“I don’t know. No, it wouldn’t. Hang it all, I suppose I’m in for it. But where’s the sense in it? I don’t know the first thing about murder. What if he’s innocent? How could I prove it? Whoever this Mount is, God help him. I suppose I’ll have to go and see him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though Mr. Leg talked for another half-hour, while Dan listened respectfully, he could arrive at no other conclusion. There was no way out of it — he must go and see the man, Mount. Heavens, what a frightful, unexpected thing, to have a murderer thrown on one’s hands! Really, there ought to be a public defender.
At ten o’clock he put on his hat and coat and started for the Tombs.
Let us talk about him while he is on his way. Mr. Simon Leg was known among the members of his profession as well as any lawyer in the city, but not as a lawyer. In fact, he wasn’t a lawyer at all, except in name. He hadn’t had a case in ten years.
He had inherited a large fortune, and thus, seeing no necessity for work of any kind, he refused to do any.
It was apparently to maintain his self-respect that he kept an office and spent his days in it, for all he ever did was to sit in the swivel chair and consume novels and tales of adventure at the rate of five or six a week, with now and then a game of chess with Dan, who gave him odds of a rook and beat him. At first sight it would appear that Dan and Miss Venner had absolutely nothing to do, but they were in fact kept pretty busy picking up the novels and tales from the floor as their employer finished them, and sending them to the Salvation Army.
As for Mr. Leg’s wide popularity among the members of his profession, that was accounted for by the fact that he was a member of all the best clubs, a good fellow, and a liberal friend.
He is now at the Tombs. Entering the grim portals with an inward shudder, he explained his mission to the doorkeeper, and was at once ushered into the office of the warden, to whom he exhibited the letter from Judge Manton by way of credentials. The warden summoned the attendant, who conducted the lawyer to a small, bare room at the end of a dark corridor, and left him there. Five minutes later the door opened again and a uniformed turnkey appeared; ahead of him was a man with white face and sunken eyes, wearing a seedy black suit.
The turnkey pointed to a button on the wall.
“Ring when you’re through,” he directed, and went out, closing the door behind him.
The lawyer rose and approached the other man, who stood near the door regarding him stolidly.
“Mr. Mount,” said the attorney in an embarrassed tone of voice, holding out his hand. “I’m Mr. Leg, Simon Leg, your — that is; your counsel.”
The other hesitated a moment, men took the proffered hand.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Leg,” he said. He appeared to be also ill at ease. It is a curious thing how the lighter emotions, such as ordinary social embarrassment, continue to operate even when a man is in the shadow of death.
“Well—” began the lawyer, and stopped.
The other came to his rescue.
“I suppose,” said Mount, “you’ve come to hear my side of it?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Leg agreed. “But here, we may as well sit down.”
They seated themselves, one on either side of the wooden table in the center of the room.
“You see, Mr. Mount,” began the lawyer, “I don’t know the first thing about this case. I was assigned to it by Judge Manton. And before you give me any confidences, I want to tell you that I have had no criminal practice whatever. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a lawyer. I say this so that you can ask the court to give you other counsel, and I think you’d better do it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” returned Mount quietly. “There’s no use putting in a defense, anyway.”
Mr. Leg glanced at him quickly. “Oh,” he observed. “What — do you mean you’re guilty?”
The lawyer shrank back from the quick, burning light that leaped from the other’s eyes.
“No!” Mount shouted fiercely. Then suddenly he was quiet again. “No,” he continued calmly, “I’m not guilty, Mr. Leg. My God, do you think I could have killed her? But there’s no use. I was caught — they found me there—”
“Wait,” the lawyer interrupted. “I really think, Mr. Mount, that you’d better ask for other counsel.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“But I’m incompetent.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. She’s dead, and that’s all there is to it. What do I care? I tell you that I haven’t any defense except that I didn’t do it. No, I won’t ask the judge for anything. Let it go.”
Mr. Leg sighed.
“Then I’ll do the best I can,” he said hopelessly. “Now, Mr. Mount, tell me all you know about it. Tell me everything. And remember that my only chance to help you is if you tell me the whole truth.”
“There’s no use in it, sir,” said the other in a dull tone of misery.
“Go on,” returned the lawyer sternly.
And William Mount told his story.
Chapter III
The Amateur Detective
It was well past two o’clock when Mr. Leg returned to his office, having stopped at a restaurant for lunch on the way. As he entered, Miss Venner and Dan looked up with faces of expectant eagerness, and a faint smile of amusement curled the stenographer’s pretty lips. Dan sprang to his feet to hang up his employer’s coat, and a shadow of disappointment fell across his face as the lawyer nodded his greetings and thanks and passed without a word into the other room. But it was not long before his voice came:
“Dan!”
The youth hastened to the door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come here.” Mr. Leg was seated at his desk with his feet upon its edge and his chin buried in his collar — his favorite reading attitude. “Dan,” he said as the other stood before him, “this Mount case is a very sad affair. I’m sorrier than ever that I’m mixed up in it. As sure as Heaven, they’re going to convict an innocent man.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s innocent, beyond any doubt; but I don’t know what to do. Sit down there and let me tell you about it. You’re a bright boy; you play a good game of chess; maybe you’ll think of something.”
“Yes, sir,” returned the youth eagerly, bringing forward a chair.
“You know,” the lawyer began, “Mount is accused of murdering his wife. Well, she was his wife only in name. He hadn’t been living with her for four years. He hadn’t even seen her in that time. He married her seven years ago when he was thirty-two and she was twenty-one. He was head clerk in an insurance office, getting a good salary, and she had been a stenographer in a law office. For two years they lived together happily. Mount worshiped her. Then she seemed to become discontented, and one day, a year later, she suddenly disappeared, leaving a letter for him which indicated that she had found another man, but not saying so in so many words. He searched—”
“Has he got that letter?” interrupted Dan, who was listening intently.
“What letter?”
“The one his wife left.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”
“All right, sir. Excuse me.”
“He searched for her everywhere,” the lawyer continued, “but found no trace whatever. He went to the police, but they had no better luck. By that time, he had lost his position, having continually absented himself from the office for two months. His heart was broken, and with his wife gone, he didn’t care whether he lived or not. He went from bad to worse, and became practically a vagabond. Half mad from misery and grief, he tramped around looking vaguely for his lost wife. More than three years passed, and the edge of his sorrow dulled a little. He obtained a position as bookkeeper in a coal office, and held it faithfully for four months.