One of My Sons — The Missing Pocket

It was George.

The two other brothers had shrunk back out of sight.

XV THE MISSING POCKET

The excitement was intense.

To see suspicion thus suddenly, and, I must say, deftly, shifted from the man hitherto regarded guilty to one whom nobody had seemed inclined to doubt, was to experience an emotion of no ordinary nature.

I was so affected by it that I quite forgot myself, and stared first at the vest thus recognised by its owner, then at the witness, who was calmly awaiting an opportunity to speak, with deep bewilderment only cut short by the coroner's abrupt words: "Where did you find this vest I now hold up before you?"

"In the closet of the dressing-room adjoining the apartment where Mr. George Gillespie is said to sleep."

"Does this dressing-room communicate with the hall or with any other room than the said Mr. Gillespie's sleeping apartment?"

"No." "Is it a large room or a small one; a mere closet or a place big enough for a man to turn about in with ease and do such a thing, say, as change his vest without being seen too plainly by persons in the adjoining room?"

"It is a six-by-ten room, sir.

If anyone chose to do what you suggest in the especial corner where the wardrobe stands, he certainly would run little chance of being seen by anyone sitting near the fireplace of the sleeping apartment."

"Why do you speak of the fireplace?"

"Because the evidences are strong that this was where Mr. Gillespie's three friends were sitting when he came up from below, with the half-empty bottle of sherry in his hands."

"What evidences do you allude to?"

"The fact that we found four chairs standing there about a table strewn with cards.

I did not see the gentlemen in their seats."

"But you did see this vest hanging on one of the nails in the wardrobe?"

"Yes, sir."

"A near nail or a remote one?"

"The remotest in the closet."

"Very good.

_Now, what is the matter with this vest?

_" "It lacks a pocket."

Ah!

So that was it!

The coroner turned the vest in his hand.

"What pocket?"

"The lower right-hand one, the one where a gentleman usually carries a pen, knife, or pencil."

"What has happened to it?

How could a pocket be lost from a vest?"

"It has been cut out."

"Cut out!"

"Yes, sir; we found an open knife lying on the dresser, and if you will look again at the vest you will see that the missing pocket was slit from it with a very hasty jerk."

"I avow----" shouted the voice of the owner from the seats behind.

But the infuriated man who thus attempted to speak was quickly silenced.

"You will be allowed to explain later," remonstrated the coroner.

"At present we are listening to Mr. Sweetwater.

Witness, what course did you pursue after coming upon this vest?"

"I endeavoured to ascertain if its owner had gone into his dressing-room after coming up from the room below."

Here we heard sobs; but they were only a child's, and the inquiry went on.

"Did you succeed?"

"I request you to call up Mr. James Baxter as a more direct witness."

His request being complied with, Mr. James Baxter came forward, and expectancy rose to fever-point.

He was one of the three gentlemen whose voices I had heard over the cards that were being played in George Gillespie's room during the hour his father had succumbed to poison.

I recognised him at once from his burly figure and weak voice;

having noticed this eccentricity at our first meeting.

He was not sober then, but he was very sober now, and the effect he produced was, on the whole, favourable.

Glancing at George as if in apology, and receiving a tiger's glare in return, he waited with a certain _sang froid_ for the inevitable question.

It came quickly and with a peremptoriness which showed that the coroner now felt himself on safe ground.

"Where were you sitting when George Gillespie left you to go downstairs for wine?"

"At the card-table near the fire, with my face towards the dressing-room at the other end of the room."

"Had wine been passed then, or any spirituous liquors?"

"No." "You were all in a perfectly sober condition therefore?"

"Tolerably so.

Two of us had had dinner at Delmonico's, but I had been dining at home and was dry.

That is why Mr. Gillespie went down for the wine."

"What did you do while he was downstairs?"

"Bet on the Jack about to be turned up."

"How much money passed?"

"Oh, ten dollars or so."

"And when your host returned, what did you do?"

"I guess we drank."

"Did he drink too?"

"I did not notice.

He put the bottle down and went into his dressing-room.

When he came back he stood a minute by the fire, then he sat down.

He may have drank then.

I didn't observe."

"What did he do at the fire?

Was he warming himself?

It was not a cold night."

"I don't know what he did.

I saw a sudden burst of flame, but that was all.

I was busy dealing the cards."

"You saw a flame shoot up.

Was there wood or coal in the grate?"

"Deuce take me if I remember.

I wasn't thinking of the fire.

I only knew we were roasting hot and more than once made some movement towards shifting the table further off, but we got too interested in the cards to bother about it."

"It must have been a lively game.

Were you too interested in shuffling and dealing to notice why Mr. Gillespie went to his dressing-room?"

"Yes, I never thought anything about it."

"You didn't watch him, then?"

"No." "Cannot say whether or not he went towards his wardrobe?"

"No." "Or, perhaps, whether the door between you was closed or not?"

"He didn't close the door; I should have noticed that."

"How long was he in that room?"

"I can't say.

Long enough for me to drink my wine and shuffle the cards.

Before I had dealt them he had set down."

"One question more.

Can you truthfully assert he did not cross his dressing-room before your eyes, change his vest in the corner where the wardrobe stands, and come back in the same coat, but with a different vest on?"

"No. I cannot even say what kind of clothes he wore that night.

I am no dude, and all vests, so long as they are not striped or plaid, are alike to me."

This remark, which was facetious only from the humorous contrast between the small and highpitched voice and the large and stalwart figure of the speaker, caused a smile to appear on several faces.

But this expression was soon replaced by one more befitting the occasion, as a change in witnesses once more occurred and Hewson appeared upon the stand.

This old servant of the family was loath to look at the vest held out before him, and seemed desirous of denying that he had noticed what his young master had worn at dinner that night.

But his precision and habitual attention to details were too well known for him to succeed in any evasion, and he was forced to declare that the vest with the thumb mark on the lining was not the one Mr. George had worn at dinner.

This was a fatal admission and George's case was looking very black, when a sudden cry mingled with a burst of childish sobs was heard in the room, and little Claire, breaking away from the restraining hands that sought to hold her back, rushed out in face of coroner and jury, and stretching out her arms to her father, cried: "Uncle George didn't cut the pocket out of his vest.

I did.

I--I

wanted a little bag for my beads, and Hetty wouldn't make me one; so I stole into uncle's room and snipped out the little pocket.

It was before grandpa died, and I'm so--so sorry."

She fell into her father's arms and was crushed, nay, strained against that father's breast.

Never had a child's naughtiness brought a more perfect joy; while from floor to ceiling of the great room, cries and shouts of relief went up from the surcharged hearts of the spectators which for once the coroner failed to rebuke.

Possibly he was as much touched as anyone.

There was so much natural impulse, so much spontaneity in the child's words and actions, that no one could doubt her candour or the fact that this outburst had been prompted by her own contrition.

Even Mr. Gryce accepted the explanation without demur, though he must have realised that it demolished at a blow the case he had so carefully reared against the oldest son of Mr. Gillespie.

He was even seen to smile benignantly and with a kind of soothing tenderness on the knob of his umbrella before he rested his chin upon it in quiet contemplation.

Hope, who had made an impetuous movement as the child flew by her, let her eye fall for a moment on the curly head almost nestled out of sight in the paternal embrace.

Then with a glance at George, scarcely long enough to note the relief this childish hand had brought him, she let her eye travel slowly on to Alfred, who, biting his lips to keep down the flush which these rapidly succeeding events had called up, did not catch her look, precious as it doubtless would have been to him.

Then and not till then did her gaze seek mine.

Alas!

this recognition of my interest, so eagerly anticipated and so patiently waited for, was inspired by no deeper sentiment than a desire to gather my present idea of the situation and what was now to be expected from the baffled officials.

If my answering look conveyed undue confidence in the outcome, I had certainly sufficient excuse for it in the attitude of those about me.

The explanation which George was able to give of the causes which had led to his changing his vest on the evening in question were received with respect, if not with favour, and as it was natural enough to gain credence, enthusiasm in his regard rose to such a pitch that it presently became evident that it would be next to impossible to push the case farther before this jury.

Indeed, the reaction was so strong that after some futile attempts to reopen the inquiry on fresh lines, the coroner finally gave in and called for the jury's verdict.

It was, as might be expected: "Death from the effects of prussic acid, administered by some hand unknown."

XVI