University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH A HEAVENLY WITNESS APPEARS WHO CANNOT BE CROSS-EXAMINED,
AND BEFORE WHICH THE DEFENSE UTTERLY
BREAKS DOWN.

At the re-assembling of the Court, a large crowd had come
in. Those who had heard the request of Mr. Balfour had
reported what was going on, and, as the promised testimony
seemed to involve some curious features, the court-room presented
the most crowded appearance that it had worn since
the beginning of the trial.

Mr. Belcher had grown old during the hour. His consciousness
of guilt, his fear of exposure, the threatened loss
of his fortune, and the apprehension of a retribution of disgrace
were sapping his vital forces, minute by minute. All
the instruments that he had tried to use for his own base
purposes were turned against himself. The great world that
had glittered around the successful man was growing dark,
and, what was worse, there were none to pity him. He had
lived for himself; and now, in his hour of trouble, no one
was true to him, no one loved him—not even his wife and
children!

He gave a helpless, hopeless sigh, as Mr. Balfour called to
the witness stand Prof. Albert Timms.

Prof. Timms was the man already described among the
three new witnesses, as the one who seemed to be conscious
of bearing the world upon his shoulders, and to find it so inconsiderable
a burden. He advanced to the stand with the
air of one who had no stake in the contest. His impartiality
came from indifference. He had an opportunity to show his
knowledge and his skill, and he delighted in it.

“What is your name, witness?” inquired Mr. Balfour.

“Albert Timms, at your service.”

“What is your calling, sir?”

“I have at present the charge of a department in the
School of Mines. My specialties are chemistry and microscopy.”

“You are specially acquainted with these branches of
natural science, then.”

“I am, sir.”

“Have you been regarded as an expert in the detection of
forgery?”

“I have been called as such in many cases of the kind, sir.”

“Then you have had a good deal of experience in such
things, and in the various tests by which such matters are determined?”

“I have, sir.”

“Have you examined the assignment and the autograph
letters which have been in your hands during the recess of
the Court?”

“I have, sir.”

“Do you know either the plaintiff or the defendant in this
case?”

“I do not, sir. I never saw either of them until to-day.”

“Has any one told you about the nature of these papers,
so as to prejudice your mind in regard to any of them?”

“No, sir. I have not exchanged a word with any one in
regard to them.”

“What is your opinion of the two letters?'

“That they are veritable autographs.”

“How do you judge this?”

“From the harmony of the signatures with the text of the
body of the letters, by the free and natural shaping and interflowing
of the lines, and by a general impression of truthfulness
which it is very difficult to communicate in words.”

“What do you think of the signatures to the assignment?”

“I think they are all counterfeits but one.”

“Prof. Timms, this is a serious matter. You should be
very sure of the truth of a statement like this. You say you
think they are counterfeits: why?”

“If the papers can be handed to me,” said the witness,
“I will show what leads me to think so.”

The papers were handed to him, and, placing the letters on
the bar on which he had been leaning, he drew from his
pocket a little rule, and laid it lengthwise along the signature
of Nicholas Johnson. Having recorded the measurement, he
next took the corresponding name on the assignment.

“I find the name of Nicholas Johnson of exactly the same
length on the assignment that it occupies on the letter,”
said he.

“Is that a suspicious circumstance?”

“It is, and, moreover,” (going on with his measurements)
“there is not the slightest variation between the two signatures
in the length of a letter. Indeed, to the naked eye,
one signature is the counterpart of the other, in every characteristic.”

“How do you determine, then, that it is anything but a
genuine signature?”

“The imitation is too nearly perfect.”

“How can that be?”

“Well; no man writes his signature twice alike. There
is not one chance in a million that he will do so, without
definitely attempting to do so, and then he will be obliged to
use certain appliances to guide him.”

“Now will you apply the same test to the other signature?”

Prof. Timms went carefully to work again with his measure.
He examined the form of every letter in detail, and compared
it with its twin, and declared, at the close of his examination,
that he found the second name as close a counterfeit
as the first.

“Both names on the assignment, then, are exact fac-similes
of the names on the autograph letters,” said Mr. Balfour.

“They are, indeed, sir—quite wonderful reproductions.”

“The work must have been done, then, by a very skillful
man,” said Mr. Balfour.

The professor shook his head pityingly. “Oh, no, sir,”
he said. “None but bunglers ever undertake a job like this.
Here, sir, are two forged signatures. If one genuine signature,
standing alone, has one chance in a million of being exactly
like any previous signature of the writer, two standing together
have not one chance in ten millions of being exact
fac-similes of two others brought together by chance.

“How were these fac-similes produced?” inquired Mr.
Balfour.

“They could only have been produced by tracing first
with a pencil, directly over the signature to be counterfeited.”

“Well, this seems very reasonable, but have you any further
tests?”

“Under this magnifying glass,” said the professor, pushing
along his examination at the same time, “I see a marked
difference between the signatures on the two papers, which is
not apparent to the naked eye. The letters of the genuine
autograph have smooth, unhesitating lines; those of the
counterfeits present certain minute irregularities that are inseparable
from pains-taking and slow execution. Unless the
Court and the jury are accustomed to the use of a glass, and
to examinations of this particular character, they will hardly
be able to see just what I describe, but I have an experiment
which will convince them that I am right.”

“Can you perform this experiment here, and now?”

“I can, sir, provided the Court will permit me to establish
the necessary conditions. I must darken the room, and as I
notice that the windows are all furnished with shutters, the
matter may be very quickly and easily accomplished.”

“Will you describe the nature of your experiment?”

“Well, sir, during the recess of the Court, I have had
photographed upon glass all the signatures. These, with the
aid of a solar microscope, I can project upon the wall behind
the jury, immensely enlarged, so that the peculiarities I have

described may be detected by every eye in the house, with
others, probably, if the sun remains bright and strong, that I
have not alluded to.”

“The experiment will be permitted,” said the judge, “and
the officers and the janitor will give the Professor all the assistance
he needs.”

Gradually, as the shutters were closed, the room grew dark,
and the faces of Judge, Jury and the anxious-looking parties
within the bar grew weird and wan among the shadows. A
strange silence and awe descended upon the crowd. The
great sun in heaven was summoned as a witness, and the sun
would not lie. A voice was to speak to them from a hundred
millions of miles away—a hundred millions of miles near the
realm toward which men looked when they dreamed of the
Great White Throne.

They felt as a man might feel, were he conscious, in the
darkness of the tomb, when waiting for the trump of the
resurrection and the breaking of the everlasting day. Men
heard their own hearts beat, like the tramp of trooping hosts;
yet there was one man who was glad of the darkness. To
him the judgment day had come; and the closing shutters
were the rocks that covered him. He could see and not be
seen. He could behold his own shame and not be conscious
that five hundred eyes were upon him.

All attention was turned to the single pair of shutters not
entirely closed. Outside of these, the professor had established
his heliostat, and then gradually, by the aid of
drapery, he narrowed down the entrance of light to a little
aperture where a single silver bar entered and pierced the
darkness like a spear. Then this was closed by the insertion
of his microscope, and, leaving his apparatus in the hands of
an assistant, he felt his way back to his old position.

“May it please the Court, I am ready for the experiment,”
he said.

“The witness will proceed,” said the judge.

“There will soon appear upon the wall, above the heads of

the Jury,” said Prof. Timms, “the genuine signature of
Nicholas Johnson, as it has been photographed from the autograph
letter. I wish the Judge and Jury to notice two things
in this signature—the cleanly-cut edges of the letters, and the
two lines of indentation produced by the two prongs of the
pen, in its down-stroke. They will also notice that, in the
up-stroke of the pen, there is no evidence of indentation
whatever. At the point where the up-stroke begins, and the
down-stroke ends, the lines of indentation will come together
and cease.”

As he spoke the last word, the name swept through the
darkness over an unseen track, and appeared upon the wall,
within a halo of amber light. All eyes saw it, and all found
the characteristics that had been predicted. The professor
said not a word. There was not a whisper in the room.
When a long minute had passed, the light was shut off.

“Now,” said the professor, “I will show you in the same
place, the name of Nicholas Johnson, as it has been photographed
from the signatures to the assignment. What I wish
you to notice particularly in this signature is, first, the rough
and irregular edges of the lines which constitute the letters.
They will be so much magnified as to present very much the
appearance of a Virginia fence. Second, another peculiarity
which ought to be shown in the experiment—one which has a
decided bearing upon the character of the signature. If the
light continues strong, you will be able to detect it. The
lines of indentation made by the two prongs of the pen will
be evident, as in the real signature. I shall be disappointed
if there do not also appear a third line, formed by the pencil
which originally traced the letters, and this line will not only
accompany, in an irregular way, crossing from side to side,
the two indentations of the down-strokes of the pen, but it
will accompany irregularly the hair-lines. I speak of this
latter peculiarity with some doubt, as the instrument I use is
not the best which science now has at its command for this
purpose, though competent under perfect conditions.”

He paused, and then the forged signatures appeared upon
the wall. There was a universal burst of admiration, and
then all grew still—as if those who had given way to their
feelings were suddenly stricken with the consciousness that
they were witnessing a drama in which divine forces were
playing a part. There were the ragged, jagged edges of the
letters; there was the supplementary line, traceable in every
part of them. There was man's lie—revealed, defined, convicted
by God's truth!

The letters lingered, and the room seemed almost sensibly
to sink in the awful silence. Then the stillness was broken
by a deep voice. What lips it came from, no one knew, for
all the borders of the room were as dark as night. It seemed,
as it echoed from side to side, to come from every part of the
house: “ Mene, mene, tekel upharsin!” Such was the effect
of these words upon the eager and excited, yet thoroughly
solemnized crowd, that when the shutters were thrown open,
they would hardly have been surprised to see the bar covered
with golden goblets and bowls of wassail, surrounded by
lordly revellers and half-nude women, with the stricken Belshazzar
at the head of the feast. Certainly Belshazzar, on his
night of doom, could hardly have presented a more pitiful
front than Robert Belcher, as all eyes were turned upon him.
His face was haggard, his chin had dropped upon his breast,
and he reclined in his chair like one on whom the plague had
laid its withering hand.

There stood Prof. Timms in his triumph. His experiment
had proved to be a brilliant success, and that was all he cared
for.

“You have not shown us the other signatures,” said Mr.
Balfour.

“False in one thing, false in all,” responded the professor,
shrugging his shoulders. “I can show you the others; they
would be like this; you would throw away your time.”

Mr. Cavendish did not look at the witness, but pretended
to write.

“Does the counsel for the defense wish to question the
witness?” inquired Mr. Balfour, turning to him.

“No,” very sharply.

“You can step down,” said Mr. Balfour. As the witness
passed him, he quietly grasped his hand and thanked him. A
poorly suppressed cheer ran around the court-room as he resumed
his seat. Jim Fenton, who had never before witnessed
an experiment like that which, in the professor's hands, had
been so successful, was anxious to make some personal demonstration
of his admiration. Restrained from this by his surroundings,
he leaned over and whispered: “Perfessor,
you've did a big thing, but it's the fust time I ever knowed
any good to come from peekin' through a key-hole.”

“Thank you,” and the professor nodded sidewise, evidently
desirous of shutting Jim off, but the latter wanted further
conversation.

“Was it you that said it was mean to tickle yer parson?”
inquired Jim.

“What?” said the astonished professor, looking round in
spite of himself.

“Didn't you say it was mean to tickle yer parson? It
sounded more like a furriner,” said Jim.

When the professor realized the meaning that had been attached
by Jim to the “original Hebrew,” he was taken with
what seemed to be a nasal hemorrhage that called for his
immediate retirement from the court-room.

What was to be done next? All eyes were turned upon
the counsel who were in earnest conversation. Too evidently
the defense had broken down utterly. Mr. Cavendish was
angry, and Mr. Belcher sat beside him like a man who expected
every moment to be smitten in the face, and who
would not be able to resent the blow.

“May it please the Court,” said Mr. Cavendish, “it is
impossible, of course, for counsel to know what impression
this testimony has made upon the Court and the jury. Dr.
Barhydt, after a lapse of years, and dealings with thousands

of patients, comes here and testifies to an occurrence which
my client's testimony makes impossible; a sneak discovers a
letter which may have been written on the third or the fifth
of May, 1860—it is very easy to make a mistake in the figure,
and this stolen letter, never legitimately delivered,—possibly
never intended to be delivered under any circumstances—is
produced here in evidence; and, to crown all, we have had
the spectacular drama in a single act by a man who has appealed
to the imaginations of us all, and who, by his skill in
the management of an experiment with which none of us are
familiar, has found it easy to make a falsehood appear like the
truth. The counsel for the plaintiff has been pleased to consider
the establishment or the breaking down of the assignment
as the practical question at issue. I cannot so regard
it. The question is, whether my client is to be deprived of
the fruits of long years of enterprise, economy and industry;
for it is to be remembered that, by the plaintiff's own showing,
the defendant was a rich man when he first knew him.
I deny the profits from the use of the plaintiff's patented inventions,
and call upon him to prove them. I not only call
upon him to prove them, but I defy him to prove them. It
will take something more than superannuated doctors, stolen
letters and the performances of a mountebank to do this.”

This speech, delivered with a sort of frenzied bravado, had a
wonderful effect upon Mr. Belcher. He straightened in his
chair, and assumed his old air of self-assurance. He could
sympathize in any game of “bluff,” and when it came down
to a square fight for money his old self came back to him.
During the little speech of Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Balfour was
writing, and when the former sat down, the latter rose, and,
addressing the Court, said: “I hold in my hand a written
notice, calling upon the defendant's counsel to produce in
Court a little book in the possession of his client entitled
`Records of profits and investments of profits from manufactures
under the Benedict patents,' and I hereby serve it
upon him.”

Thus saying, he handed the letter to Mr. Cavendish, who
received and read it.

Mr. Cavendish consulted his client, and then rose and
said: “May it please the Court, there is no such book in
existence.”

“I happen to know,” rejoined Mr. Balfour, “that there is
such a book in existence, unless it has recently been destroyed.
This I stand ready to prove by the testimony of
Helen Dillingham, the sister of the plaintiff.”

“The witness can be called,” said the judge.

Mrs. Dillingham looked paler than on the day before,
as she voluntarily lifted her veil, and advanced to the stand.
She had dreaded the revelation of her own treachery toward
the treacherous proprietor, but she had sat and heard him
perjure himself, until her own act, which had been performed
on behalf of justice, became one of which she could hardly
be ashamed.

“Mrs. Dillingham,” said Mr. Balfour, “have you been on
friendly terms with the defendant in this case?”

“I have, sir,” she answered. “He has been a frequent
visitor at my house, and I have visited his family at his own.”

“Was he aware that the plaintiff was your brother?”

“He was not.”

“Has he, from the first, made a confidant of you?”

“In some things—yes.”

“Do you know Harry Benedict—the plaintiff's son?”

“I do, sir.”

“How long have you known him?”

“I made his acquaintance soon after he came to reside with
you, sir, in the city.”

“Did you seek his acquaintance?”

“I did, sir.”

“From what motive?”

“Mr. Belcher wished me to do it, in order to ascertain of
him whether his father were living or dead.”

“You did not then know that the lad was your nephew?”

“I did not, sir.

“Have you ever told Mr. Belcher that your brother was
alive?”

“I told him that Paul Benedict was alive, at the last interview
but one that I ever had with him.”

“Did he give you at this interview any reason for his great
anxiety to ascertain the facts as to Mr. Benedict's life or
death?”

“He did, sir.”

“Was there any special occasion for the visit you allude
to?”

“I think there was, sir. He had just lost heavily in International
Mail, and evidently came in to talk about business.
At any rate, he did talk about it, as he had never done
before.”

“Can you give us the drift or substance of his conversation
and statements?”

“Well, sir, he assured me that he had not been shaken by
his losses, said that he kept his manufacturing business entirely
separate from his speculations, gave me a history of the
manner in which my brother's inventions had come into his
hands, and, finally, showed me a little account book, in which
he had recorded his profits from manufactures under what he
called the Benedict Patents.”

“Did you read this book, Mrs. Dillingham?”

“I did, sir.”

“Every word?”

“Every word.”

“Did you hear me serve a notice on the defendant's counsel
to produce this book in Court?”

“I did, sir.”

“In that notice did I give the title of the book correctly?”

“You did, sir.”

“Was this book left in your hands for a considerable length
of time?”

“It was, sir, for several hours.”

“Did you copy it?”

“I did, sir, every word of it.”

“Are you sure that you made a correct copy?”

“I verified it, sir, item by item, again and again.”

“Can you give me any proof corroborative of your statement
that this book has been in your hands?”

“I can, sir.”

“What is it?”

“A letter from Mr. Belcher, asking me to deliver the book
to his man Phipps.”

“Is that the letter?” inquired Mr. Balfour, passing the
note into her hands.

“It is, sir.”

“May it please the Court,” said Mr. Balfour, turning to
the Judge, “the copy of this account-book is in my possession,
and if the defendant persists in refusing to produce the
original, I shall ask the privilege of placing it in evidence.”

During the examination of this witness, the defendant and
his counsel sat like men overwhelmed. Mr. Cavendish was
angry with his client, who did not even hear the curses which
were whispered in his ear. The latter had lost not only his
money, but the woman whom he loved. The perspiration
stood in glistening beads upon his forehead. Once he put his
head down upon the table before him, while his frame was
convulsed with an uncontrollable passion. He held it there
until Mr. Cavendish touched him, when he rose and staggered
to a pitcher of iced water upon the bar, and drank a long
draught. The exhibition of his pain was too terrible to excite
in the beholders any emotion lighter than pity.

The Judge looked at Mr. Cavendish who was talking
angrily with his client. After waiting for a minute or two,
he said: “Unless the original of this book be produced, the
Court will be obliged to admit the copy. It was made by one
who had it in custody from the owner's hands.”

“I was not aware,” said Mr. Cavendish fiercely, “that a
crushing conspiracy like this against my client could be carried

on in any court of the United States, under judicial
sanction.”

“The counsel must permit the Court,” said the Judge
calmly, “to remind him that it is so far generous toward his
disappointment and discourtesy as to refrain from punishing
him for contempt, and to warn him against any repetition of
his offense.”

Mr. Cavendish sneered in the face of the Judge, but held
his tongue, while Mr. Balfour presented and read the contents
of the document. All of Mr. Belcher's property at Seven-oaks,
his rifle manufactory, the goods in Talbot's hands, and
sundry stocks and bonds came into the enumeration, with the
enormous foreign deposit, which constituted the General's
“anchor to windward.” It was a handsome showing. Judge,
jury and spectators were startled by it, and were helped to
understand, better than they had previously done, the magnitude
of the stake for which the defendant had played his desperate
game, and the stupendous power of the temptation
before which he had been led to sacrifice both his honor and
his safety.

Mr. Cavendish went over to Mr. Balfour, and they held a
long conversation, sotto voce. Then Mrs. Dillingham was
informed that she could step down, as she would not be
wanted for cross-examination. Mr. Belcher had so persistently
lied to his counsel, and his case had become so utterly hopeless,
that even Cavendish practically gave it up.

Mr. Balfour then addressed the Court, and said that it had
been agreed between himself and Mr. Cavendish, in order to
save the time of the Court, that the case should be given to
the jury by the Judge, without presentation or argument of
counsel.

The Judge occupied a few minutes in recounting the evidence,
and presenting the issue, and without leaving their
seats the jury rendered a verdict for the whole amount of
damages claimed.

The bold, vain-glorious proprietor was a ruined man. The

consciousness of power had vanished. The law had grappled
with him, shaken him once, and dropped him. He had had
a hint from his counsel of Mr. Balfour's intentions, and knew
that the same antagonist would wait but a moment to pounce
upon him again, and shake the life out of him. It was curious
to see how, not only in his own consciousness, but in his appearance,
he degenerated into a very vulgar sort of scoundrel.
In leaving the Court-room, he skulked by the happy group
that surrounded the inventor, not even daring to lift his eyes
to Mrs. Dillingham. When he was rich and powerful, with
such a place in society as riches and power commanded, he
felt himself to be the equal of any woman; but he had been
degraded and despoiled in the presence of his idol, and knew
that he was measurelessly and hopelessly removed from her.
He was glad to get away from the witnesses of his disgrace,
and the moment he passed the door, he ran rapidly down the
stairs, and emerged upon the street.