Part 8 (1/2)
”Did you come here to insult me?”
At this outburst of indignation the sheriff's deputy drew near.
”That was nothing, Rob,” said Harry, sobering up. ”Only my cursed thoughtlessness. I'm sorry, on my word, you've got into the fix.”
”Carry your condolences somewhere else.”
”Oh, well----”
”I was always literal and I mean now what I say. Your apology only makes the matter worse.”
There is nothing more subversive of dignity than an unpremeditated sneeze. Not that Saul Aronson had much dignity to spare. On the contrary, he was an extremely modest young man, with apparently one great pa.s.sion in his life, the service of s.h.a.garach. On this occasion his resounding ker-choo proclaimed from afar the arrival of that personage and threw a ridiculous damper on the rising temper of the cousins. Seeing the two strangers approach, Harry fumbled out a farewell and withdrew with an air of languid bravado. s.h.a.garach watched him as he pa.s.sed.
”Follow that young man for a few hours,” he said to Aronson. ”I should like to know his afternoon programme.”
Aronson hung on his master's lips and trotted off to obey his command.
”I am s.h.a.garach, come to defend you,” he said to the prisoner, still flushed with the remembrance of the quarrel.
”Who sent you to defend me?” was the curt reply.
”Your friend, Miss Barlow.”
”Emily?”
Robert's voice grew softer.
”I have some questions to ask you.”
”What have I done to be questioned as if I were a cut-throat? What have I done to be jailed here like some wild beast, before whom life would not be safe if he were let at large?”
”I know you are innocent, Floyd.”
Only the falsely accused can tell how the first a.s.surance of trust from another revives hope and faith in their kind. Robert Floyd was no man to lean on strangers, yet s.h.a.garach's words were as soothing to him as a gentle hand laid on a feverish forehead.
”Your cousin Harry came here to verify his knowledge of the will, which disinherited him, did he not?”
”Harry was disinherited, that is true.”
”How came you to give up the profession of botanist, in which your uncle trained you?”
”Men interest me more than vegetables.”
”But you refused your uncle's wealth, that would have given you power among men.”
”It was not mine. I had not earned it. I feared the temptation.”
”You are a journalist, I believe?”
”Six months ago I happened to report a conference of charities for the Beacon. Today I am eking out my income by occasional work for that paper.”
s.h.a.garach thought of his own first brief. A youth, imperfectly acquainted with English, was charged with the larceny of an overcoat from his fellow-lodger. Something about him enlisted the sympathy of a kind-hearted lady who drew s.h.a.garach into the case because of his knowledge of the Hebrew jargon which the prisoner spoke. The youth was acquitted and was now a student of law, being no other than s.h.a.garach's a.s.sistant and idolater, Aronson. That was years ago. Today hundreds flocked to hear his pleading of a cause, judges leaned over alertly, as if learning their duty from him, and the very hangers-on of the courtroom acquired a larger view of the moral law when s.h.a.garach expounded it.
”My own beginnings were as humble,” he said.
”You are a criminal lawyer by choice, people say.”
”The moral alternative of innocence or guilt, of liberty or imprisonment--sometimes, as now, of life or death--exalts a cause in my eyes far above any elevation to which mere financial litigation can attain.”
Robert looked his visitor over thoughtfully. The criminal lawyer was not reputed the highest grade of the guild. But there was a sneer, too, in many quarters for the journalist. He, too, must mingle in the reek of cities, share Lazarus' crust and drink from the same cup with the children of the slums.
”And you have risen to the defense of murderers,” he said.
”Men accused of murder,” answered s.h.a.garach.
”You are reputed to be uniformly successful.”
”That is no miracle. My clients are uniformly innocent. My first step is to satisfy myself of that.”
”When were you first satisfied of my innocence?”
”When I saw you here.”
”I am to be removed to the state prison while the jail is repaired,” said Robert, who had indulged dreams of some powerful intervention which should procure his release. ”How long before a final hearing will be given me?”
”Two months at most. The evidence against your cousin is growing rapidly under my hands.”
”It was 'evidence' that brought me here. Is your 'evidence' against Harry no more valuable?”
”I am not prosecuting Harry Arnold, but every item that points to his guilt guides the finger of suspicion away from you.”
s.h.a.garach was satisfied with his interview. He had elicited proof to his own mind of Robert's innocence and legal evidence of Harry's disinheritance under the will. To fasten knowledge of the fact upon the cousin would now be an easier task.
”Miss Barlow will be permitted to see you,” was his parting a.s.surance to the prisoner before he hurriedly returned to his office, to find an unexpected client awaiting him.
John Davidson, the marshal, had a friendly habit, the legacy of a country bringing-up, which his acquaintances found both useful and agreeable. Our tired Emily, trudging to s.h.a.garach's with the heavy message of a day's failure, must have agreed with them heartily. At least, she did not decline his invitation when the kindly old gentleman drove up behind her and urged her to share his seat in the carriage.
”I am bringing him some evidence now,” said Emily in answer to the marshal's first question, after he had settled her according to his liberal ideas of comfort and clucked his horse to a gentle trot.
”Evidence--no need of evidence, miss. If s.h.a.garach has your case, that will be prima-facie evidence in itself of your sweetheart's innocence.”
”He is a wonderful man. But do people like him?”
”Like him? Well, 'like' is a medium word, you see, used for medium people. He's a good deal of a sphinx to us all, my dear. But aren't you a brave girl to be tramping the streets for your sweetheart? Don't mind being called sweethearts, I hope? That was the old-country word when I courted Elizabeth. But I believe young folks now call it fiancee, inamorata--French words and Italian, as though they were ashamed to speak it out in good old English.”
”Oh, we prefer sweethearts a hundred times. But I see Mr. s.h.a.garach's sign.”