Circumstantial Evidence Read Online

I feel that I must notify you in case by a mischance there is some question as to how I met my death.

    Very sincerely yours,

     "CHARTRES DANE."

    "I feel that the ends of justice will be served," continued the Attorney-General "if I call the doctor…"

    It was not very long before another Crown case came the way of Jack Freeder. A week after his return from his honeymoon, he was sent for to the Public Prosecutor's office, and that gentleman interviewed him.

    "You did so well in the Flackman case, Freeder, that I want you to undertake the prosecution of Wise. Undoubtedly you will gain kudos in a trial of this description, for the Wise case has attracted a great deal of attention."

    "What is the evidence?" asked Jack bluntly.

    "Circumstantial, of course," said the Public Prosecutor, "but——"

    Jack shook his head.

    "I think not, sir," he said firmly but respectfully. "I will not prosecute in another case of murder unless the murder is committed in my presence."

    The Public Prosecutor stared at him.

    "That means you will never take another murder prosecution—have you given up criminal work, Mr. Freeder?"

    "Yes, sir," said Jack gravely; "my wife doesn't like it."

    Today, Jack Freeder is referred to in legal circles as a glaring example of how a promising career can be ruined by marriage.

    Ten minutes before Snub Reilly left his dressing-room a messenger delivered a letter. His seconds and his manager protested against his reading anything which might well be disturbing at such a critical moment, for the little man was fighting for his title, and Curly Boyd, the aspirant to championship honors, had knocked out four successive opponents before he claimed his right to a meeting with the World Champion.

    "Let me see it," said Snub, and he was something of an autocrat. The letter was typewritten and was signed by two reputable men whose names were honored in the sporting world.

    Snub read the letter slowly.

    "A challenge," he said tersely, "for £10,000 a side."

    "Who is the feller?" asked his manager.

    "They call him 'An Unknown'; he wants to meet the winner of tonight's fight. Send a wire and say I accept."

    His manager grinned. He was a stout man with a moist face, and he had infinite confidence in Snub, but——

    "Better wait till after the fight?" he suggested.

    "Send it," said Snub curtly, and put on his dressing-gown.

    Manager Seller dispatched the wire, not without some discomfort of mind. The fourth round brought him relief.

    Curly Boyd, an approved European champion, had himself to thank for such an early ending to his rosy dreams. He had detected, as he thought, a certain unsteadiness in Snub's leg movements, an uncertainty that was a hint of a stagger. So Curly, relying upon his excellent fitness, had put everything into a projected left and right. Incidentally he was fighting the greatest ring strategist of his day, and when he uncovered his jaw for the fraction of a second…

    "Eight… nine… ten—out!" said a far-away voice in Curly's ear. Somebody shook him by his gloved hand, and he heard above the roaring in his head a louder roar, and dropped his head wearily to catch a glimpse of a figure in a flowered dressing-gown slipping through the gangway into the gloom behind the ring seats.

    It was a fine thing for Snub, because the eyes of the world were on that fight—outside the building limousines were parked twenty deep—and before he reached his dressing-room the news of his victory was quivering in dots and dashes on every line and cable that ran from the city.

    He stripped off his dressing-gown and submitted to the attentions of the masseur with some sign of impatience. Ten minutes after the fight he left the building by a side door, and mingled with the thousands who crowded about the entrances. Modesty was Snub Reilly's favorite vice.

    The echoes of such a combat were not to die down in a day, for Snub was something of a national hero. This champion who never gave interviews, who was so taciturn and secretive that his very seconds did not meet him until the day before his fights, appealed to the popular imagination as no other ring favorite had done. And when, at the end of the press description, it was announced that "An Unknown" had challenged the winner for a purse of $50,000 (£10,000), and the challenge had been accepted, there was an added value to the news.

    Even staid and sleepy Rindle, dedicated to the education of youth, was excited, wildly excited for Rindle. The headmaster read the account of the fight at breakfast and hummed and ha'd his approval of the lightning stroke which laid the presumptuous Curly Boyd so low. And on the opposite side of the breakfast table Vera Shaw, nineteen and beautiful, hid a newspaper on her lap, read furtively and was thrilled. A group of boys en route from their dormitories-houses to prayers and morning school, gathered about one daring soul who had broken all school regulations by purchasing forbidden literature, and whooped joyously.

    It was natural that Barry Tearle, the mathematical master, should stop in the midst of correcting exercises, hitch up his gown at the neck for comfort, and sit back to study the account. Natural, because he was also games master and instructor of the noble art to Rindle School.

    He put down the paper with a thoughtful frown and went back to his exercises, lighting his pipe mechanically the while. Presently he gathered the papers together and rose. The bell was clanging the warning for prayers in Hall, at which solemn function all masters were expected to be present. He hurried across the quadrangle-campus and under the archway above which was part of the head's quarters. He never passed under that arch without wondering whether Vera owned those rooms. It was part of the daily routine of unconscious speculation, and he was so wondering as he turned to join the stream of boys on the flagged path to Hall, when he heard his name called.

    He turned quickly, startled almost, and swept off his cap.

    It was the subject of his thoughts.

    "I saw you come home this morning."

    She pointed an accusing finger and he blushed.

    "Did—did you? My car had a breakdown near Northwood—I hope I didn't disturb you?"

    No errant boy called to his study to explain a delinquency could have looked more patently guilty than he, and she laughed, and when Vera Shaw laughed, it required all his self-possession to behave sanely.

    "No, you didn't disturb me. I couldn't sleep and was sitting at the window approving of the moon when you sneaked into the quad—there is no other word for it. Did you see the fight?" she asked suddenly, and he gasped.

    "No, I did not see the fight," he said severely; "and I'm surprised——"

    "Pooh!" She flicked her finger at him. "I've read every bit about it.