Evening Star Newspaper, November 30, 1934, Page 30

THE EVENING STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1934, By VICTOR BRIDGES CHAPTER L VERDICT. OW long have they been out now?” I asked. Mr. Cresswell consulted his watch. “Half an hour; at least, 28 minutes, to be exact.” “Is that all?” I said. “It seems more like a week” I took a couple of paces along the narrow cell, and came back to the small table at which he was sitting. “I suppose nine of them made up their minds that I'm guilty, and they're trying to persuade the other three to agree with them. I'm certain that confounded foreman wants to hang me, I could see it n his eye.” The old lawyer got up slowly and 1aid his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t talk like that, my boy,” he sald, “you—you've been splendid up to now, and—" “Sorry, interrupted. “It's this infernal waiting that gets on one's nerves. Something like sitting in a dentist’s waiting room, staring at the aspidistras.” “I know, I know. It's a terrible or- deal, but you mustn't let it shake your courage. The jury always takes a little time. They—they like to dis- cuss a case, even when they are prac- tically agreed. Personally, I have no doubt about their verdict—none what- ever.” I felt convinced that he was lying, but all the same I made an effort to appear more cheerful. “Well, you've done everything for me that was humanly possible,” I said. “I couldn't have had a better counsel than Barrett. If they choose to murder me it won’t be his fault.” “His speech for the defense,” said Mr. Cresswell, “was magnificent. It produced a tremendous effect upon the jury—tremendous.” “I wish it had produced a little more upon old Earle,” I observed a trifie bitterly. He nodded. “I understand how you feel, but we must try to remember that it's a judge's duty to be strictly impartial. His summing up .. ."” “I don’t want impartiality,” I broke out. “What I want is justice. I didn’t kill Osborne and . . ."” A key grated in the lock, and with a simultaneous movement we swung round toward the iron door. It opened noiselessly, and a broad-shouldered figure in dark blue stepped forward into the cell. I drew in a long breath. The warder, a genial fellow, in spite of his profession, gave me a friendly nod. “You'll be wanted soon.” he re- marked, “the jury are just coming back.” Mr. Cresswell took my hand and pressed it. “God be with you, my boy,” he muttered huskily. “You can step in next door, if you'd like to wait, sir,” continued the warder, addressing himself to my companion. Then he turned to me. “There’s no special hurry for a mi. ute or so. They ain't in court yet.” “I'm ready,” I said. Picking up his hat, Mr. Cresswell walked out of the cell. My jailer eyed me for a moment with a touch of sympathy on his broad, stolid face. “Keep your nerve up,” he said in a low voice, “and good luck to you.” Then, tapping me on the arm, he pointed to the door. Outside, at the end of the white glazed brick passage, stood a second warder. I took my place behind him and, passing the wired-in staircase on our left, we advanced in precession toward the narrow flight of steps ~ Its Good Morning- which led up into the court. A I mounted I could hear the low murmur of voices. I had been through so many emo- tions during the last few weeks that now, when the fateful moment had come, my nerves and brain seemed to be too exhausted for any further effort. All I felt as I stepped out into the dock was a kind of weary and half-numbed resentment. I had no particular sensation either of hope or fear. I walked forward to the front, and the whispered hum of conversation that was going on all around me sud- denly became louder. From every part “Do you believe people will agree with the verdict?” I asked. of the court faces turned in my di- rection. The occupants of the press seats began hastily scribbling in their notebooks, looking up at me with quick glances, as though searching for ap- propriate adjectives. In the far corner the jury were already filing back into their places. They were headed by the foreman— a lean, lantern-jawed man with a long, scraggy neck and a morose ex- | pression. He looked like a dyspeptic | schoolmaster. In a stentorian voice the usher de- | manded silence. Every one rose to | his feet, a door at the back opened | and Mr. Justice Earle in his scarlet | robe stepped slowly into view. He | was accompanied by two sheriffs, and with leisurely dignity the trio settled themselves in their respective seats. “Members of the jury, will you please answer to your names.” While the customary roll call was in progress, my eyes almost in- stinctively wandered up into the pub- ! lic gallery. | flowing. but in the usual place, at the extreme end of the front row, I caught sight of the face I was looking for. It was the face of a girl. I had noticed her first on the opening day of my trial, and among that drab | crowd of typical sensation hunters | her fresh beauty had stood out like some delicate flower. She was quite a stranger to me. I hadn't the re- motest idea who she was. I only knew ;that all through the week she had been sitting there in the same corner | seat—a motionless and intent figure, | apparently absorbed in the evidence. The last of the jurymen mumbled out his reply, and a profound hush fell upon the court. Lowering my | eyes from the gallery, I looked stead- ily in front of me. I prayed silently It was packed to over-| that whatever happened I might face it without flinching. With an almost unbearable delib- eration the clerk turned toward the box. “Members of the jury, have you de- cided upon your verdict?” “We have,” returned the foreman. “Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of murder?” “Not guilty.” Something seemed to snap inside my head, and of a sudden the crowd- ed court became queerly indistinct. “And that,” continued the far-away volce, “is the verdict of you all?” “It is.” By an immense effort I managed to moisten my lips. Through the mist that still floated between us I could see the figure of Mr. Justice Earle. “The prisoner,” he said, “is dis- charged.” I stared at him vacantly, Somebody tapped my shoulder. “It's all right, sir,” whispered a voice in my ear. “Come along with me and get your coat and hat.” At the touch of the warder’s hand my brain began to clear. The trial was finished. I had been found not guilty—I was not going to be hanged —TI could walk out into the street a free man. For a moment the reaction was so terrific that I had to grip hold of the ledge in front to keep myself from swaying. I had a confused impres- sion of people standing up, of a fresh outburst of whispering at the back of the court, of the impassive judge writing at his table. Then I turned and walked toward the steps. Down below, in a& half-open door- way, facing the staircase, Mr. Cress- well was waiting for me. “My dear boy,” he exclaimed, as he seized hold of both my hands, “I have no words to tell you how happy I am! I knew from the first—"" “Better come inside, sir, if you don’t mind,” interrupted the warder. He pushed back the doo he spoke. and the next moment, still a trifle dazed, I found myself in the small, cheerless apartment which served as the prisoners’ dining room. .‘-"dvo:b?n m: comfortable ‘:In‘ here,” warder encouragingly. “Thanks,” I said dully. . He took his departure, and as the latch clicked behind him I sank down on the nearest bench. Mr. Cresswell patted me an the shoulder. “We won't try to discuss anything at present,” he said. “What you need is a good rest, a good dinner and a nice long sleep. The best thing you can do is to come back with me to my house and stay the night.” CHAPTER II. SEYMOUR'S LETTER. SHOOK my head. “It’s fright- fully Kind of you,” I broke in. “You've been an absolute brick all through, and I can never begin to thank you sufficiently for a quarter of what you've done.” I paused. “All the same,” I added, “if you won't think me ungrateful I'd rather be alone for the next few hours. I—I want to get straight in my own mind.” “Why, of course.” Mr. Cresswell seated himself beside me. “You do exactly as you please, my boy. If you feel you would be better by your- self, well and good. Don't try to think too much, however. Look on it all as a wretched mistake that's finished and done with, and tomorrow or the next day, when you are quite yourself again, you must come along to lunch with me and we’ll have a good long talk.” 1 stared at him for a moment in silence. “Do you believe that people will agree with the verdict?” I asked. “Certainly I do; at least ninety-nine out of a hundred. There are always a few fools about who like to flatter themselves that they know better than the jury, but you can take it from me that every sensible man who has followed the case will be abso- lutely convinced of your innocence. That reminds me”—he put his hand in his breast pocket—"I've got a note for you here from your cousin.” “What—Seymour?” I inquired. He nodded. “It was sent round to my office this morning with a covering letter. He expressed a wish that it should be handed to you be- fore you left the court.” Nicholas Gets a Jolt, Tomorrow. 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