The Case and Exceptions Part 4

I could not at once find an answer for the poor wretch, almost frantic with anxiety. He interpreted my silence hopefully, for he continued,

"I ask you to take but little upon faith. If my plan succeeds, as it must, no one will lose save those who in commercial venture have staked upon my failure, and who have no idea to-day how near I am to it. The Insurance Companies will regain their money and more advertis.e.m.e.nt than they could get elsewhere in twenty years. If I fail, they will only have paid the money a few days too soon. You believe that? You must know I could not survive failure. But you need not rely on this, for you are safe in the fact that I cannot return without facing a prison for my few remaining years. When first I came here to-night, Mr. Wainwright, it was to open your safe and subst.i.tute the Wills and let you do unknowingly what I now ask and implore you to do knowingly.--You will do it, will you not?"

"Mr. Bateman,--once and for all,--I will not."

"You won't help me? Then, by G.o.d, you shan't hinder me!"

I sprang to my feet, but before I understood what was taking place I saw a flash, and one of the window panes behind me shattered. Almost at the same instant I launched myself upon the old man with such force that we both crashed to the floor, I upon his prostrate body. The struggle was brief, for I was young and powerfully built, and the man beneath me well advanced in years. Pinning his arms with my knees I tore the revolver from his hand and hurled it across the room. Then he ceased struggling and I turned him over easily, tying his arms with my handkerchief. But there was little need of this precaution, for his strength was gone, and it was necessary to help him into a chair. Some moments pa.s.sed before he said anything. When he spoke there were tears in his voice.

"Forgive me, Mr. Wainwright. I don't know what possessed me. The disappointment--the disappointment of a life's work must have suddenly crazed me. But I am sane now and I was before. Everything I told you is true.--I know it is impossible now to hope for anything.--Will you take me to a hospital? I am a sick man, Mr. Wainwright--a very sick man, but I do not wish to live. Everything--I told you--is true."

Ten days later Josiah Bateman died at the hospital where I took him that night.

"It is a singular case," the House Physician told me, "but not unheard of. He simply lacked the zest for living."

Mr. Bateman's second Will was never probated. A few days before he died he sent for it.

"What is to-day?" he asked as I gave him the doc.u.ment.

"Wednesday," I answered.

"It is too late now," he whispered. "I have lived too long. I revoke this." He tore the paper as he spoke.

We proved the old Will, but he had perfected his plans only too well. It was difficult to make out a case of mistaken ident.i.ty for the body in the Adirondacks, and it was months before we established our rights to the insurance moneys. His estate did not realise quite $100,000, but after a close examination into his affairs I am persuaded all Josiah Bateman claimed he could accomplish was possible, and that everything he told me that night was absolutely true.

THE FINDING OF FACT.

"But their wild exultation was suddenly checked, As the Jailer informed them with tears, Such a verdict would not have the slightest effect, As the pig had been dead for some years."

LEWIS CARROLL.

"Anything on this morning, Counsellor?"

The t.i.tle was still music to Holden's ears, so he smiled encouragingly at the fat reporter. In an instant a bethumbed court calendar was shoved under his nose and the reportorial pencil questioned,

"_Grafton against the Milling Companies?_ Are you in that? Say, what's doing there to-day? Is it any good?"

The reportorial arm was slipped confidentially through his, and Holden thus accompanied threaded his way through the crowded rotunda of the County Court House.

"h.e.l.lo--must be something up in Holden's office. Look at that leech Plimpton glued to him!"

"Yes--_Grafton against The Milling Companies_."

"Good Lord! Is that on? I might as well go back to the office then.

We'll never be reached to-day."

"That's right. We're not ready, so thank goodness they're ahead of us.

It's a dandy case,--wish we had it."

"Think I'll stay and hear the arguments.--Old man Harter's in fine form, they say."

So the managing clerks talked as they leaned against the walls of the rotunda or sat upon the railing of the "Well."

It is an interesting place that rotunda--a trifle impossible, perhaps, from an academic point of view,--but still an interesting place.

It is the big noisy ante-chamber to the stuffy court rooms of a big noisy city. It has an atmosphere of tobacco, s.h.i.+rt sleeves and hurry--an atmosphere of the people--its architecture is big and plain--an architecture for the people, and its dirt and smears bespeak a daily use and occupation by the people.

To the casual visitor the same persons seem to live in it all the year round. To the habitue the ma.s.ses are kaleidoscopic--never and yet ever the same. Messengers,--process-servers, office boys--all the fledglings of the law gather there in groups and blow cigarette smoke into each other's faces. Court officials loll about the railing patronising the managing clerks, who must cultivate them or yield all claims to management. Big-girthed men hold one another by watch chains and lapels and tell loud-mouthed stories of their triumphant practice. Bloated gentlemen and s.h.i.+fty seek out corners to breathe moist secrets into each other's ears. But heedless of all these a hurrying crowd is ever streaming this way and that--here a haggard face and there a laughing one--now a brutal type and now a mask of breeding--so they go--shuffle, shuffle, click-a-clack, all day long, outside the halls of Justice.

Holden pushed open the swinging doors labelled

SPECIAL TERM PART I.

and entered a small court room crowded to suffocation. Every seat was occupied and men were standing about everywhere--jammed in between the chairs--plastered against the wall--crushed against the rail. The counsels' table and its two chairs were the only unoccupied bits of furniture in the room.

The Court criers glanced despairingly at the throng and shouted mechanically, "Gentlemen will please take seats!" and then, more hopefully, "Gentlemen will please stop talking!"

But the babel of conversation was finally hushed by an attendant who announced the entrance of the Judge by pounding with an ample fist upon the panels of a door. Not a very dignified heralding of the presence of the Court, but understood by the late comers whose view is limited to the judicial canopy--that pall-like canopy of red rep which sets one panting to gaze with relief at the steam-screened windows. They at least are wet.

"_Grafton_ vs. _The Milling Companies!_"

Holden fought his way like a foot-ball player through the "rush line" of lawyers, and as he pitched into the cleared s.p.a.ce before the counsels'

table his impulse was to dodge the one man before him and race down "the side-line." But he checked himself in time. Then two other young men plunged into the open and stood somewhat breathlessly before the Bench.

"If it please the Court," began Holden, "this is a motion in a case of great importance and----"

"All cases are equally important in this Court, Sir!"

"I recognise that, your Honour, but I was about to say----"

"Well, well, never mind! Are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir, but I was about to tell your Honour----"

"That'll do, Sir!"

"That Mr. Harter, who is to argue this motion, thinks it will take till recess."

"Ah, Mr. Harter? Well, his opinions are interesting, of course, but not quite conclusive on this Court. Not necessarily conclusive. Eh?"

A t.i.tter from the crowd acknowledged this retort. Is there anything so irresistibly infectious as the wit of the Bench?