind suchas mine. From Littell I had only heard once since his departure and thatletter recently received from Florida was but to tell me that he wasabout starting for home. He was coming back, he wrote, to again conductthe defence of Winters; if it were so, it would prove but a wastederrand, I feared, for there seemed little likelihood of Winters needingour services again. He was very ill, and no longer confined in a cell,but in the hospital ward of the prison to which he had been removed bythe physician's orders after the trial. His strength was gone, and itdid not need the professional eye to see that he was dying.
As soon as I had learned of his condition I had gone to him, not oncebut almost daily, and each time I had spent long hours at his bedside.No one was ever with him but his jailors and nurses; they wereattentive, considerate, but to them he was only a criminal whom they hadin charge and they performed their duties and no more. I was his onlyvisitor, his only friend; even the hysterical women whose habit it is toshower their attentions and tears on hardened criminals found nothingheroic enough by the silent bedside of this dying man to call for theirministrations. His case, now become but a nine day's wonder, forgottenor neglected by the press and public, furnished no longer a gallery tobe played to. Poor fellow! he must have spent many weary hours alone onthat prison bed with only his wasted life and his wrong-doings and hiswrongs to think of, but when I visited him he had always a smile and apleasant word with which to greet me,--there was never a complaint.Sometimes he would talk of himself and of his early life when he and Ihad been at college together, and he would ask about his old friends andthe outside world, and all in the manner of a man who had done with it,but he seldom referred to the charge against him or to the death ofWhite. Once he asked me about Littell and Miles and when I assured himof their continued interest in his behalf he shook his head and bade metell them to think no more of it--"they have been very kind," hesaid--and I knew he meant he would not live for a second trial, and Icould not contradict him.
Sometimes during these days I would doubt, too, if it were worthwhile--this task I had set myself--of hunting down the murderer, for itcould no longer avail to help Winters and must only bring more troublein its trail. The authorities would be content to let it pass with thedeath of Winters into the long category of undetermined crimes and whyshould not I also? and I would be tempted to call Miles from his work,but always something--a vague fear I wanted quieted, held me back. Iwould recall many things that had happened and that had made littleimpression on me at the time, but which seemed now in the hours of mysolitude and depression to be fraught with some strange significance.That speech of Littell's to the jury in which he had described themurderer as a friend of White's, and his strange words of admonition tome at our dinner, and the refusal of Miles to let me longer share in hiswork, and the presence of the detective, lurking near our club when myfriends took their leave, what did it all mean? Was there something inthe background which I did not know and which they did not wish me tolearn? I feared for that which I knew not and which was coming with afear that gripped my heart, yet I would not lift a hand to stay it, butwaited for it with passive submission.
Such thoughts, such feelings as these possessed me as I sat alone in myoffice this gloomy afternoon waiting for Miles. After a silence thatseemed ages he had at last sought me and I knew he had succeeded in histask and was coming to tell me of it. As the hour drew near for hisarrival my vague fears grew stronger and would not be shaken off. I hada premonition of evil--I tried and tried again to convince myself thatI was morbid and fanciful, but the thoughts and the fears would returnand each time with deeper and more sinister meaning. They crowded on meas I sat bowed over my desk till I could bear them no longer and I gotup and walked to the window and, pressing my head against the coolglass, stood looking with unconscious eyes through the rain into thedarkening court. How long I stood thus I don't know; every faculty wasabsorbed in the one dreadful thought: "What if Miles has discovered themurderer and is coming to tell me he is some one I know, a friend"--Icould get no further, just that train of thought, never finished, butrepeated and repeated, till cold and trembling I turned at last from thewindow. As I did so I faced the detective; the hour had come. There wasjust a moment of hesitation, and then I steadied myself.
"Well," I said, "what news."
"Let us sit down," he replied, "it is a long story."
I walked to my desk and resumed my chair, and he seated himself oppositeto me. By this time the room was in darkness, except for the flickeringlight of the fire, and though I tried to study his face I could not doso for the shadows.
"Well!" I repeated,--for he had not answered me,--"what news?" He leanedforward and put his hand on my arm, but I shook it off and straightenedmyself--"What news?" I said again sharply, though my voice was hoarseand my words hardly articulate.
"I have discovered the murderer," he replied.
I tried to ask the name, but could not, and turned away to look into thefire and watch with abstracted gaze the little yellow tongues of flameas they darted here and there over the dark surface of the coal. Theyseemed to me to be like tiny serpents at play and I smiled at theirantics, but underneath in the dull glow of the deep fire I found asilent sympathy with my mood and there my gaze lingered while I thought.
The secret I had worked so long and hard to know was mine for the askingand I was silent. I could feel Miles was looking at me and could read mythoughts and thought me a coward, but what did it matter to me then? Imust think if I could think. A man may stop and wait and still not be acoward--and so we sat in silence. At last something, perhaps it waspity, made him offer a last chance of escape.
"I alone know the name of that man," he said; "and I need never tellit."
I listened and I knew then that my struggle was over and won, and Iturned back to him and leaning across the desk looked him in the eyes:
"No," I said; "tell me his name."
"Littell," he answered.
I sank back in my chair; it had come at last and I knew now what it wasthat I had feared and that, unacknowledged to myself, that fear had beenwith me ever since,--well, no matter when, for I hardly know, but I hadguessed it, and it was not a secret that I had feared to hear, but thesound of a name.
So for a long time we sat there while the hissing of the fire alonebroke the silence and the shadows deepened in the room. My thoughts weretravelling back over the years through which I had known and looked upto the man who was now charged with crime. He had been my friend andguide, and he had fallen. He was a murderer, and I must denounce him. Mynature recoiled from the dreadful thought.
"There must be some mistake," I said, "it cannot be"; and I looked atthe detective for some sign of wavering or uncertainty, and heunders
tood me, for his eyes fell pityingly, but the grave face gave nohope. "I must have proof, then," I said. For answer he extended a rollof paper he had been holding. I took it mechanically and unrolled it,and, smoothing it out before me, sat staring blankly at it in thedarkness till he got up and lighted the gas and then I saw it was hisreport.
"Read it," he said, and I obeyed, and read it deliberately,dispassionately, each word. There was no need for question or comment,it was all too plain, and when I handed it back to him I knew Littellwas guilty. This is what I read:
THE REPORT OF MILES
"This report relative to the case of the death of Arthur White coversthe period of my work from the time of the trial of Henry Winters todate. The facts discovered before the trial were presented in theevidence and need not be re-stated.
"They pointed to Winters as the criminal, but I did not believe himguilty. If Winters was not guilty, theft was not the object for whichthe crime was committed, for all the money missing not traced to him wasotherwise accounted for. This made it likely that the crime wascommitted by a higher order of criminal, some one who had a personalmotive for wishing White out of the way. Such a man should be looked foramong White's associates. Mr. Littell had taken this line in hisdefence, and it seemed sound. I was satisfied that the facts would notlead me to the criminal: that course I had tried, and it had failed. Itherefore determined to try and find the criminal and trace him to thecrime. The method, though not generally approved, is not so haphazard asit might seem to be, and I have tried it successfully before when onlycircumstantial evidence was available.
"White's closest associates were Van Bult, Littell, and Davis, and theyhad all been with him the night of his death. I therefore immediatelyput detectives on each of them and began my work on the case of VanBult. I went to his rooms and interviewed his servant. Van Bult left hisrooms about seven o'clock on the evening of the murder. His servant, whoslept elsewhere, did not see him again till the following morning abouthalf-past six, when he went again to the rooms and found Van Bult thereand assisted him in his preparations for a journey, served hisbreakfast, and saw him off by the eight o'clock train from the New YorkCentral Depot for Buffalo. He had been told by Van Bult the eveningbefore of his intended trip to Buffalo, and had come early that morningby his order. He had not seen Van Bult again till the next succeedingevening, when he had met him at the depot, in obedience to a telegramsent from Buffalo in the name of Van Bult.
"Van Bult's actions on the night of the murder still remained to beaccounted for, and I sought information of them elsewhere. The roomsadjoining Van Bult's are occupied by a gentleman named Dean, who is afriend of his. I interviewed Dean. He recalled the night of the murderand stated that on that night Van Bult had returned to his rooms aboutone o'clock. He recalled the hour because he had been up and Van Bulthad come to his room and they had remained together talking for nearlyan hour and afterwards he had heard Van Bult for some time moving aboutin his own rooms.
"In the meanwhile I had sent a man to Buffalo to trace his actions whilethere. He reported that Van Bult had arrived there on the afternoonafter the murder, stopped at the Wilson House till the followingmorning, and had then taken a train for New York. While in Buffalo heremained most of the time in the hotel, but made a visit to a privateinsane asylum, of which his wife had for two years been an inmate.
"Van Bult's actions were thus accounted for fully and I was satisfied ofhis innocence.
"Next I took up the case of Littell. He parted from Mr. Dallas a littlebefore one o'clock on the night of the murder in Madison Square andapparently continued up Fifth Avenue. He testified at the Coroner'sinquest that he walked directly to his hotel, The Terrace, near the Parkentrance. It was first important that I should determine about thisfact. For that purpose I went to the hotel and interviewed the deskclerks. There are two of them who divide the night work, one relievingthe other at 1.30 A.M. Littell, on that night, had not reached the hotelduring the hours of the first clerk; he did come in about fifteen ortwenty minutes after the second one had taken the desk; therefore hearrived about ten or fifteen minutes before two o'clock. There was notrouble in fixing the occasion with the witnesses I interviewed.Littell's association with so sensational a case had made all hisactions of that night a matter to be remembered by those who had seenhim. I had thus established the fact that nearly an hour had elapsedbetween the time Littell left Mr. Dallas and that at which he arrived athis hotel. It was altogether improbable under these circumstances thathe had gone directly home as he said he had done, but this was stillunimportant unless I could track him to the neighborhood of White'shouse. It was evident that I could not expect to actually locate himthere, but I had another means available of establishing his probablepresence on the scene if such were a fact. The hour that intervenedbetween his parting with Mr. Dallas and his arrival at the hotel was toomuch time to have been consumed in a direct walk there, but it wasinsufficient to admit of his returning to White's house unless he laterused some quicker means of reaching the hotel than by walking. In suchevent he must either have taken the elevated road or a cab. The formerseemed the more probable and the easier to determine, so I tried it. Ifound that at about half-past one o'clock on the night of the murder, aman wearing a long light coat and a soft gray hat, such as Littell hadon, took a north-bound train at the Eighteenth Street station. This Ilearned from the night-guard, whose attention had been especiallydirected to the passenger because of the necessity of changing afive-dollar bill to make the fare. By itself this was not sufficient toestablish the identification but I had a further means at hand. If thatman was Littell he must have gotten off at some station near his hotel.At the Fifty-eighth Street station on the same night about ten minuteslater Littell got off a north-bound train. The night-guard at thisstation knew him and spoke to him, for he had been using the stationalmost daily for several years. I had thus located him at four pointswithin an hour, that is Madison Square, a little before one o'clock;Eighteenth Street elevated station about half after one; Fifty-eighthStreet, about ten minutes later, and at the hotel about a quarter beforetwo. I then accounted for his movements in the following way: he hadconsumed about half an hour from the time he left Madison Square tillthe time he took the train at Eighteenth Street. Of this period, he wasabout five minutes returning to White's house; he was there about tenminutes; the remaining fifteen minutes were divided between a journey toBelle Stanton's and thence to the station.
"This all required action, but Littell is a man of quick action. Notethat I allowed time for him to have gone to Stanton's. I did thisbecause I have always believed that it was the murderer who left theulster there.
"The man the night-officer saw leave White's house about a quarter afterone o'clock was not White as he supposed, but the murderer wearing hisulster and cap as a disguise. Note again the hour, a quarter past oneo'clock; the same at which my calculations place Littell there. Thereremained another point to be determined.
"If my theory was correct and Littell the man who left White's house,disguised in the ulster, and if he disposed of it at Stanton's house,some explanation had to be found of his means of access to the house. Ifhe had such access it was most likely he secured it through Stanton,with whom he was acquainted.
"From her I learned that Littell probably possessed a key to the frontdoor of the house where she lived; she told me that shortly before themurder Littell had taken her home from a supper somewhere and that shehad given him her key to let her in and that he had failed to return itto her. With this key in his possession his means of access to thehouse is explained. With these facts brought out I had accomplished allI could expect to from the events of that night.
"I could not actually fix the crime on any one because no one saw itcommitted,--but I had demonstrated:
"1st. That Littell had testified falsely as to his movements on thatnight.
"2d. That he had been in the neighborhood of the scene of the crime andthe place where the ulster was found, because he must have passed th
atway to get from Madison Square to the corner of Sixth Avenue andEighteenth Street.
"3d. That he occupied over half an hour in covering the distance, whichis but six blocks, and therefore must have delayed in some way.
"There are also many peculiar circumstances in the case all explainableon the theory of Littell's guilt:
"1st. The criminal secured admission to White's rooms, although thedoors were generally locked. Littell was there that night and hadopportunity to fix the catches so as to permit of the doors beingopened from the outside.
"2d. If White did not leave the ulster at Belle Stanton's house thecriminal did, and his object in so doing was plainly to convey theimpression that White had done so, and such purpose suggests a manintimate with White and having knowledge of his personal affairs.
"3d. If White did not wear the ulster and the cap out that night thecriminal did, but the cap was back in White's room in the morning. Thecriminal therefore must have found some opportunity of returning thecap. Littell was on the scene and by the divan where the cap was foundbefore it was discovered the following morning.
"A strong circumstantial case was thus made out against Littell, but thenecessary motive was still lacking.
"For this motive in the case of a man like Littell, it was necessary tolook into White's life and actions, for the motive would not be of anordinary kind. The evidence had disclosed the fact that White had sometrouble of some kind and that another was involved in it; it had alsodisclosed the fact that White felt under some great obligation to hiscousin Winters and the language used in the will, that he left hisestate to Winters as 'the reparation of a wrong,' pointed to thedisposition of his uncle's estate as the possible explanation of it all.It was extraordinary under any circumstances that a father should leavepractically all of a large fortune to a nephew and cut off his onlychild with almost nothing. I therefore investigated the circumstancesunder which the will of Winters, Sr., was made. The will was witnessedby the butler and a trained nurse who was in the house at the time, andwas made on the testator's death-bed. I found the butler and the nurseand from them learned the following facts:
"On the morning of his death the testator in the presence of the nursetold White he meant to leave him a bequest of ten thousand dollars andasked him to go for his lawyers, who were Dickson & Brown. Whitedeparted on the errand and returned in about an hour with Littell.
"The butler let them in and knew the latter.
"The nurse heard the testator ask White why he had not brought hislawyers, to which White replied that they were both out of town. Thetestator then instructed Littell as to the provisions of the will; hisvoice was very weak and the nurse could not distinguish what they were.Littell then left the room with White, and they went to the library,where the butler provided them with materials for drawing the will. Theyreturned to the room of the testator and Littell read the will to him.The nurse was standing in the embrasure of a window near the bed andheard the will read. She remembered distinctly that as read by Littellit gave to White the ten thousand dollars the testator had promised. Thetestator did not read the will himself, he was not able to do so. Thewill was thereupon duly executed by the testator and the witnesses, andthe former directed that it be given into the custody of Dickson &Brown, who, as afterwards appeared, were named as executors. Thetestator died that afternoon. I did not in any way suggest anything tothe nurse about the provisions of the will,--merely asked her if sheremembered them and she volunteered the statement about the bequest often thousand to White. She did not even know that the will actually gaveto him a hundred thousand, for she had never given it further thought orheard of it again. I visited the law firm of Dickson & Brown, and fromthem learned that after the death of the testator but on the same dayWhite had delivered the will to them and also that they were neither ofthem out of town on that day.
"Six months after the death of the testator they distributed the estate.White received from them his bequest of one hundred thousand dollars anddeposited it in the bank as I on inquiry learned; within a week hewithdrew fifty thousand dollars and the succeeding day Littell depositedthat amount in a bank in Jersey City, subsequently withdrawing it anddepositing most of it--forty-odd thousand--in his own bank in this city.This latter fact I learned from his New York bankers and through them Iwas enabled to trace the deposit in the Jersey City bank, from whichbank the transfer had been made direct.
"The witnesses necessary to substantiate the foregoing facts are all athand and can be produced at any time.
"Respectfully submitted,
"C. Miles.
"New York, March --, 1883."
CHAPTER XIV
THE DEATH OF WINTERS
Let me now pass quickly on with my tale over the few succeeding hourswhich witnessed its final scenes. What remains to be told is as welltold shortly and I have no wish to linger over it.
It was the next morning, and I again sat in my office, when the shrillvoice of the office boy interrupted my bitter reflections.
"Mr. Littell to see you, sir," it said.
"Show him in," I answered mechanically. I had been thinking of him andaccepted the announcement as a matter of course, though I had no reasonto expect him at that moment. Less than a day had elapsed since I hadread the report of Miles and I had now to confront Littell. There hadbeen no opportunity to take counsel with myself upon my course. I hadhardly yet grasped the full import of the situation and I must at onceat this very moment meet him--talk to him. I could not do it. I neededmore time, and desperately pulling some papers in front of me, I buriedmyself in what I meant to appear a mass of work.
The door opened and he stood upon the threshold. I pretended neither tosee nor hear his entrance, but I stole a glance at him without liftingmy head. It was the same Littell; perfectly dressed, graceful,insouciant, the well remembered, attractive personality.
"Well, Dick," he said, "I am with you again you see!" and in his voicewas a note of genuine feeling as he stood there smiling a greeting tome.
It was impossible to pretend unconsciousness longer and with an effort Ilooked up and met his open glance with my conscious, faltering one, andtried to respond as cordially as I could, but I kept my seat for I couldnot take his hand. It was not that I would not take the hand of acriminal, but that I could not give mine to a man I meant to destroy; soto cover up the omission and to avoid the questions that I feared hewould put to me, I asked him to be seated while I finished my work. Helooked at me inquiringly, but I avoided his eyes.
"Well, go on with your work," he said quietly, "I am not in a hurry";and he sat down and waited and watched me.
I struggled to fix my attention on the matters before me and to maintainmy composure, but it was more than I was equal to; I could not do it,and crushing my arms over the books and papers, I squared myself andfaced him to meet the worst--anything was better than this suspense.
"You are not inclined to work after all, it seems," he remarked, onobserving my action.
"No," I said, "I cannot."
"What is the matter?" he asked, and what I should have answered I don'tknow, for at that moment there was a knock at the door and in responseto my eager, "Come in!" Miles entered. No one knows the relief theinterruption brought to me, for it meant at least some moral support--ifnot a respite. Miles looked at Littell and bowed, receiving a nod inresponse, and then glanced inquiringly at me, and I understood thequestion and shook my head. Littell may have observed us, but if so,there was no evidence of it, for he continued as imperturbable as ever.
"Do you wish to speak to me privately?" I asked Miles.
"No, I think not," he replied; "what I have to say will interest Mr.Littell as well"; and without waiting to be questioned, he added,"Winters is dying!"
I rose. "I shall go to him at once," I said, and I asked the detectiveto accompany me, but I said nothing to Littell, for it hardly seemed theplace for him.
"I think I shall go too," he announced, and then as if by way ofexplanation, for he must have s
een my hesitation, he added, "I am hiscounsel, you know."
To this I had nothing to say. If he wished to go he had a right to doso, and with a short nod of acquiescence I led the way from the room.
"I have a carriage at the door; there is no time to lose," Miles said,and we entered it and were driven rapidly towards our destination.
After we were well on our way, Littell turned casually to Miles.
"Well," he said, "have you made any progress?"
The detective hesitated, then he answered simply, "Yes."
"Hardly found your man, though?" Littell continued in the same tone:
Again the detective hesitated and answered, "Yes."
I clutched the sill of the window and sank shivering back into my seat,and then as Littell started to speak again, I grasped his arm. Inresponse he turned and looked at me for a second with something almostlike pity in his eyes, and then addressed himself again to Miles.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"Not now! not now!" I gasped, appealing to Miles. "I must tell him;leave it to me."
"Very well," Miles answered, and Littell after a single inquiringglance turned from us and for the remainder of the journey looked calmlyout the open window beside him. If he felt either fear or remorse it wasnot apparent. He was inscrutable.
On arriving at the hospital we were conducted directly to the room ofWinters. It was not different from other prison hospital quarters--neatand clean, but bare and hard, it was unspeakably dreary. A single barredwindow before which a yellow shade was drawn let in a half-light thatwas reflected from the whitewashed walls and showed at the farther endof the room a narrow cot and upon it the wasted form of Winters. It wasmotionless and the face was pallid and the eyes closed and I feared wehad not come in time. I crossed the room and stood by the side of thebed and Littell followed me. By the window the doctor and a nurse wereconversing in low tones, but when I looked towards them inquiringly theydiscontinued their conversation and the doctor came over to me.
"If you have anything you wish to say to him," he said, "you had betterdo it at once; he will not last long." But I had nothing to say thatmade it worth while to rouse the dying man and I was waiting the end insilence when Winters opened his eyes and after a vague wandering lookabout him, fixed them upon me. I leaned over him.
"Do you know me?" I asked, and in a voice scarcely audible, he whispered"Yes."
"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked next. His lips moved and Ithought I distinguished the name "Littell." I looked towards Littell. Hewas standing at the foot of the bed, and his attitude was tense and hisface was white and drawn in the way that indicates suffering in a strongman. He was not looking at me; his eyes were rivetted upon the bed: inthat room for him there was only Winters. I touched his arm.
"He wishes to speak to you," I said.
He seemed not to comprehend my words until I had repeated them and thenhe moved close to the side of Winters and said very slowly anddistinctly:
"I am Littell; do you wish to speak to me?" At the sound of his voiceWinters looked up into his face and, recognizing him, smiled, and withan effort spoke:
"I want to thank you for defending me," he said, "and to tell you I amnot guilty."
"I know you are not," Littell answered hoarsely; "I have always knownit." And then, after a moment's struggle with himself, he added, in avoice as gentle and as tender as a woman's, "You have been wronged andyou have suffered, but you have borne it bravely, and it is over now."
As he listened to these words the face of Winters lighted up and he halfraised himself on his pillow and, turning to the speaker, reached outhis hands in a feeble gesture of gratitude. Littell took them in his andsank down till his face was hidden beside the dying man. I bowed my headand thus we awaited the end. After a while, Littell arose and gentlyreleasing the hands that had been clasping his, laid them tenderly downand then with a little gesture of infinite appeal he touched the fairhair that was clinging to the damp forehead and stood looking down atthe still form. Winters was dead, but on the boyish face at last was anexpression of happiness and of peace, and to Littell it had been grantedto bring it there.
I turned away--there was nothing more that I could do--and left Littellfor the moment with the dead and his thoughts. As I passed Miles on myway out he stopped me.
"What am I to do now, sir?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said, "leave it to me." He hesitated before he asked:
"Do you mean to tell him?"
"Yes," I said.
"When?" he asked.
"At once," I said, "and I will not need you." He touched his hat andleft me.
I looked around. Littell was still by the bedside.
"We will take the carriage and drive to the club," I said, "when you areready."
In response to my almost peremptory tone he lifted his head haughtily:
"I am ready now," he said, coldly, and followed me with firm steps tothe carriage.
On arriving at the club I led the way within and, selecting anunoccupied room, motioned him to enter and following closed the door;without looking around or showing any surprise he walked to a table and,having rung for a waiter, dropped into a chair. It was his usual clubhabit. I saw no change.
"I want a drink," he said. "Will you join me?"
"No," I answered shortly.
"As you choose," he responded, and then from the waiter, who hadmeanwhile appeared, ordered brandy.
While he waited for his drink he drummed idly on the table and I leanedon the mantel striving to imitate his imperturbability. My sympathy, myaffection for Littell for the time were gone, and it was a hard andunyielding man who faced him waiting for the moment to speak.
When the brandy was brought, Littell swallowed a glass of it and, havingdone so, himself deliberately closed the door again behind the waiter,so that we should be alone. Then standing with his back to it, he lookedat me and I at him. We understood each other.
"What have you to say to me?" he asked.
There were no signs of flinching on his part. I walked over to him.
"That you killed Arthur White," I said.
He took a step towards me and I steadied myself for what might becoming, but he changed his purpose, whatever it was, and turned awaywith a laugh.
"You are mad," he said.
"I have spoken the truth," I answered sternly, "and you know it."
"Your proof!" he demanded.
"It is here," I said, and I held out to him Miles's report; "you mayhave it; it will show you that you have no chance."
He seemed to deliberate and then slowly, hesitatingly, like a man makingup his mind to something, he reached out and took the report from me,and in the act our hands met and at the touch his face flushed, but minegrew pale and I wavered. Suddenly he extended his hand to me and I tookit.
"It is all right, Dick," he said, but my head was bent and I did notanswer, and when I looked up he was gone.
I never saw him again, but the next morning's mail brought me thisletter from him:
THE LAST LETTER
"You are right; your dogged persistence has at last accomplished itspurpose and my end, and to what good? White is dead, Winters is dead,and I shall be within a few hours. The tragedy has worked itself out. Ido not know that I am sorry the game is played,--life's game it hasproven with me; neither do I reproach you for your part in it. I mighthave lived a few years longer, but I am not sure that I wish to. My lifehas lasted sixty years, and they have not been so free from trouble thatI should crave a few more waning ones. The world owes me little, and Iowe it less; let us separate while we are at peace.
"I should wish, if you can find it consistent with that importunateconscience of yours, that you would leave my memory as it now abideswith my friends, pleasantly, likely, and not overburdensome. I would notask even this, but all I take with me, or leave behind, is thegood-will of a few men, and I would as soon as it were not too rudelyended.
"To you I am a murderer: not a pleasant word for a
man to use abouthimself; but the truth, nevertheless. I have not always agreed withother men, and I do not in this, but such would be their verdict and Irecognize it.
"I was the instrument that brought about the death of White, just as Ishall be the instrument of my own death, but it was the original actconceived in the mind of White that started the train of events that ledsuccessively to both consequences. Had he been different in temperament,or had I, it might have been otherwise, but with the conditions as theyexisted, it was inevitable, and, after the initial step was once taken,it was better so. He was less unhappy when we saw him that morning afterthan he was when we left him the night before, and I shall be at peacewhen you see me again, as I have not been in many days.
"No! I have never harbored remorse over White's death, and I indulge inno regrets now for my own. We have worked out, each of us, our owndestiny, that is all; but with Winters, it was different. Poor fellow!he had a hard time, and though he was a worthless drunkard, he had noresponsibility for the act which, in its consequences, shortened hislife. He suffered innocently, and I might have spared him, and I didnot. I was a coward in that and I despise a coward, but let that be. Imight tell you that I had intended, should it have come to that, to havesaved him from the gallows, but it is a weakness and an imposition toask credit for what one claims one might have done, and it is a plea asavailable to a liar as to a truthful man.
"Whatever I might have done, I was saved the occasion by Winters'sdeath. With that my obligation ended. To have given my life for areputation that was well buried with the man, would have been quixotic.It could have done him no good, and the world would not have cared.
"I hardly know why I have written you all of this. Perhaps it may bebecause there comes to each of us, even the strongest, a wish at the endto extenuate, to explain. No man can entirely separate himself in hismoral life from his fellows. No matter how vigorous his individuality,he can never escape the consciousness of their standard and theirjudgment, and he must be swayed by it more or less, even though hedenies it for awhile to himself.
"Such has been my case. Unknown to them, I have battled with myfellow-men; the struggle has been all with me and yet they have won, andat this last hour I cannot give up my place among them, even though itbe for oblivion, without a wish to live unsullied in their memories. Ihave repudiated their laws and have established a law for myself, but inthe end mine has failed me and theirs controls. It is not that my law isillogical or unethical, it is only that they will not accept it, and Icannot escape from theirs.
"Am I inconsequent, I wonder, or incoherent? If so, it may be becausethe presence of death makes man's mind wander or distorts his mentalvision, but I do not think it is thus with me. Such may be the case whendeath comes slowly and the mental faculties are impaired, but when onecontemplates it, as I do now, in the full possession of all myfaculties, it is rather, I think, that a prescience of the unknown, atouch of omniscience comes to a man and he knows more than other menknow.
"As I sit here with death beside me, waiting for me, I seem to seethings as I never saw them till now, and had I the chance I might wishto live on, but it is too late; to-morrow would bring me ruin anddisgrace. Better death than that. It has been my philosophy that deathwas not an evil, but a solution for evils, and I will abide by it.
"It grows late and this letter must catch the mail. Let me then tell youquickly what I did that night, and how I came to do it, and so end all.
"I drew the Winters will and at the suggestion of White, who sought mefor the purpose, I made his bequest one hundred thousand dollars insteadof ten thousand dollars, and for doing so, I received a share. I neededmoney, and when a man at my age needs money it is hard. The matter wouldhave ended there had White been less remorseful, but he grew daily moremorbid over it, till I knew that in spite of all I could do, he wouldsome day confess. Still I had no thought of killing him, and when I lefthis house that night and fixed the catches on the doors so that I couldre-enter, and when I parted with you and retraced my steps, I had stillno thought of killing him. I meant only to reason with him and dissuadehim as I had done a dozen times before, but when I entered his room andfound myself alone in the safety of the night and saw him asleep withthe heaviness of drunken stupor and the means ready to my hand, thethought came to me and it was the easier and the surer way.
"Then I put on the cap and ulster and gathered up the bills that were onthe table and went out. I left the ulster at Stanton's house, but forgotthe cap, and then, seeking the nearest elevated station, went home. Inthe morning when I returned to White's rooms, I took the opportunitywhile I was by the body to drop the cap unseen behind the divan. I knewthat it, as the other circumstances I had created, would but serve tofurther involve the case when it should be investigated. That is all.
"I might tell more of the impulses that swayed me, and of my feelings onthat night and since, but it could serve no purpose and I am tired.
"I have rung for a servant to mail this; when he shall have taken it andshall be out of hearing----
"Think kindly of me if you can, Dick! for I have loved you."
THE END
A Master Hand: The Story of a Crime Page 13