These prejudices were the result of one of those absurd feuds which still exist in Southern communities. At some remote period the Graysons and the Marshes had been involved in a dispute over certain lands which when taken to the courts had been decided in favor of the former family. Since that time the name of Grayson had been anathema to a Marsh and succeeding generations had at different times done their utmost to bring misfortune to members of the Grayson family.
It is only fair to state in favor of the Graysons that their activities in this quarrel had been directed along only defensive lines. Until this act of the last of the race in poisoning Robert Marsh, not one of them had done anything to keep alive the fires of hatred. And in the beginning even young Gerald had shown no animosity toward his hereditary enemies. He had permitted himself to be attracted by a daughter of the race and in an upright, manly way had done his best to gain her father’s consent to their marriage. Only when this consent was refused did he strike.
I was not present at the gathering at Graham Cumberland’s house where Grayson committed the act that would send him to the gallows, but what happened was adequately described to me by an eye-witness. The meeting was not a social one but was called by Cumberland as president of the town's largest bank to obtain the consent of his directors to certain innovations he desired to establish.
Present besides Cumberland, himself, and Marsh and Grayson were Herbert Stanley, the bank’s vice-president and cashier; Samuel Townsend, the richest and most powerful man in the State, and Cashel Heming, an attorney who held proxies for the absentee directors. Except by Marsh, no objections were raised to Cumberland’s plan. But Marsh, who always enjoyed being in the minority and was of an unusually antagonistic disposition, fought Cumberland tooth and nail. At moments he was positively insulting and had it not been for his adversary's tact and tolerance of an old man’s irritability, a serious quarrel might have ensued. As it was, after a great deal of argument, it was decided to hold the matters under discussion over to another meeting when it would be possible to get together a greater number of the bank’s directors.
It was when they had all risen to go that Cumberland with his well-known suavity and tact had said: “Mr. Marsh, you and I have spoken pretty plainly this evening. To show these gentlemen that our disagreement in no manner affects our personal relations, I am going to ask you to drink a glass of wine with me.”
He turned to Grayson, who had been sitting with his back to the buffet.
“Gerald,” he said, “will you oblige me by reaching into the cabinet there and getting out the decanter and glasses?”
Obedient to his host’s request, Grayson had brought forth a decanter which to Cumberland’s chagrin was seen to contain only about two glasses of wine. While Cumberland was offering to go into the cellar and procure more wine and being dissuaded by the others, it was noticed that Grayson had filled two glasses from the decanter he held in his hand and that he had placed the first before Cumberland and the second before Marsh. Then the two men drank each other’s health and the party separated for the night.
At about half-past one the following morning Marsh awoke in his bed in frightful agony. Before his daughter could get a doctor he was dead.
II
I did not see my friend Mountfort for a week after the day he left me, swearing to clear Grayson from the charge of murder or give up practising his profession. When at length he did come to me he was in such low spirits that I felt sorry for him. He frankly admitted that repeated interviews with his client and with everyone who had been at Cumberland’s on the night of the tragedy, had brought him nothing of value for the task he had set himself.
“But hang it all, Tom,” he said despondently, “I know — I feel in every bone in my body — that that boy is as innocent as you are. If only I could strike upon a sign to set me off in the right direction.”
“Oh, why not admit you’re beaten,” I argued. “Persuade Grayson to let you put in a defence of temporary insanity and take his chances with the jury.”
“I’d as soon let him plead a straight and unqualified guilty. You know how the newer element in the town feels toward the old families. And it’s this element that composes most of our juries. Why, the boy wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Then forget the whole rotten business for a while. Come with me and hear Tot Walters play on her violin. Such music ought to be an antidote for anybody’s troubles.”
Mountfort did not reply to my suggestion. When I had finished tying my cravat I turned around and looked at him. He was standing bolt upright in the centre of the room staring at me intently, yet somehow or other seemingly looking beyond me. I spoke his name.
“The sign! The sign!” he exclaimed in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Gad, Tom, I think you’ve shown it to me. If only you have!”
And with no other word he dashed from the room, leaving me to go on to the Walters Concert at the Opera House alone.
That evening Miss Walters, who was Just back from two years in Dresden, where she had studied under the best teachers, played divinely. Lulled by the exquisite notes of her instrument I was able to thrust aside all my problems and vexations and soar into a world of purest melody. The music gripped me to such an extent that even after it was over and I was walking homeward through the soft Spring moonlight, I was a being apart from other mortals. Therefore the shock was considerable when from out of the shadows surrounding my porch a figure darted and caught me by the arm. I had raised my fist to strike when Mountfort’s familiar voice came to me out of the darkness.
“Tom!” he cried, “I’m on the trail. The scent is strong. Come, I want you to be in at the kill.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I cried, thinking for a second that my friend had gone mad.
“The Grayson case, you idiot,” he answered impatiently. “By the grace of God I’ll have that boy out of jail before I’m a day older.”
Without listening to my protests and vouchsafing me no further information, he led me hurriedly along the street toward the upper end of the town. When at length I was going to declare my intention to go no farther unless he told me what wild goose chase we were pursuing, he turned in at the gate of a fine old mansion.
Surprised beyond belief I saw that the house toward which we were heading was the home of Graham Cumberland.
“What are we doing here at this time of night?” I demanded. “Surely you’ve been over the case with Cumberland a hundred times before this?”
Mountfort ignored my question. Instead of answering it he took the steps of Cumberland’s stoop at a bound and an instant later I heard his ring at the bell.
The door was opened to us almost instantly and it was Cumberland’s handsome, genial face that looked out at us from the lighted doorway.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in!” he cried when he had recognized us, “I am very glad you have taken the trouble to look in on me. I had become so bored with my own company that I was just about to pack off to bed.”
He stood aside and held the door wide for us to enter:
“Mr. Cumberland,” Mountfort said when a minute or so later we were seated in our host’s library enjoying the flavor of his cigars, “our visit is not entirely a social one. In fact, I’ve come to ask you a further question or so about the death of Robert Marsh. Perhaps you will bear with me when I tell you that my belief in Grayson’s innocence is still unshaken, and I do not want to leave anything undone that might in any way help him.”