“By the way, Judge,” observed Mr. Leg when a chance offered itself, “I want to thank you for assigning me to that Mount case — the murder case, you know — though I certainly can’t guess why I was selected.”
“Ah!” Judge Manton’s brows lifted. “Is it a matter for thanks?”
“It certainly is. Most interesting three weeks I’ve ever had. I’ve worked day and night. Spent ten thousand dollars, and there’s a chance I’ll win it.”
“M-m-m! Of course you know I can’t discuss the case out of court.”
“Oh, no! I understand that,” agreed Mr. Leg hastily. “Only I just thought I’d let you know that I’ll probably be in court tomorrow with a request for postponement.”
“Ah!” Again Judge Manton’s brows were lifted. “I suppose you have a good reason.”
“No, I haven’t. That is, no particular reason. But I haven’t been able to get hold of my most important witness, and I believe there is usually no difficulty in getting a postponement when a man’s life depends on it. I believe the district attorney will make no objection.”
For a moment there was no reply. Judge Manton took from his pocket a silk case embroidered with gold, extracted a cigarette, and lit it. He blew a long column of smoke slowly into the air, and another. Then he turned with startling suddenness and spoke rapidly in a low voice, looking straight into Mr. Leg’s eyes:
“I don’t know if the district attorney will object, Mr. Leg. But I do know that I will. The calendar is too far behind already to permit of further postponements, except for the most cogent reasons. You’ve had a month to prepare your case and find your witnesses. Of course you may come to court and enter your petition for a postponement if you wish. But, my dear Leg, speaking merely as a private citizen, I wouldn’t advise you to bank much on it.”
Judge Manton stopped abruptly, blew a third column of smoke into the air, turned on his heel, and walked away.
“Well!” ejaculated Mr. Leg to himself in astonishment. “I’ll be damned if they haven’t got to Manton the same as they did Dick Hammel! Lord, how I’d love to show ’em all up!”
And he walked all the way home from downtown, a distance of over two miles, in order to inspect the faces of the passersby in search of Patrick Cummings. He was deadly in earnest, was Mr. Simon Leg. Think of walking over two miles when a mere uplifting of a finger would have brought a spirited taxi dashing to the curb!
The following morning at the office Mr. Leg lost no time in telling Dan of his conversation with Judge Manton. His indignation had increased during the night; he denounced the entire police force and judiciary of the city.
“Think of it!” he exclaimed. “They are willing to throw away an innocent man’s life merely to save the good name of a friend! Or there may be politics in it. Whatever it is, it’s rotten! I didn’t think it of Dick Hammel, and now the judge himself—”
“I’m not surprised, sir,” observed Dan. “I’ve half a mind to tell you — but it would do no good. Our only hope now is the movies. We’ve got ten thousand of them working for us. We’ve covered everything within five hundred miles of New York; the only trouble is, he’s nearly as apt to be in San Francisco.”
“Or dead.”
“Yes, sir. For Mount’s sake I hope not.”
“Well, we’ve got just six days left. I’m going to call up Dickinson and tell him to send out more men. I don’t know, Dan; I’m about ready to give up.”
A little later telephone calls began to come in from the motion picture theaters. They asked every conceivable question under the sun, from the number of hairs on Patrick Cummings’s head to the color of his shoestrings. Dan finally gave up all thought of leaving the office, and all day long he sat at his desk with the telephone receiver at his ear. Toward the middle of the afternoon he made two calls on his own account: one to his mother to tell her that he would not be home that night, and the other to a furniture dealer on Fourteenth Street. An hour later Mr. Leg, hearing a most unusual noise in the outer office, stepped to his door to see a man setting up a cot with mattress, covers, and pillows.
“I sent for it,” explained Dan to his astonished employer. “I’m going to sleep here, sir, to answer the telephone.”
After that he refused to leave the office; he had his meals sent in from a nearby restaurant. The truth was, Dan’s conscience was troubling him; he had begun to fear that he had done wrong not to tell his suspicions and his reasons for them to his employer, though he tried to console himself by reflecting that he would only have been laughed at.
But the poor boy felt that his desire for glory had jeopardized the life of an innocent man, and he was miserable. His whole hope now lay in the telephone. Would the word come? Everytime the bell rang his nerves quivered.
The next day Mr. Leg went to court and requested a postponement of two weeks, having first gained the acquiescence of the district attorney’s office. Judge Manton denied the petition, and the lawyer left in a rage.
Only five days were left before the trial.
Several false alarms came in from the motion picture theaters. Most of them were obviously mistakes, but one sent Dan flying for a train to Stamford. When he got there he found the manager of the theater seated in his office, chatting with a little, redhaired Irishman, whose name indeed proved to be Patrick Cummings, but who was certainly not the one wanted.
“Didn’t you read the description of him?” Dan demanded.
“Sure,” replied the manager, “but I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“You’re a fool!” retorted the boy shortly as he started at a run to catch the next train back to New York.
That was Monday afternoon, and the trial was set for Wednesday.
Later that same afternoon Mr. Leg, wandering into the outer office, approached Dan’s desk. The boy was seated there with the telephone at his elbow, apparently buried deep in contemplation of some object spread out before him on the desk. Mr. Leg, going closer and looking over his shoulder, saw a white slip of paper with the words, “Bonneau et Mouet — Sec,” written on it in ink, and beside it a large reproduction of a man’s photograph.
“What in the name of goodness are you doing with that?” demanded Mr. Leg, pointing to the photograph.
Dan jumped with surprise.
“Oh, I... I didn’t know you were there, sir!” He flushed. “Why, I — er — I was just looking at it.” He managed a smile. “Studying human nature, sir.”
The lawyer grunted. “If you ask me, Dan, I think you’re getting kind of queer.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy folded the photograph with the slip of paper inside and placed it in his pocket. The lawyer regarded him sharply for a moment, then returned to the other room.
Tuesday morning came, the day before the trial. Dan did not move from his desk all day and evening. The telephone rang over and over, and each time he took up the receiver it was with a hand that trembled so it could scarcely hold the receiver to his ear. The fact was, he had persuaded himself, or, rather, he felt that the little wire was certain to bring him the word he wanted. But it did not come.
The following morning at ten o’clock William Mount was called before the bar to stand trial for the murder of his wife.
The courtroom was not crowded, for the case was not a celebrated one; but there was a good-sized gathering of those people who may always be counted on to turn up at a murder trial, and there was much twisting of curious necks when the prisoner was led in. There was little change in Mount’s appearance since the day a month previous, when he had been called before Judge Manton to plead.