University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Shylock.

The eyes of Dunscomb were fastened intently on the female
stranger, as she advanced to the place occupied by the witnesses.
Her features denoted agitation, certainly; but he saw no traces
of guilt. It seemed so improbable, moreover, that a young woman
of her years and appearance should be guilty of so dark an offence,
and that for money, too, that all the chances were in favour of
her innocence. Still, there were suspicious circumstances, out
of all question, connected with her situation; and he was too
much experienced in the strange and unaccountable ways of
crime, not to be slow to form his conclusions.

The face of Mary Monson was now fully exposed; it being
customary to cause female witnesses to remove their hats, in order
that the jurors may observe their countenances. And what a
countenance it was! Feminine, open, with scarce a trace of the
ordinary passions about it, and illuminated from within, as we
have already intimated. The girl might have been twenty, though
she afterwards stated her age to be a little more than twenty-one
— perhaps the most interesting period of a female's existence.
The features were not particularly regular, and an artist might
have discovered various drawbacks on her beauty, if not positive
defects; but no earthly being could have quarrelled with the
expression. That was a mixture of intelligence, softness, spirit,

and feminine innocence, that did not fail to produce an impression
on a crowd which had almost settled down into a firm conviction
of her guilt. Some even doubted, and most of those present
thought it very strange.

The reporters began to write, casting their eyes eagerly towards
this witness; and John Dunscomb, who sat near them, soon
discovered that there were material discrepancies in their descriptions.
These, however, were amicably settled by comparing
notes; and when the accounts of that day's examination appeared
in the journals of the time, they were sufficiently consistent with
each other; much more so, indeed, than with the truth in its
severer aspects. There was no wish to mislead, probably; but
the whole system has the capital defect of making a trade of
news. The history of passing events comes to us sufficiently
clouded and obscured by the most vulgar and least praiseworthy
of all our lesser infirmities, even when left to take what may be
termed its natural course; but, as soon as the money-getting principle
is applied to it, facts become articles for the market, and
go up and down, much as do other commodities, in the regular
prices-current.

Mary Monson trembled a little when sworn; but she had evidently
braced her nerves for the trial. Women are very capable
of self-command, even in situations as foreign to their habits as
this, if they have time to compose themselves, and to come
forward under the influence of resolutions deliberately formed.
Such was probably the state of mind of this solitary and seemingly
unfriended young woman; for, though pale as death, she
was apparently composed. We say unfriended — Mrs. Jones,
herself, having given all her friends to understand that she had
invited the stranger to her house under a sense of general duty,
and not on account of any private or particular interest she felt
in her affairs. She was as much a stranger to her, as to every
one else in the village.

“Will you be so good as to tell us your name, place of ordinary
residence, and usual occupation?” asked the coroner, in a
dry, cold manner, though not until he had offered the witness a
seat, in compliment to her sex.

If the face of Mary Monson was pale the instant before, it now
flushed to scarlet. The tint that appears in the August evening
sky, when heat-lightning illuminates the horizon, is scarce more
bright than that which chased the previous pallid hue from her
cheeks. Dunscomb understood her dilemma, and interposed.
She was equally unwilling to tell her real name, and to give a
false one, under the solemn responsibility of an oath. There is,
probably, less of deliberate, calculated false-swearing, than of any
other offence against justice; few having the nerve, or the moral
obtuseness, that is necessary to perjury. We do not mean by
this, that all which legal witnesses say is true, or the half of it;
for ignorance, dull imaginations working out solutions of half-comprehended
propositions, and the strong propensity we all feel
to see things as we have expected to find them, in a measure
disqualifies fully half of those on whom the law has devolved a
most important duty, to discharge it with due intelligence and
impartiality.

“As a member of the bar, I interfere in behalf of the witness,”
said Dunscomb, rising. “She is evidently unacquainted
with her true position here, and consequently with her rights.
Jack, get a glass of water for the young lady;” and never did
Jack obey a request of his uncle with greater alacrity. “A
witness cannot, with propriety, be treated as a criminal, or
one suspected, without being apprised that the law does not
require of those thus circumstanced, answers affecting themselves.”

Dunscomb had listened more to his feelings than to his legal
knowledge, in offering this objection, inasmuch as no very searching
question had, as yet, been put to Mary Monson. This the

coroner saw, and he did not fail to let it be understood that he
was aware of the weakness of the objection.

“Coroners are not governed by precisely the same rules as
ordinary committing magistrates,” he quietly observed, “though
we equally respect the rules of evidence. No witness is obliged
to answer a question before an inquest, that will criminate himself,
any more than at the Oyer and Terminer. If the lady will
say she does not wish to tell her real name, because it may criminate
her, I shall not press the question myself, or allow it to
be pressed by others.”

“Very true, sir; but the law requires, in these preliminary
proceedings, no more than such accuracy as is convenient in
making out the records. I conceive that in this particular case
the question might be varied by asking, `You are known by the
name of Mary Monson, I believe?”'

“What great harm can it be to this young female to give her
real name, Mr. Dunscomb, as I understand you are that distinguished
counsellor, if she be perfectly innocent of the death of
the Goodwins?”

“A perfectly innocent person may have good reasons for wishing
to conceal her name. These reasons obtain additional force
when we look around us, and see a committee of reporters, who
stand ready to transmit all that passes to the press; — but, it
might better serve the ends of justice to allow me to confer with
the witness in private.”

“With all my heart, sir. Take her into one of the jury
rooms, and I will put another physician on the stand. When
you are through with your consultation, Mr. Dunscomb, we
shall be ready to proceed with your client.”

Dunscomb offered his arm to the girl, and led her through the
crowd, while a third medical man was sworn. This witness corroborated
all of Dr. Coe's opinions, treating the supposition that
both the skeletons were those of women with very little respect.

It must be admitted that the suspected stranger lost a great deal
of ground in the course of that half-hour. In the first place, the
discussion about the name was received very much as an admission
of guilt; for Dunscomb's argument that persons who were
innocent might have many reasons for concealing their names,
did not carry much weight with the good people of Biberry.
Then any doubts which might have been raised by McBrain's
suggestion concerning the nature of the skeletons, were effectually
removed by the corroborating testimony of Dr. Short, who so
fully sustained Dr. Coe. So much are the Americans accustomed
to refer the decision of nearly all questions to numbers,
it scarcely exaggerates the truth to say that, on the stand, the
opinion of half-a-dozen country surveyors touching a problem
in geometry, would be very apt to overshadow that of a professor
from West Point, or old Yale. Majorities are the primum
mobile of the common mind, and he who can get the greatest
number on his side is very apt to be considered right, and to
reap the benefits of being so.

A fourth and a fifth medical man were examined, and they
concurred in the opinions of Dr. Coe and his neighbours. All
gave it as the result of their enquiries, that they believed the
two skulls had been broken with the same instrument, and that
the blow, if it did not cause immediate death, must have had the
effect to destroy consciousness. As regards the sex, the answers
were given in a tone somewhat supercilious.

“Science is a very good thing in its place,” observed one of
these last witnesses; “but science is subject to known facts.
We all know that Peter Goodwin and his wife lived in that
house; we all know that Dorothy Goodwin was a large woman,
and that Peter Goodwin was a small man,—that they were about
of a height, in fact,—and that these skeletons very accurately
represent their respective statures. We also know that the house
is burnt, that the old couple are missing, that these bones were

found in a wing in which they slept, and that no other bones
have been found there. Now, to my judgment, these facts carry
as much weight, ay, even more weight, than any scientific reasoning
in the premises. I conclude, therefore, that these are the
remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin — have no doubt that
they are, indeed.”

“Am I permitted to ask this witness a question, Mr. Coroner?”
demanded Dr. McBrain.

“With all my heart, sir. The jury wishes to ascertain all
they can, and our sole object is justice. Our inquests are not
very rigid as to forms, and you are welcome to examine the witness
as much as you please.”

“You knew Goodwin?” asked McBrain, directly of the
witness.

“I did, sir; quite well.”

“Had he all his teeth, as you remember?”

“I think he had.”

“On the supposition that his front upper teeth were all gone,
and that the skeleton you suppose to be his had all the front
upper teeth, would you still regard the facts you have mentioned
as better, or even as good proof, as the evidence of science, which
tells us that the man who has lost his teeth cannot possess them?”

“I scarcely call that a scientific fact, at all, sir. Any one may
judge of that circumstance, as well as a physician. If it were as
you say, I should consider the presence of the teeth pretty good
proof that the skeleton was that of some other person, unless the
teeth were the work of a dentist.”

“Then why not put any other equally sure anatomical fact in
opposition to what is generally supposed, in connection with the
wing, the presence of the men, and all the other circumstances
you have mentioned?”

“If there were any other sure anatomical fact, so I would.
But, in the condition in which those remains are, I do not think

the best anatomist could say that he can distinguish whether
they belonged to a man or to a woman.”

“I confess that the case has its difficulties,” McBrain quietly
answered. “Still I incline to my first opinion. I trust, Mr.
Coroner, that the skeletons will be carefully preserved, so long
as there may be any reason to continue these legal enquiries?”

“Certainly, sir. A box is made for that purpose, and they
will be carefully deposited in it, as soon as the inquest adjourns
for the day. It is no unusual thing, gentlemen, for doctors to
disagree.”

This was said with a smile, and had the effect to keep the
peace. McBrain, however, had all the modesty of knowledge,
and was never disposed to show off his superior attainments in
the faces of those who might be supposed to know less than
himself. Nor was he, by any means, certain of his fact; though
greatly inclined to believe that both the skeletons were those of
females. The heat had been so powerful as to derange, in some
measure, if not entirely to deface, his proofs; and he was not a
man to press a fact, in a case of this magnitude, without sufficient
justification. All he now wanted, was to reserve a point that
might have a material influence hereafter, in coming to a correct
conclusion.

It was fully an hour before Dunscomb returned, bringing
Mary Monson on his arm. John followed the latter closely, for,
though not admitted to the room in which this long private conference
had been held, he had not ceased to pace the gallery in
front of its door during the whole time. Dunscomb looked very
grave, and, as McBrain thought, and he was very expert in interpreting
the language of his friend's countenance, disappointed.
The girl herself had evidently been weeping, and that violently.
There was a paleness of the face, and a tremor in the frame, too,
that caused the observant physician to suppose that, for the first
time, she had been made to comprehend that she was the object

of such dire distrust. No sooner were the two in their old seats,
than the coroner prepared to renew the suspended examination.

“Witness,” repeated that functionary with marked formality,
“what is your name?”

The answer was given in a tremulous voice, but with sufficient
readiness, as if previously prepared.

“I am known, in and around Biberry, by the name of Mary
Monson.”

The coroner paused, passed a hand over his brow, mused a
moment, and abandoned a half-formed determination he had
made, to push this particular enquiry as far as he could. To
state the truth, he was a little afraid of Mr. Thomas Dunscomb,
whose reputation at the bar was of too high a character to have
escaped his notice. On the whole, therefore, he decided to
accept the name of Mary Monson, reserving the right of the state
to enquire further, hereafter.

“Where do you reside?”

“At present, in this place — lately, in the family of Peter
Goodwin, whose remains are supposed to be in this room.”

“How long had you resided in that family?”

“Nine weeks, to a day. I arrived in the morning, and the
fire occurred at night.”

“Relate all that you know concerning that fire, if you please,
Miss—I call you Miss, supposing you to be unmarried?”

Mary Monson merely made a slight inclination of her head, as
one acknowledges that a remark is heard and understood. This
did not more than half satisfy the coroner, his wife, for reasons
of her own, having particularly desired him to ask the “Monson
girl,” when she was put on the stand, whether she was or was
not married. But it was too late, just then, to ascertain this interesting
fact, and the examination proceeded.

“Relate all that you know concerning the fire, if you please,
ma'am.”

“I know very little. I was awakened by a bright light,—arose,
and dressed myself as well as I could, and was about to descend
the stairs, when I found I was too late. I then went to a window,
and intended to throw my bed out, and let myself down
on it, when two men appeared, and raised a ladder, by which I
got safely out.”

“Were any of your effects saved?”

“All, I believe. The same two persons entered my room, and
passed my trunks, box, and carpet-bag, writing-desk, and other
articles, out of the room, as well as most of its furniture. It was
the part of the building last on fire, and it was safe entering the
room I occupied, for near half an hour after I escaped.”

“How long had you known the Goodwins?”

“From the time when I first came to live in their house.”

“Did you pass the evening of the night of the fire in their
company?”

“I did not. Very little of my time was passed in their company,
unless it was at meals.”

This answer caused a little stir among the audience, of whom
much the larger portion thought it contained an admission to be
noted. Why should not a young woman who lived in a house
so much apart from a general neighbourhood, not pass most of
her time in the company of those with whom she dwelt? “If
they were good enough to live with, I should think they might
be good enough to associate with,” whispered one of the most
active female talkers of Biberry, but in a tone so loud as to be
heard by all near her.

This was merely yielding to a national and increasing susceptibility
to personal claims; it being commonly thought aristocratic
to refuse to associate with everybody, when the person subject
to remark has any apparent advantages to render such association
desirable. All others may do as they please.

“You did not, then, make one of the family regularly, but

were there for some particular purpose of your own?” resumed
the coroner.

“I think, sir, on reflection, that you will see this examination
is taking a very irregular course,” interposed Dunscomb. “It
is more like an investigation for a commitment, than an inquest.”

“The law allows the freest modes of enquiry in all such cases,
Mr. Dunscomb. Recollect, sir, there have been arson and murder—two
of the highest crimes known to the books.”

“I do not forget it; and recognise not only all your rights,
sir, but your duties. Nevertheless, this young lady has rights,
too, and is to be treated distinctly in one of two characters; as a
witness, or as a party accused. If in the latter, I shall at once
advise her to answer no more questions in this state of the case.
My duty, as her counsel, requires me to say as much.”

“She has, then, regularly retained you, Mr. Dunscomb?” the
coroner asked, with interest.

“That, sir, is a matter between her and myself. I appear
here as counsel, and shall claim the rights of one. I know that
you can carry on this inquest without my interference, if you see
fit; but no one can exclude the citizen from the benefit of advice.
Even the new code, as extravagant and high-flying an invention as
ever came from the misguided ingenuity of man, will allow of this.”

“There is no wish, Mr. Dunscomb, to put any obstacles in
your way. Let every man do his whole duty. Your client can
certainly refuse to answer any questions she may please, on the
ground that the answer may tend to criminate herself; and so
may any one else.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; the law is still more indulgent in
these preliminary proceedings. A party who knows himself to
be suspected, has a right to evade questions that may militate
against his interests; else would the boasted protection which
the law so far throws around every one, that he need not be his
own accuser, become a mere pretence.”

“I shall endeavour to put my questions in such a way, as to
give her the benefit of all her rights. Miss Monson, it is said
that you have been seen, since the fire, to have some gold in your
possession; have you any objection to let that gold be seen by
the jury?”

“None in the world, sir. I have a few gold pieces — here
they are, in my purse. They do not amount to much, either in
numbers or value. You are at liberty to examine them as much
as you please.”

Dunscomb had betrayed a little uneasiness at this question;
but the calm, steady manner in which the young woman answered,
and the coolness with which she put her purse into the
coroner's hand, reassured, or rather surprised him. He remained
silent, therefore, interposing no objection to the examination.

“Here are seven half-eagles, two quarter-eagles, and a strange
coin that I do not remember ever to have seen before,” said the
coroner. “What do you call this piece, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“I cannot tell you, sir; I do not remember ever to have seen
the coin before, myself.”

“It is an Italian coin, of the value of about twenty dollars,
they tell me,” answered Mary, quietly. “I think it is called
after the reigning sovereign, whoever he may be. I got it, in
exchange for some of our own money, from an emigrant from
Europe, and kept it as a thing a little out of the common way.”

The simplicity, distinctness, not to say nerve, with which this
was said, placed Dunscomb still more at his ease, and he now
freely let the enquiry take its course. All this did not prevent
his being astonished that one so young, and seemingly so friendless,
should manifest so much coolness and self-possession, under
circumstances so very trying. Such was the fact, however; and
he was fain to await further developments, in order better to comprehend
the character of his client.

“Is Mrs. Pope present?” enquired the coroner. “The lady

who told us yesterday she had seen the specie of the late Mrs.
Goodwin, during the life-time of the latter?”

It was almost superflous to ask if any particular person were
present, as nearly all Biberry were in, or about, the court-house.
Up started the widow, therefore, at this appeal, and coming forward
with alacrity, she was immediately sworn, which she had
not been the previous day, and went on the stand as a regular
witness.

“Your name?” observed the coroner.

“Abigail Pope — folks write `relict of John Pope, deceased,'
in all my law papers.”

“Very well, Mrs. Pope; the simple name will suffice for the
present purposes. Do you reside in this neighbourhood?”

“In Biberry. I was born, brought up, married, became a
widow, and still dwell, all within half-a-mile of this spot. My
maiden name was Dickson.”

Absurd and forward as these answers may seem to most persons,
they had an effect on the investigation that was then going
on in Biberry. Most of the audience saw, and felt, the difference
between the frank statements of the present witness, and the
reserve manifested by the last.

“Now, why couldn't that Mary Monson answer all these
questions, just as well as Abigail Pope?” said one female talker
to a knot of listeners. “She has a glib enough tongue in her
head, if she only sees fit to use it! I'll engage no one can answer
more readily, when she wishes to let a thing out. There's
a dreadful history behind the curtain, in my judgment, about
that same young woman, could a body only get at it.”

“Mr. Sanford will get at it, before he has done with her, I'll
engage,” answered a friend. “I have heard it said he is the
most investigating coroner in the state, when he sets about a case
in good earnest. He'll be very apt to make the most of this,
for we never have had anything one-half so exciting in Biberry,

as these murders! I have long thought we were rather out of
the way of the rest of the world, until now; but our time has
come, and we shan't very soon hear the last of it!”

“It's all in the papers, already!” exclaimed a third. “Biberry
looks as grand as York, or Albany, in the columns of every
paper from town, this morning! I declare it did me good to see
our little place holding up its head among the great of the earth,
as it might be—”

What else, in the way of local patriotism, may have escaped
this individual, cannot now be known, the coroner drawing off
her auditors, by the question next put to the widow.

“Did you ever see any gold coins in the possession of the late
Mrs. Goodwin?” asked that functionary.

“Several times—I don't know but I might say often. Five
or six times, at least. I used to sew for the old lady, and you
know how it is when a body works, in that way, in a family—it's
next thing, I do suppose, to being a doctor, so far as secrets go.”

“Should you know any of that coin were you to see it again,
Mrs. Pope?”

“I think I might. There's one piece, in partic'lar, that I
suppose I should know, anywhere. It's a wonderful looking
piece of money, and true Californy, I conclude.”

“Did any of Mrs. Goodwin's gold coins bear a resemblance to
this?” showing a half-eagle.”

“Yes, sir—that's a five-dollar piece — I've had one of them
myself, in the course of my life.”

“Mrs. Goodwin had coins similar to this, I then understand
you to say?”

“She had as many as fifty, I should think. Altogether, she
told me she had as much as four hundred dollars in that stocking!
I remember the sum, for it sounded like a great deal for
anybody to have, who wasn't a bank, like. It quite put me in
mind of the place ers.”

“Was there any coin like this?” showing the widow the
Italian piece.

“That's the piece! I'd know it among a thousand! I had
it in my hands as much as five minutes, trying to read the
Latin on it, and make it out into English. All the rest was
American gold, the old lady told me; but this piece she said was
foreign.”

This statement produced a great sensation in the court-room.
Although Mrs. Pope was flippant, a gossip, and a little notorious
for meddling with her neighbours' concerns, no one suspected her
of fabricating such a story, under oath. The piece of gold passed
from juror to juror; and each man among them felt satisfied that
he would know the coin again, after an interval of a few weeks.
Dunscomb probably put less faith in this bit of testimony, than
any other person present; and he was curious to note its effect
on his client. To his great surprise, she betrayed no uneasiness;
her countenance maintaining a calm that he now began to apprehend
denoted a practised art; and he manifested a desire to examine
the piece of gold for himself. It was put in his hand, and
he glanced at its face a little eagerly. It was an unusual coin;
but it had no defect or mark that might enable one to distinguish
between it and any other piece of a similar impression. The
coroner interpreted the meaning of his eye, and suspended the
examination of the widow, to question Mary Monson herself.

“Your client sees the state of the question, Mr. Dunscomb,”
he said; “and you will look to her rights. Mine authorize me,
as I understand them, to enquire of her concerning a few facts
in relation to this piece of money.”

“I will answer your questions, sir, without any hesitation,”
the accused replied, with a degree of steadiness that Dunscomb
deemed astonishing.

“How long has this piece of gold been in your possession, if
you please, Miss?”

“About a twelvemonth. I began to collect the gold I have,
very nearly a year since.”

“Has it been in your possession, uninterruptedly, all that
time?”

“So far as I know, sir, it has. A portion of the time, and a
large portion of it, it has not been kept in my purse; but I should
think no one could have meddled with it, when it has been elsewhere.”

“Have you anything to remark on the testimony just given?”

“It is strictly true. Poor Mrs. Goodwin certainly had the
store of gold mentioned by Mrs. Pope, for she once showed it to
me. I rather think she was fond of such things; and had a pleasure
in counting her hoards, and showing them to other persons.
I looked over her coins; and finding she was fond of those that
are a little uncommon, I gave her one or two of those that I happened
to own. No doubt, Mrs. Pope saw the counterpart of this
piece, but surely not the piece itself.”

“I understand you to say, then, that Mrs. Goodwin had a gold
coin similar to this, which gold coin came from yourself. What
did Mrs. Goodwin allow you in the exchange?”

“Sir?”

“How much did you estimate the value of that Italian piece
at, and in what money did Mrs. Goodwin pay you for it? It is
necessary to be particular in these cases.”

“She returned me nothing for the coin, sir. It was a present
from me to her, and of course not to be paid for.”

This answer met with but little favour. It did not appear to
the people of Biberry at all probable that an unknown, and
seemingly friendless young woman, who had been content to
dwell two months in the “garret-room” of the “old Goodwin
house,” faring none of the best, certainly, and neglecting so
many superior tenements and tables that were to be met with on
every side of her, would be very likely to give away a piece of

gold of that unusual size. It is true, we are living in a marvellous
age, so far as this metal is concerned; but the Californian
gold had not then arrived in any great quantity, and the people
of the country are little accustomed to see anything but silver
and paper, which causes them to attach an unwonted value to
the more precious metal. Even the coroner took this view of
the matter; and Dunscomb saw that the explanation just made
by his client was thought to prove too much.

“Are you in the habit, Miss, of giving away pieces of gold?”
asked one of the jurors.

“That question is improper,” interposed Mr. Dunscomb. “No
one can have a right to put it.”

The coroner sustained this objection, and no answer was given.
As Mrs. Pope had suggested that others, besides herself, had
seen Mrs. Goodwin's stocking, four more witnesses were examined
to this one point. They were all females, who had been admitted
by the deceased, in the indulgence of her passion, to feast
their eyes with a sight of her treasure. Only one, however, of
these four professed to have any recollection of the particular
coin that had now become, as it might be, the pivoting point in
the enquiry; and her recollections were by no means as clear as
those of the widow. She thought she had seen such a piece of
gold in Mrs. Goodwin's possession, though she admitted she was
not allowed to touch any of the money, which was merely held
up, piece by piece, before her admiring eyes, in the hands of its
proper owner. It was in this stage of the enquiry that Dunscomb
remarked to the coroner, that “it was not at all surprising
a woman who was so fond of exposing her treasure should be
robbed and murdered!” This remark, however, failed of its intended
effect, in consequence of the manner in which suspicion
had become riveted, as it might be, through the testimony of
Mrs. Pope, on the stranger who had so mysteriously come to
lodge with the Goodwins. The general impression now appeared

to be that the whole matter had been previously arranged, and
that the stranger had come to dwell in the house expressly to
obtain facilities for the commission of the crime.

A witness who was related to the deceased, who was absent
from home, but had been told, by means of the wires, to return,
and who had intimated an intention to comply, was still wanting;
and the inquest was again adjourned for an hour, in order to
allow of the arrival of a stage from town. During this interval,
Dunscomb ascertained how strongly the current was setting
against his client. A hundred little circumstances were cited, in
confirmation of suspicions that had now gained a firm footing,
and which were so nearly general as to include almost every person
of any consequence in the place. What appeared strangest
to Dunscomb, was the composure of the young girl who was so
likely to be formally accused of crimes so heinous. He had told
her of the nature of the distrust that was attached to her situation,
and she received his statement with a degree of emotion
that, at first, had alarmed him. But an unaccountable calmness
soon succeeded this burst of feeling, and he had found it necessary
to draw confidence in the innocence of his client, from that
strangely illuminated countenance, to study which was almost
certain to subdue a man by its power. While thus gazing at the
stranger, he could not believe her guilty; but, while reflecting
on all the facts of the case, he saw how difficult it might be to
persuade others to entertain the same opinion. Nor were there
circumstances wanting to shake his own faith in expression, sex,
years, and all the other probabilities. Mary Monson had declined
entering at all into any account of her previous life; evaded
giving her real name even to him; carefully abstained from all
allusions that might furnish any clue to her former place of abode,
or to any fact that would tend to betray her secret.

At the appointed hour the stage arrived, bringing the expected
witness. His testimony went merely to corroborate the accounts

concerning the little hoard of gold that his kinswoman had undeniably
possessed, and to the circumstance that she always kept it
in a particular drawer of her bureau. The bureau had been saved,
for it did not stand in the sleeping-room of the deceased, but had
formed a principal embellishment of her little parlour, and the
money was not in it. What was more, each drawer was carefully
locked, but no keys were to be found. As these were articles
not likely to be melted under any heat to which they might have
been exposed, a careful but fruitless search had been made for
them among the ruins. They were nowhere to be seen.

About nine o'clock in the evening, the jury brought in the
result of their inquest. It was a verdict of murder in the first
degree, committed, in the opinion of the jurors, by a female who
was known by the name of Mary Monson. With the accusation
of arson, the coroner's inquest, as a matter of course, had no
connection. A writ was immediately issued, and the accused
arrested.