“She never stole them things,” he said.
“They were found in her possession; that is strong legal proof, and I am afraid it will decide the case against her.”
“Are you her lawyer?” he asked.
“I am now going to offer to defend her; if you can tell me anything, there is not a moment to lose.”
“Well, then, some of the same fuzz and trimmings that’s on them stolen clothes is on this girl on the stand.”
“Is that so? Are you sure?”
“Sure as can be. Then I know that big ring on her forefinger as well as I know my hand.”
“Do you?”
“I’d swear to it.”
“Well, we’ll give you a chance to. What is your name?”
“Miles Allen.”
“Keep on hand and we’ll take care of this poor girl, if we can.”
I sent up a line to the judge, in which I offered to defend the prisoner. He announced this fact, I took a seat beside her, and the trial went on. The interview with Allen and the note to the judge had prevented me from hearing much of Mary Murray’s testimony; but the prisoner seemed to have lost nothing of it. She questioned her closely as to their personal relations, and from the answers she drew out, it was evident that Selina’s pretty face had excited considerable admiration in a young man who boarded at Mrs. Wilson’s, and whom Mary Murray chose to consider her beau; that Mary had shown ill-will towards Selina on making this discovery, and had even uttered a few threats for her warning. I permitted the prisoner to elicit these facts without interruption, and I must acknowledge she did it with a tact which surprised me, and which I could ascribe only to strong woman-wit quickened and urged on by the extremity of her circumstances. Mary Murray was leaving, when I detained her for further examination.
“Have you any employment?” I inquired.
She answered in the affirmative.
“What is it?”
“Cap-making.”
“Do you work at the shop, or at your own lodgings?”
“Sometimes at the shop, and sometimes at my lodgings.”
“Where have you worked during the last week?”
“At my lodgings.”
“What kind of caps do you make?”
“Plush.”
“Of what color?”
“Mostly brown.”
“Was that bit of brown plush now hanging to your shawl-fringe from the caps?”
The witness did not answer, but impatiently catching up the end of her shawl, shook off the shred.
I turned to the judge. “Will your honor direct that that shred be secured? I shall have something to do with it.”
It was picked up and handed to the clerk.
Mary Murray was still on the stand. I resumed my questions. “You board in the same house with Selina White?”
“Yes.”
“Was Selina ever in your room?”
“No; she never was; I never had anything to do with her.”
“Were you ever in Selina’s room?”
“Not while she had it; except the day the policeman searched it.”
“Did you then handle the clothes found in the carpet-bag?”
“No; the policeman allowed no one to touch them.”
“When did you last see Mrs. Wilson wear the delaine dress shown here?”
“I can’t tell exactly; not for some months.”
“Has it been in your room among the plush caps to your knowledge?”
“No, sir.”
Mary Murray was dismissed.
I now called Miles Allen. At mention of this name, the little girl at my side started forward as if she had received an electric shock, then sank back and held her hands tightly together as if she was struggling with some powerful feeling. She looked steadily at this witness as she had done at those who preceded him, but her color kept coming and going, and she was excited and anxious. Miles Allen answered to his name and employment; he was a carpenter; came from New Jersey; had been here about six months.
“Do you know the prisoner?” I asked.
The girl’s eyes were full of tears, but there was a look of hope, almost of triumph, on her face as he bluntly answered, “Yes, sir, I do.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Ever since she was born. And I know her too well to believe she’s a thief.”
“Never mind your opinion of her character now,” said the judge: “Do you know anything about this case?”
“I know that there’s the same fuzz on the clothes they say Selina stole, as was hanging to that gay girl’s shawl.”
“Do you know the witness, Mary Murray?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you know the ring she wore on her finger this morning?”
“Yes, sir,” with emphasis.
“What do you know about it?”
“I owned that ring once myself, and Selina White owns it now, for I give it to her, and she ain’t the girl to give it away.”
“How did you recognize it?”
“I’d know it any where as soon as I’d set my eyes on’t; but if you’re a mind to, I’ll tell you how anybody may know that that ring don’t belong to the girl that’s got it. Inside on’t you’ll find my name ‘Miles Allen’ pretty plain and a little something else.”
“Have you anything further to tell us with regard to this case?”
“Only that the gay girl proved plain that she never know’d or loved Selina enough to make her give her the ring, and so I’d like to ask how’d she get it? and then who’s the thief?”
“Those points will be settled at a proper time,” said the judge, and at my request he ordered Mary Murray to be re-called. She appeared, quite red with anger. I examined her as to where she obtained the garnet ring, and as I anticipated received only unsatisfactory and contradictory answers. The judge requested her to remove it from her finger. She refused. An officer in attendance soon relieved her of the ornament which he handed up to the bench. The judge looked at it carefully, and then read from the inside, “Miles Allen. To the girl I love best.”
There was a general titter through the courtroom. I glanced at Miles. He was smiling and blushing, but showed no shame or embarrassment. It was plain that he thought it no unmanly thing to give a ring to the girl he loved best.
“Now,” said the judge, turning to the clerk, “I think we will look at those stolen clothes again.” They were produced, and on being examined, there was found fastened to some bead trimming which ornamented the dress a bit of brown plush, the same in shade and fabric with that the clerk had secured. In the meantime an officer had returned from Mary Murray’s lodgings (where he had gone at my suggestion) with a brown plush cap, which she had lately finished, and on comparison it was found that its material was the same with the shreds in court.
The testimony was now all in, and I rose to make the defence. I went over the evidence and showed that there was nothing against the prisoner but the one fact of possession, always a strong one, I admitted, but in this case outweighed by the too apparent malice and guilt of the girl Murray, who had not only hated and plotted to ruin her, but had stolen from her herself. In proof of this, I alluded to her jealousy, her threats, and her too great readiness in throwing suspicion upon Selina; I dwelt upon the circumstance that a bit of plush which appeared to be a cutting from Mary Murray’s work was found upon the stolen dress although it had been packed away for a long time previous to being found in the prisoner’s possession. It had not been shown that Selina White ever had any plush or had ever been in Mary Murray’s room to obtain it. “Then how,” I asked, “did this detective shred find an opportunity to fasten itself upon the dress in a sudden transit from its owner’s trunk to a stranger’s travelling-bag? Perhaps,” I suggested, “Mary Murray might tell us. She had a similar shred attached to her shawl, and is it not possible, nay probable, that she could tell how and where its fellow became attached to the trimming of the stolen dress? Might it not have been caught in a temporary lodgment in her room, or by contact with her own clothes? How else?” In view of all the circumstances proved, it was easier to believe that Mary Murray had stolen the clothes and then put them in Selina White’s carpet-bag in order to ruin her than that Selina had stolen them.