Three millions! or, The way of the world
“You do!”
“Just as firmly and conscientiously as I believe that Ross killed
Buckstone.”
“Do you wish to believe it?”
“No; I have tried with all my might to believe you were not the person.
The evidence is too strong for my mind. Ross and Hubbard are confident;
and your reasons for being there are sufficiently apparent. There was
not a man in Poppleton who had any business with Buckstone, except Mr.
Hungerford and yourself,” said the doctor, earnestly.
“But I have sworn that I was not the person.”
“That is where you made the greatest mistake of your life.”
“Then you believe me guilty of perjury,” added Dick, calmly.
“I have nothing to say about that. My belief is not a matter of choice.
I believe that Bell River runs down hill; and I believe it because I
can’t help it.”
“In your eye I am perjured?”
“Don’t worry me with hard names; don’t ask me to condemn you. I
will not. I cannot see why you should be so anxious to conceal your
interview with Buckstone.”
“Do you think I helped murder him?”
“God forbid! Of course I do not.”
“Can you conceive of any motive I should have for concealing the fact,
if it were a fact, that I was with Buckstone?”
“I cannot.”
“If you believe I was the person now popularly known as the
‘stranger,’ you must think I have some strong motive for denying what
you believe.”
“There must be some motive: it is not apparent yet. I believe in the
truth; and I am confident that the truth will come out. It will be
proved that you were with Buckstone, and your motive for denying it
will also be proved. I am satisfied on this point. Now, Mr. Birch, I
claim to be your friend. You will do me the justice to say that I have
not been forward in bringing out anything to your disadvantage.”
“Did you suggest to Hungerford that I might be trying to get half a
million with Julia by preventing his marriage?”
“Such a thought occurred to me; and you virtually owned up on the stand
this forenoon.”
“I think not,” replied Dick, indignantly.
“Be that as it may, you will readily perceive that the thought which
came to my mind was a general opinion in the community; otherwise, it
would not have occurred to Mr. Lowe.”
Dick Birch had no suspicion of what had been written on the paper
passed to Mr. Lowe during the examination. Dr. Bilks had reclaimed
the paper, and suggested to the attorney that his position might be
compromised by this honest endeavor on his part to have the whole naked
truth presented to the court. Mr. Lowe saw the point, and promised to
be silent.
“Never mind that, doctor,” said Birch. “What would you, as a friend,
advise me to do?”
“Tell the truth, by all means.”
“Acknowledge that I was on the island, whether I was or was not.”
“I think there can be no doubt that you were there.”
“I still deny the fact; but grant that I was there, as you say you
believe.”
“I trust you do not believe me capable of any insincerity. I do believe
you were there.”
“Never mind that--pass the minor points. You advise me to acknowledge
that I was with Buckstone.”
“Certainly.”
“What then?”
“You are a lawyer; you know best. My impression was, and still is, that
you were on The Great Bell that night for a good purpose. As you did
not give information to the authorities of the murder, as you did not
seem to know that a murder had been committed,--for I carried the first
intelligence to Pine Hill,--I concluded that, when Buckstone went up to
see Ross, you pulled over the channel, and went home.”
“And left Buckstone to be murdered by Mary’s savage brother, or at
least to remain on the island all night?” said Dick, with a sneer.
“I confess it did not look reasonable that you would do so.”
“No man would do so.”
“You know best.”
“In your opinion, I went home, leaving my companion to take care of
himself, and not even asking a question about him until eleven o’clock
the next day!”
“Of course I know nothing of particulars. I know only what is proved.”
“It would be more reasonable to suppose that I remained; that I saw the
murder; that I saw Buckstone hurled over the cliff into the sea; that I
knew it all, and then held my tongue.”
“Ross was your friend--perhaps for his sake you did so; you know best.
If you did, it was a mistaken policy. I advise you, if this was the
case, to tell the whole truth.”
“It might be made to appear that I was an accessory, either before or
after the fact.”
“If you would tell me the whole truth, I could advise you better
what to do. If your complicity in the affair endangers you, I should
recommend you as a friend, though not as a stern lover of justice, to
leave Poppleton--leave the country.”
“I do not ask for any advice. I only desired to obtain your views.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Birch, that you are more deeply implicated than any
one yet suspects--you know best. If I can do anything to serve you, I
will do it with pleasure.”
“I thank you for your exalted opinion of my character!”
“I regard you as a first-rate fellow, and the worst I fear is, that
your zeal to serve your friend Hungerford has led you into a blunder,
if nothing worse.”
“Thank you, doctor. Let me say once more that I was _not_ the stranger.”
“I am sorry you still think it necessary to deny the fact.”
“Dr. Bilks,” said Dick Birch, jumping out of his chair, and throwing
away his cigar, “you are either the most deeply injured man in the
world, or you are the most infernal scoundrel that goes unhung.”
“Then I have been more deeply injured, in your estimation, than I
supposed I had,” replied the doctor, meekly.
“Do you expect to prove that I was the stranger?”
“I think it will be proved--my general belief in the omnipotence of
truth leads me to this conclusion.”
“Now, doctor, suppose we change the issue: my general belief in the
omnipotence of truth leads me to the conclusion that _you_ will be
proved to be the stranger.”
Even the slight change which came over the face of Dr. Bilks was not
unnoticed by Birch. He smiled, looked injured, and pronounced the
conclusion a most unwarrantable one.
“Will you be as candid with me as I have been with you? On what grounds
do you charge me?”
“Can you prove to me where you were from nine till two on that night?”
“I have already testified on that point.”
“And your testimony was not worth a brass farthing Do you expect me,
or any one, to believe this ridiculous story about the baby?”
“I certainly do.”
“What became of the baby?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you report its birth and death to the town clerk?”
“I did--you will find the record of a still-born infant, if you look;
though this is no part of my duty by law. I knew the child would not
live when I left it.”
“Could you induce Sandy McGuire to point out the place where the child
was buried?”
“Undoubtedly I could, and I will do so.”
“Do you know?”
“I do not. Sandy McGuire is an ignorant man, and is probably afraid
that he has done something wrong. I am not surprised that he would not
tell you.”
It was midnight when Mr. Birch left the doctor’s office, satisfied that
he had not made a single point. Even in the matter of Dr. Bilks’s baby,
it certainly looked as though the author of the myth would be able to
establish the truth of all he said. Dick was discouraged. He did not
sleep any that night; he lay tossing upon his bed, thinking of his own
doubtful position before the community.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT.
To say that Mr. Richard Birch was unhappy as he tossed upon his bed
that night, would not appropriately express his mental condition. He
was not unhappy; he was vexed, perplexed, annoyed. He had devoted
his first spare time since the murder to an investigation of the
circumstances attending the event. The result of his inquiries was only
evidence against himself.
But Dick was not unhappy--not troubled in spirit--only perplexed in
mind. The Beatitudes have blessings for all but the wicked; and he who
suffers most, being still innocent and pure, has most blessings. In
spite of all the appearances, real and constructive, which were arrayed
against him, his spirit did not falter. If what was external and beyond
himself discouraged him, there was no loss of power in his soul. He had
faith in the truth, and was satisfied that even his good name would be
vindicated.
He tossed upon his bed all night long--not in misery and self-reproach,
but as he who invents a machine, and is troubled to make one part
harmonize with another. He did some tremendous thinking. He was
struggling to solve a problem: to read the meagre hieroglyphical facts
which the murder case presented. Twenty times, during the five hours
he lay upon his bed, he drew up before him the naked facts, divesting
them, as well as he could, of the opinions and prejudices with which
they had been clothed. They bore fearfully upon himself. He could
not invest the myth of Dr. Bilks’s baby with even the semblance of
reality. The story of the child and the mother was too flimsy to be
believed. If he could ascertain beyond the possibility of a doubt where
the doctor had spent the hours between nine and two on the night of the
murder, the case would be almost made out. But the people of Poppleton
usually slept after nine o’clock, and no one had yet been found except
Hubbard, who was out at the time.
The rope and the weight did not at first appear to possess much
significance to him. Buckstone might have used them as cable and
anchor to moor the boat, and lost them overboard. They might have been
employed for another purpose, which suggested itself to the thinker.
When he rose in the morning, even before the sun was up, he hastened to
the house of Mr. Bangs, the deputy sheriff. The official was not up,
but anything relating to the murder was enough to draw him from his
bed, even in the middle of the night.
“You are up early, Mr. Birch,” said the deputy sheriff, as he joined
the visitor in the parlor.
“I did not sleep a wink last night,” replied Dick.
“I am sorry for that.”
“No doubt I shall sleep better when this business assumes a more
definite shape.”
“We were all a good deal surprised, Mr. Birch, when you swore that you
were not with Buckstone that night.”
“I know of no good reason why you should have been surprised. I
can only say now, as I said then, I am not the person who was with
Buckstone.”
“I hope for your sake you were not. If you hadn’t denied it, nobody
would have thought it was not all right.”
“You are entitled to the benefit of your own opinion, Mr. Bangs. So far
as I appear to be implicated in anything which I deny, I am willing to
wait till the truth comes out.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
“I intend to inquire into this matter till I get at the truth, either
with or without your assistance.”
“O, I am ready to do anything which will help uncover the matter.”
“That’s my business with you just now. You found the boat in which the
two men went over to the island?”
“I did, as everybody knows.”
“You ascertained to whom the boat belonged.”
“Yes; it was Brown’s boat.”
“Of course you were informed that some articles were missing from the
boat.”
“The painter and one fifty-six.”
“Have you found these articles?”
“No.”
“Have you looked for them?”
“Not particularly. We have looked for everything we could find.”
“Have you any idea of the use to which the rope and the weight were
applied?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“Perhaps these articles, if found, might throw some light upon the
subject.”
“Very true. I will search the shore again.”
“Of course you will not find them on the shore. If you please, I will
assist in the search.”
The deputy sheriff looked as though he wanted to say that, if any man