Kitabı oku: «The Nine of Hearts», sayfa 4

VI
DESCRIPTION OF THE LAST DAY'S PROCEEDINGS-EXTRACTED FROM A DAILY PAPER

"The trial of Edward Layton for the murder of his wife came to a singular and unsatisfactory termination late last night. That the public interest in the case had reached an almost unprecedented height was proved by the large number of persons who were unable to obtain admission to the court.

"On the previous evening the evidence for the prosecution had closed, and there was a painful and eager expectancy in the minds of all present as to the line of defence which the prisoner intended to adopt. This line of defence-if, indeed, it can be called a defence-was as surprising as it was brief.

"The prisoner, addressing the judge and the jury, intimated that it was not his intention to call witnesses on his behalf. Most of the witnesses for the prosecution, he said, had given their evidence fairly, and if they had committed themselves to misstatements and discrepancies, it was more because they were either misled or mistaken-in the case of one witness, Ida White, because she was strangely prejudiced against him-than that they had a desire to make the case against him even blacker than it was. It had happened before, and would doubtless happen again, that a man found himself thrust into such an unhappy position as he himself stood through no fault of his own, and that he was unable to say or do anything to prove his innocence. Sometimes it was with such a man a matter of honor, sometimes a matter of conscience. In his own case it sprung from both his honor and his conscience that his lips were sealed, and the utmost he could say for himself was that he was an innocent man, with so dark an array of evidence against him as to almost incontestably prove him to be guilty. All that he could do was to declare most solemnly that the accusation upon which he was being tried was false, and that he stood before them as unstained by crime as they were themselves. What could be said truly in his favor was that his character, and to some extent his blameless life, were a refutation of the charge. Evidence of character was generally called in mitigation of impending punishment. He did not intend to call such evidence, because, by so doing, it would be a half-admission that he stood there a guilty instead of an innocent man. He knew perfectly well how lame and impotent these weak words must sound in the ears of those who were sitting in judgment upon him; but this he could not help. It was but part of the fatal web in which he was entangled. That he and his wife had lived unhappily together was not to be disputed; but even in this most serious crisis of his life he denied the right arrogated by the legal profession to rip open a man's private affairs and expose to the vulgar gaze what he desired should be hidden from it. The last thing he would do, even if he were in ten times the peril in which he then stood, was to drag other persons into the case, and to allow them to be blackened and vilified as he had been. 'I can scarcely doubt,' said the prisoner, 'what your verdict will be. Were I in your place, I should most likely decide as you will decide; but none the less will it be a solemn fact that though you are legally right, you are morally wrong. I must be content to let the case rest as it has been presented to you, and to abide the issue, though it may cost me my life.'

"Never in a criminal court, in the case of a man arraigned upon so grave a charge, has there been heard a defence so weak and strange; but it is nevertheless a fact that the prisoner's earnest and, to all appearance, ingenuous manner produced a deep impression upon all who heard him; and when he ceased speaking there was, in the murmurs of astonishment that followed, an unmistakable note of sympathy.

"After a slight pause the Attorney-general rose to sum up the case against the prisoner, and his incisive judicial utterances soon dispelled the impression which the prisoner's earnestness had produced. He said that in the circumstances of the case his speech would be briefer than it otherwise would have been. He had a duty to perform, and he would perform it, without, he hoped, any undue severity or harshness. Unhappily the evidence was only too clear against the prisoner, and unhappily the prisoner had strengthened the case against himself. This was not a matter of sentiment it was a matter of justice, and justice must be done. With slight limitations, around which the prisoner threw a veil of silence, contenting himself to cast suspicion upon them by some kind of mysterious implication which no person could understand, and not venturing to give them a distinct and indignant denial-with slight limitations, then, the prisoner had admitted the truthfulness of the evidence brought against him. As the prisoner had not directly referred to these doubtful points in the evidence, he would himself do so, and endeavor to clear away any latent doubt-if such existed-in the minds of the jury. First, with respect to the ulster. The prisoner did not deny that he wore this ulster on the whole of the day his coachman, James Moorhouse, was driving him to various places, and it was only upon his arrival home at midnight that he endeavored to shake the coachman's evidence as to whether, when he entered the carriage, upon leaving Prevost's Restaurant, and upon his issuing from the carriage when the coachman drew up at his house, he still had this ulster on. What his motive was in endeavoring to shake the coachman's testimony upon this point it was impossible to say. He (the learned counsel) had most carefully considered the matter, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that the prisoner was anxious to instil a doubt into the minds of the jury, that it was not he who left the restaurant at ten minutes to twelve and entered his carriage, and that it was not he who alighted from the carriage and opened his street door. But supposing, for instance, that this argument had a foundation in fact, was it not easy for the prisoner to prove what he had done with himself between ten minutes to twelve on the night of the 25th of March and seven o'clock on the morning of the 26th? Surely some person or persons must have seen him, and had he produced those persons there would have been a reasonable alibi set up, which it would be the duty of every one engaged in this case seriously to consider. Indeed, he would go so far as to say that, admitting such evidence to be brought forward and established, there could not be found a jury who would convict the prisoner of the charge brought against him. It would then have been proved that the prisoner had not seen his wife from eleven o'clock on the morning of the 25th of March until seven o'clock on the morning of the 26th, and as it was during the night of those days that the unhappy lady met her death, it would have been impossible to bring the prisoner in guilty. But, easy as this evidence must have been to produce, there is not only no attempt to produce it, but in his lamentably impotent speech the prisoner does not even refer to it. In his mind, then, and in the minds of all reasonable men, there could not be a doubt that this was the case of one who, in despair, was catching at a straw to save himself. The learned counsel touched briefly but incisively upon every point in the evidence concerning which the prisoner had maintained silence, and had made no endeavor to confute. For instance, there was the lady whom he had met in Bloomsbury Square, whom he took to Prevost's Restaurant, whom he regaled with a supper which neither he nor she touched-a distinct proof that they were otherwise momentously occupied. The evidence with respect to this lady is irrefragable. She was no shadow, no myth, no creation of the imagination; she was a veritable being of flesh and blood. All the efforts of the prosecution had failed to trace her, and the just deduction was that she was somewhere in biding, afraid to come forward lest she should be incriminated and placed side by side with the prisoner in the dock. The prisoner did not deny her existence, nor that she and he were for several hours in company with each other. Were he innocent, what possible doubt could exist that he would bring her forward to establish his innocence? Were both innocent, would not she of her own accord step forward to prove it? The prisoner, in his address, made certain allusions to honor and conscience, by which he would make it appear that he was guided by his honor and his conscience in the singular method of his defence; and it may be that there existed in him some mistaken sense of chivalry which induced him to do all in his power to screen the partner in his crime. It would have been better for him had he brought his honor and his conscience to bear in the unhappy engagement into which he entered with the unfortunate lady who afterwards became his wife; but it had been amply proved that the marriage was not, on his side at least, a marriage of affection. Distinctly he married her for her money, and distinctly he would be a great gainer by her death. Thus, then, there existed a motive, and not a novel one-for the tragedy has been played many times in the history of crime-for his getting rid of her. He (the counsel for the prosecution) did not wish to press hardly upon the prisoner, who was a man of culture and education, and must feel keenly the position in which he stood, whatever might be his outward demeanor. But it devolved upon him to impress upon the jury not to allow any false sentiment to cause them to swerve from the straight path of duty. They must decide by the evidence which had been presented to them, and it was with a feeling the reverse of satisfactory that he pointed out to them that this evidence could lead to but one result.

"The summing up of the learned judge (which, with the Attorney-general's speech, will be found fully reported in other columns) was a masterly analysis of the evidence which had been adduced. He impressed upon the jury the necessity of calm deliberation, and of absolute conviction before they pronounced their verdict. Circumstantial evidence was, of all evidence, the most perplexing and dangerous. It had, in some rare instances, erred but these exceptions were, happily, few and far between. It had, on the other hand, led to the detection of great criminals, and without its aid many heinous aggressors against the law would slip through the hands of justice. He dismissed the jury to their duty, and he prayed that wisdom might attend their deliberations.

"At half-past three o'clock the jury retired, and it was the general impression that the case would be ended within the hour. The prisoner sat in the dock, shading his eyes with his hand. Not once did he look up to the court. He seemed to be preparing himself for his impending fate. But four o'clock, five o'clock, six o'clock passed, and the suspense grew painful. It was clear that there was not that agreement between the jury which all in court, including even the prisoner, had expected. At twenty minutes past six the foreman of the jury entered the court, and informed the judge that there was no chance of the jury agreeing upon a verdict.

"The Judge. 'Is there any point of law upon which you desire information?'

"The Foreman of the Jury. 'None, my lord.'

"The Judge. 'Is there any discrepancy in the evidence which the jury wish cleared?'

"The Foreman of the Jury. 'No, my lord. It is simply that we cannot agree.'

"The learned judge then intimated that, after so long and patient a trial, he could not lightly dismiss the jury from their duties, and he bade the foreman again retire to a further consideration of the case. The court, he said, would sit late to receive the verdict.

"Seven o'clock, eight o'clock, nine o'clock passed, and then the learned judge sent for the foreman of the jury, and inquired whether any progress had been made towards an agreement.

"The Foreman of the Jury. 'None, my lord. There is no possible chance of the jury agreeing upon a verdict.'

"It was remarked that no person in court appeared to be more surprised than the prisoner, and when the jury were called in and dismissed by the judge from their duties, Edward Layton, before he was removed from the dock by the jailers, leaned eagerly forward to scan their countenances.

"Nothing further transpired, and this unexpected chapter in the Layton mystery was closed."

PART THE SECOND
THE CABLE MESSAGE FROM AMERICA

At ten o'clock on the night following this exciting day, Mr. Bainbridge, Q.C., and his friend, Dr. Daincourt, were chatting together in the dining-room of the lawyer's house. They had met by appointment, and were now conversing over the strange incidents of the Layton trial.

"Its termination," said Dr. Daincourt, "is in harmony with the whole of the proceedings. I am afraid, when Layton is put again upon his trial, that there will be no further disagreement on the part of the jury, and that his conviction is certain."

"With the evidence as it stands at present," said Mr. Bainbridge, thoughtfully, "you are right in your conclusion. But there is here a mystery to be brought to light which, discovered, may lead to a different result. Almost unfathomable as this mystery now appears to be, its unravelment may, after all, depend upon a very slender thread. Fortunately, Layton's second trial cannot take place for a month. Before that month expires I hope to be able to lay my hand upon evidence which will prove him innocent of the charge."

"To judge from his attitude," said Dr. Daincourt, "he is indifferent as to the result."

"You are mistaken," said the lawyer; "it is only that he will not owe his release to certain means which I believe it to be in his power to disclose. Has it not occurred to you that he has been anxious all through to keep something in the background?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Daincourt, "that has been my impression; but it might be something which would more firmly fix his guilt. Is it your intention to follow up the case?"

"To the last link in the chain."

"The chain, if there be one, is safely hidden, and I cannot for the life of me see a single link."

Mr. Bainbridge, leaning back in his chair, did not reply for a few moments, and then he said,

"I have two links to commence with. One of these is shadowy; the other is certain and tangible." And then, with the air of a man whose thoughts were engaged upon an important subject, he exclaimed, "If I could only discover its meaning!"

"The meaning of what?"

The lawyer took a pack of cards from a drawer and selected a card, which he handed to Dr. Daincourt.

"The Nine of Hearts," said the doctor.

"The card," said the lawyer, "that was found in the pocket of Layton's ulster."

"Is this your tangible link?" asked Dr. Daincourt, turning the card over in his hand.

"It is my tangible link," replied the lawyer.

Dr. Daincourt shrugged his shoulders. "You are adding mystery to mystery."

"I think not," said the lawyer. "You were not in the court when the Nine of Hearts was produced."

"No."

"That and the latch-key of Layton's street door were the only articles found in the pockets of the ulster. When the evidence relating to these articles was being given, I closely observed Layton's face. I knew, but he did not, that these two articles were all that were discovered in the pockets of the incriminating coat. When the latch-key was held up he smiled faintly; he was not surprised. But when the Nine of Hearts was produced there flashed into his eyes a startled look-a look of bewilderment and astonishment; indeed, there was something of horror in his face. I needed no further sign to make me positive that he had no previous knowledge of the card, and that it was the first time he had seen it."

"Something of horror, you say."

"It was my impression, and I cannot account for it. Not so with his bewilderment and astonishment. To my mind they are easily explained."

"He asked no questions concerning the card?" remarked Dr. Daincourt.

"He asked no questions," said the lawyer, somewhat irritably, "concerning a hundred matters upon which the witnesses should have been hardly pressed. Can you not see that this accentuates my conviction that the Nine of Hearts is a link in the chain?"

"Yes, supposing you had not already arrived at a false conclusion with respect to poor Layton's knowledge of the possession of the card."

"I will stake my life and reputation," said the lawyer, earnestly, "upon the correctness of my conclusion. I will stake my life and reputation that, until that moment, Edward Layton did not know that the card was in his pocket."

"Then somebody must have placed it there."

"As you say, somebody must have placed it there."

"But in the name of all that is reasonable," exclaimed Dr. Daincourt, "what possible connection can you trace between a playing-card, whether it be the ace of clubs, or the king of spades, or the nine of hearts-it matters not which-what possible connection can you find between any playing-card and the awful charge brought against Layton?"

"That," said the lawyer, drumming upon the table with his fingers, "is what I have to discover. You do not know, doctor, upon what slight threads the most important issues hang."

"I think I do," said Dr. Daincourt, with a smile.

"I do not refer to the general issues of human life," said the lawyer, in explanation; "I refer to legal matters, especially to criminal cases the solution of which rests upon circumstantial evidence. Circumstances the most remote, and apparently absolutely worthless and trivial, have been woven by a legal mind into a strand strong and firm enough to drag a prisoner out of the very jaws of death."

"And this Nine of Hearts is one of those slender threads?" said Dr. Daincourt, in a tone of incredulous inquiry.

"Very likely. You may depend I shall not lose sight of it."

"You spoke of two links," said Dr. Daincourt, "and you have shown me that which you believe to be a tangible one. What is the link which you say is shadowy and less dependable?"

"I will explain. The jury were discharged, being unable to agree upon their verdict. It may leak out through the press by-and-by-pretty much everything does leak out through the press nowadays-but it is not known at present to the public how many of the jury were for pronouncing the prisoner guilty, and how many for pronouncing him innocent."

"I have heard rumors," said Dr. Daincourt.

"I," said the lawyer, "have positive information. Eleven of them declared him guilty, one only held out that he was innocent. Arguments, persuasions, logical inferences and deductions, the recapitulation of the evidence against him-all were of no avail in this one juryman's eyes. He would not be convinced; he would not yield. He had made up his mind that the prisoner was innocent, and that he, at least, would not be instrumental in sending him from the dock a felon."

"I can see nothing in that," said Dr. Daincourt.

"There are," continued the lawyer, "in civil and criminal records, instances of a like nature, some of which have been privately sifted, with strange results, after the cases have been finally settled. I recollect one case which may bear upon this of Layton's. I do not say it does, but it may. It occurred many years ago, and the jury were locked up a barbarous length of time without being able to come to an agreement. There was no possible doubt, circumstantially, of the prisoner's guilt; the evidence was conclusive enough to convict twenty men. One person, however, would not give in, and that person was on the jury. The prisoner was tried again, and unhesitatingly acquitted. During the time that had elapsed between the first and second trials additional evidence was found which proved the prisoner to be innocent. The juryman who held out on the first trial happened to have been some years before a friend of the prisoner, a fact, of course, which was not known when the jury were empanelled. After the result of the second trial he publicly declared that he had been guided by his feelings and not by the evidence."

"And you think that something of the sort may have happened in this case?"

"Had you been on the jury, what would have been your verdict?"

"Guilty."

"Had I been on the jury, what would have been my verdict? Despite my firm conviction that Layton is an innocent man, I should have brought him in guilty. It was not my opinion I had to be guided by, it was the evidence and the evidence in Layton's case, as it was presented to the court and appears in the papers, indisputably proclaims him to be a guilty man. Again, when the verdict was pronounced I watched his face; again I saw there a startled look of wonder and astonishment; to his own mind the evidence against him was conclusive. Then it was that I observed him for the first time gaze upon the jury with some kind of interest and attention. Not once during the trial had he looked at them in any but a casual way, and I should not be surprised to learn that he was ignorant of their names. This is most unusual. Ordinarily a prisoner pays great attention to the jury upon whose verdict his fate hangs. He gazes upon them with deepest anxiety, he notes every change in their countenances, is despondent when he believes it to be against him, is hopeful when he 'believes it to be in his favor. Not so with Layton. When the jury were empanelled, and their names called over, he paid not the slightest attention to them he did not turn his eyes towards them; he might have been both deaf and blind for all the interest he evinced."

"Perhaps you are not aware," said the doctor, "that he is very short-sighted, and that without his glasses it would have been impossible for him to distinguish their features."

"I am quite aware of it," said the lawyer "but he had his glasses hanging round his neck, and it is remarkable that not once during the trial did he put them to his eyes. I have here," and the lawyer tapped his pocket-book, "a list of the names, social standing, and businesses or professions of the jurymen engaged on this Layton mystery. As regards only one of them is my information incomplete. I know their ages, whether they are married or single, whether they have families, etc. I know something more-I know the name of the one man who would not subscribe to the verdict of guilty which the other eleven, almost without leaving the box, were ready to pronounce. Curiously enough, this dissentient is the person respecting whom I have not yet complete particulars. I am acquainted with his name, but have not been supplied with his address. I shall, however, obtain it easily, if I require it."

"What is his name?" asked Dr. Daincourt.

"James Rutland," replied the lawyer.

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and a man-servant made his appearance.

"A telegraph lad, sir," said the servant, "has brought this message, and is waiting to know whether it is correct, and whether there is any answer. He says he has been to your rooms in the Temple, and was directed on here to your private address, the instructions being that the message was to be delivered immediately, either at your professional or private residence."

Mr. Bainbridge opened the telegram and read it. It was unusually lengthy, and from the expression of his face appeared to cause him great surprise.

"Let the lad wait in the hall," he said to his servant, "and you come up the moment I ring."

"Very well, sir," said the servant, and he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

"I have been taking a leaf out of your book," said Dr. Daincourt. "You seem to learn so much from observing the faces of people, that I have been rude enough to watch your face while you were perusing the telegram."

"What have you learned?" asked the lawyer.

"Nothing," replied Dr. Daincourt, smiling, "except that it appears almost as long as a letter, and that it has caused you surprise."

"It has caused me something more than that-it has absolutely startled me."

"You must forgive my rudeness. I spoke lightly, not seriously. If you have anything particular to attend to, don't mind me I will go."

"No," said the lawyer, "I want you, and I think you will be as startled as I am myself. This is a cable message from Pittsburg, America, and, as you judged, it is more like a letter than a telegram. See, it covers three sides of paper I will read it to you:

"'From Archibald Laing, Box 1236, P. 0., Pittsburg, U. S., to Mr. Bainbridge, Q. C., London.

"'Reports of the result of Edward Layton's trial for the murder of his wife have been cabled here and published in the papers. There will, of course, be a new trial. If at or before that new trial you establish Layton's innocence, I hold myself accountable to you for a fee of twenty-five thousand dollars. If you will employ yourself to that end, I have cabled to Messrs. Morgan & Co., bankers, Threadneedle Street, to pay upon your demand the sum of ten thousand dollars, five thousand dollars of which are your retaining fee, the other five thousand being an instalment towards any preliminary expenses you may incur. This sum of ten thousand dollars is independent of the twenty-five thousand mentioned above, and of course your own professional bill of costs will be paid in addition. Messrs. Morgan & Co. are empowered to advance you any further sums that may be necessary for your investigations. Set every engine afoot to obtain the acquittal of Edward Layton spare no expense. If a million dollars is necessary, it is at your command. Send to me by every mail full and detailed accounts of your movements and proceedings; omit nothing, and make your own charge for this and for everything else you perform in the task I ask you as a favor to undertake. Your reply immediately by cable will oblige, and, up to one hundred words, is prepaid. I do not wish Edward Layton to know that I have requested your mediation on his behalf. It is a matter entirely and confidentially between you and me. I write to you by the outgoing mail. Perhaps you may obtain some useful information from a Mr. James Rutland I cannot furnish you with the gentleman's address, but Edward Layton and he were once friends.'"

Dr. Daincourt drew a deep breath.

"Startling indeed," he said. "This Archibald Laing must be the man of whom we have heard as making an immense fortune by speculating at the right moment in the silver-mines. If so, he is good for millions. Do you know anything of him?"

"Not personally," replied the lawyer; "only from report and hearsay. He is an Englishman, and must be an amazingly shrewd fellow; and that he is in earnest is partly proved by this cable, in which no words are spared to make his meaning clear."

While he was speaking to his friend, the lawyer was busily engaged writing upon a blank telegraph form, which was enclosed in the envelope delivered by the messenger.

"What will you do in the matter?" asked Dr. Daincourt.

"Here is my reply," said the lawyer, and he read it aloud:

",From Mr. Bainbridge, Q.C. Harley Street, London, to Archibald Laing,Box 1236, P. 0., Pittsburg, U. S.

"'Your cable received. I undertake the commission, and will use every effort to establish Layton's innocence, in which I firmly believe. There is a mystery in the matter, and I will do my best to get at the heart of it. I will write to you as you desire.'"

He touched the bell and the servant appeared.

"Give this to the telegraph boy," he said, "and pay his cab fare to the telegraph office, in order that there shall be no delay."

When the servant had departed, the lawyer rose from his chair and paced the room slowly in deep thought, and it was during the intervals in his reflections that the conversation between him and Dr. Daincourt was carried on.

"Is it not very strange," said the lawyer, "that I am advised in this cable message to seek information from the one juryman who pronounced Layton innocent, and whose address I have not obtained?"

"Yes, it is, indeed," replied Dr. Daincourt, "very strange."

"Of course I shall find him; there will not be the least difficulty in that respect. Tell me, doctor. It was proved at the trial that Mrs. Layton's death was caused by an overdose of morphia, taken in the form of effervescing lozenges. It was established that she was occasionally in the habit of taking one of these lozenges at night to produce sleep, and her maid swore that her mistress never took more than one, being aware of the danger of an overdose. The usual mode of administering these noxious opiates is by placing one in the mouth and allowing it to dissolve; but they will dissolve in water, and the medical evidence proved that at least eight or ten of the poisonous lozenges must have been administered in this way, in one dose, to the unfortunate lady. The glass from which the liquid was drunk was round, not by her bedside, but on the mantle-shelf, which is at some distance from the bed. It is a natural inference, if the unfortunate woman had administered the dose to herself, that the glass would have been found on the table by her bedside. It was not so found, and the maid declares that her mistress was too weak to get out of bed and return to it unaided. These facts, if they be facts, circumstantially prove that the cause of death lay outside the actions of the invalid herself. The maid states that when she left her mistress the bottle containing about a dozen lozenges was on the table by her mistress's bedside, and also a glass, and a decanter of water; and that when she visited her mistress at between six and seven o'clock in the morning there were no lozenges left in the bottle, and the glass from which they were supposed to be taken, dissolved in water, was on the mantle-shelf. Now, in my view, this circumstance is in favor of the prisoner."

"I cannot see that," observed Dr. Daincourt.

"Yet it is very simple," said the lawyer. "Let us suppose, in illustration, that I am this lady's husband. For reasons into which it is not necessary here to enter, I resolve to make away with my wife by administering to her an overdose of these poisonous narcotics, and naturally I resolve that her death shall be accomplished in such a manner as to avert, to some reasonable extent, suspicion from myself. I go into her bedroom at midnight. Our relations, as has been proved, are not of the most amiable kind. We are not in love with each other-quite the reverse-and have been living, from the first day of our marriage, an unhappy life. Indeed, my unhappy life, in relation to the lady, commenced when I was engaged to her. Well, I go into her room at midnight, resolved to bring about her death. She complains that she cannot sleep, and she asks me to give her a morphia lozenge from the bottle. I suggest that it may more readily produce sleep if, instead of allowing it to dissolve slowly in her mouth, she will drink it off at once, dissolved in water. She consents. I take from the table the bottle, the decanter of water, and the glass I empty secretly into the glass the eight or ten or dozen lozenges which the bottle contains; I pour the water from the decanter into the glass, and I tell my wife to drink it off immediately. She does so, and sinks into slumber, overpowered by a sleep from which she will never awake. Perhaps she struggles against the effects of the terrible dose I have administered to her, but her struggles are vain. She lies before me in sure approaching death, and both she and I have escaped from the life which has been a continual source of misery to us. The deed being accomplished, what do I, the murderer, do? There are no evidences of a struggle; there have been no cries to alarm the house; what has been accomplished has been well and skilfully accomplished, and I am the only actual living witness against myself. What then, I repeat, is my course of action? Before I killed her I removed the bottle, the glass, and the decanter from the table by the bedside. I wish it to be understood that she herself, in a fit of delirium, caused her own death. This theory would be utterly destroyed if I allowed the glass from which the poison was taken to be found at some distance from the unfortunate lady's bedside. Very carefully, therefore, I place not only that, but the decanter which contained the water, and the bottle which contained the lozenges, within reach of her living hand. To omit that precaution would be suicidal, and, to my mind, absolutely untenable in rational action under such circumstances. Do you see, now, why the circumstance of the glass being found on the mantle-shelf is a proof of my innocence?"