“How say you? Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?” inquired the clerk as they shuffled in and lined up at the rail.
“Not guilty,” stoutly answered the foreman.
Babson and O’Brion stared at each other. An acquittal? It was inconceivable!
“Strike the names of these men from the rolls of the Special Jury!” ordered His Honor. “They’re a disgrace to the administration of justice! The defendant is discharged! Adjourn court until tomorrow morning!”
The foreman and No. 7 stalked defiantly out of the courtroom, side by side. Pausing to light their cigarettes by one of the big pillars in the rotunda, they observed Bonnie Doon hurriedly approaching his chief.
“Excuse me, Mr. Tutt,” said he breathlessly. “Do you happen to have a dollar bill on you? I want to give the Halloran Club some ice-cream soda.”
Vance Halloran had been back on his truck for more than a month when Mr. Tutt, glancing over the paper, happened upon the following item:
Rochester, N. Y., June 5, 1937, Special to The New York Times: James Breslin, an escaped convict, wounded yesterday while resisting arrest, died last night in the Eastman Hospital after confessing various crimes. Among them was the shooting of Michael Kelly, who, he claimed, was responsible for his imprisonment. He had been unaware, he said, that Vance Halloran, truck driver for a New York evening paper, had been indicted and tried for the homicide until after the latter’s acquittal by a special jury.
“Well,” chuckled the old lawyer as he handed the paper to Bonnie Doon, “Jefferson was right—sometimes!”
Her Father’s House
Mr. John De Puyster Hepplewhite, chairman of the board of Home for Aged Gentlewomen, Inc., tapped upon his rosewood writing desk.
“The meeting will please come to order,” he said. “We are all of us busy men and I personally have but a few minutes to spare. I suppose we can dispense with reading the last minutes?... Very well; they stand approved.... Have you anything special to report, Mr. Gobbet?”
Mr. Gobbet, conscious that he dominated the situation, complacently twiddled his glasses.
“No, there’s nothing particularly on my mind at the moment. Everything seems to be going fine. We might have another special investigator. I know of an excellent man whom we can get for forty-five hundred a year. And the country staff needs a new automobile.”
Mr. Hepplewhite, whose social and artistic interests left him comparatively little time for philanthropy, always felt at a disadvantage with Gobbet. At the moment his mind was completely occupied with a contemplated $40,000 purchase of Ming porcelain. He now looked inquiringly at the two other gentlemen present, both of whom nodded without comment.
“Seems reasonable. It is so voted. Is there anything else?”
“Carson, my assistant, has been with me ten years,” went on Mr. Gobbet. “He gets only twelve thousand dollars a year. In view of our highly satisfactory financial condition—the treasurer’s report shows assets of over five million—would not a slight increase—say to fifteen thousand—be in order?”
“It doesn’t seem out of line to me,” concurred Mr. Hepplewhite. “Agreed?... So voted. Anything else? I fear I shall have to hurry along, gentlemen. The meeting stands adjourned.”
Stifled sobs awoke Grandma Benton. Poor Leila! She got up and went to the door leading to the hall. With her hand on the knob, she paused.
“It simply can’t be done, darling!” she heard Richard Bryant, the girl’s fiancé, saying. “What with my own grandmother and Auntie Bess living with us, I can only just stagger along as it is. Anyhow, I don’t want my wife to have to run an old ladies’ home!”
“All right, dear,” answered Leila bravely. “After all, we’re young and can afford to wait.”
“If you’re willing to, sweetheart. It’s a tough break for both of us. I hope you understand.”
“Oh, I do, Richard! I do!”
The outer door closed and his footsteps rattled down the stairs. Grandma stood motionless, her delicate profile silhouetted against the white wall. Her parents had said precisely the same thing fifty years ago. If only she had married Lawrence Pell instead of “waiting”! Could half a century have flown since they had stood together under the cedar of Lebanon on the terrace behind her father’s house and watched the moon come up across the East River? Could anyone afford to wait? Youth came but once!
There were no more sounds from the other side of the partition, and Grandma went back to bed. Strange, how she thought so much these days about Lawrence, so much about the old brick mansion with its terraces sloping down to the river, the humid greenhouse with its overpowering odors, the stable with its dovecotes, ancient Pompey driving the pair of bays in the C-spring victoria. Incredible that she could be seventy-one! The clang of streetcars and the hoot of motors from Amsterdam Avenue four flights below filled her ears as she lay there in her little cubicle.
There was not a trace of unhappiness on the girl’s face next morning when she brought in Mrs. Benton’s breakfast tray. “‘Oh, grandmother, what great big eyes you’ve got!’” she said.
“The better to see through you, my dear!”
Mrs. Benton’s smile faded as Leila went out. Could she live without Leila? No, that wasn’t the question! Could Leila really live with an old woman hanging like a millstone about her neck? From her wallet she removed a slip of paper with some notes copied from the Registry of Social Services.
Home for Aged Gentlewomen, Incorporated. Coverdale, Westchester, New York.
A home for aged women of good breeding and refinement who have fallen into adverse circumstances. Apply in person to the supt. For women of 65 years or over. Adm. $500; transfer of property if not willed to relatives. Visiting three times a week.
“Sounds very nice,” she declared resolutely. But her sight blurred as she looked around the sunny little room. Could she bear to leave it? “Where’s your nerve, Leila Wadsworth?” she murmured, dashing her eyes. “Be a sport.”
Mr. Wallace Gobbet, after an excellent luncheon, sat smoking in the bay window of the old Wadsworth house overlooking the East River. He had sat there comfortably most of the time for eighteen years. In fact, his two daughters had been born upstairs. He could see them now, playing tennis on the lawn with Gosford and Ashley, his two secretaries. A swell place, the only one of its kind left, now that the section was becoming fashionable and huge apartments were going up all along the water front. No reason why he shouldn’t live there indefinitely. Next summer maybe he could wangle a motor launch.
The desk telephone buzzed and he reached over. “Hello, Carson. Everything all right?”
“Okay, Mr. Gobbet,” answered the assistant superintendent at Coverdale. “I just thought I’d let you know we’ve had a new application—a Mrs. Benton.”
“But we’re full up!”
