sure of his integrity before giving rein to my sympathies.
The jury moved and sat up quite alert when they saw him. I think that if these especial twelve men could have a murder case to investigate every day, they would grow quite wide-awake in time. Mr. Van Burnam made no demonstration. Evidently there was not likely to be a repetition of the morning’s display of passion. He had been iron in his impassibility at that time, but he was steel now, and steel which had been through the fiercest of fires.
The opening question of the Coroner showed by what experience these fires had been kindled.
“Mr. Van Burnam, I have been told that you have visited the Morgue in the interim which has elapsed since I last questioned you. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Did you, in the opportunity thus afforded, examine the remains of the woman whose death we are investigating, attentively enough to enable you to say now whether they are those of your missing wife?”
“I have. The body is that of Louise Van Burnam; I crave your pardon and that of the jury for my former obstinacy in refusing to recognize it. I thought myself fully justified in the stand I took. I see now that I was not.”
The Coroner made no answer. There was no sympathy between him and this young man. Yet he did not fail in a decent show of respect; perhaps because he did feel some sympathy for the witness’s unhappy father and brother.
“You then acknowledge the victim to have been your wife?”
“I do.”
“It is a point gained, and I compliment the jury upon it. We can now proceed to settle, if possible, the identity of the person who accompanied Mrs. Van Burnam into your father’s house.”
“Wait,” cried Mr. Van Burnam, with a strange air, “I acknowledge I was that person.”
It was coolly, almost fiercely said, but it was an admission that wellnigh created a hubbub. Even the Coroner seemed moved, and cast a glance at Mr. Gryce which showed his surprise to be greater than his discretion.
“You acknowledge,” he began—but the witness did not let him finish.
“I acknowledge that I was the person who accompanied her into that empty house; but I do not acknowledge that I killed her. She was alive and well when I left her, difficult as it is for me to prove it. It was the realization of this difficulty which made me perjure myself this morning.”
“So,” murmured the Coroner, with another glance at Mr. Gryce, “you acknowledge that you perjured yourself. Will the room be quiet!”
But the lull came slowly. The contrast between the appearance of this elegant young man and the significant admissions he had just made (admissions which to three quarters of the persons there meant more, much more, than he acknowledged), was certainly such as to provoke interest of the deepest kind. I felt like giving rein to my own feelings, and was not surprised at the patience shown by the Coroner. But order was restored at last, and the inquiry proceeded.
“We are then to consider the testimony given by you this morning as null and void?”
“Yes, so far as it contradicts what I have just stated.”
“Ah, then you will no doubt be willing to give us your evidence again?”
“Certainly, if you will be so kind as to question me.”
“Very well; where did your wife and yourself first meet after your arrival in New York?”
“In the street near my office. She was coming to see me, but I prevailed upon her to go uptown.”
“What time was this?”
“After ten and before noon. I cannot give the exact hour.”
“And where did you go?”
“To a hotel on Broadway; you have already heard of our visit there.”
“You are, then, the Mr. James Pope, whose wife registered in the books of the Hotel D—— on the seventeenth of this month?”
“I have said so.”
“And may I ask for what purpose you used this disguise, and allowed your wife to sign a wrong name?”
“To satisfy a freak. She considered it the best way of covering up a scheme she had formed; which was to awaken the interest of my father under the name and appearance of a stranger, and not to inform him who she was till he had given some evidence of partiality for her.”
“Ah, but for such an end was it necessary for her to assume a strange name before she saw your father, and for you both to conduct yourselves in the mysterious way you did all that day and evening?”
“I do not know. She thought so, and I humored her. I was tired of working against her, and was willing she should have her own way for a time.”
“And for this reason you let her fit herself out with clothes down to her very undergarments?”
“Yes; strange as it may seem, I was just such a fool. I had entered into her scheme, and the means she took to change her personality only amused me. She wished to present herself to my father as a girl obliged to work for her living, and was too shrewd to excite suspicion in the minds of any of the family by any undue luxury in her apparel. At least that was the excuse she gave me for the precautions she took, though I think the delight she experienced in anything romantic and unusual had as much to do with it as anything else. She enjoyed the game she was playing, and wished to make as much of it as possible.”
“Were her own garments much richer than those she ordered from Altman’s?”
“Undoubtedly. Mrs. Van Burnam wore nothing made by American seamstresses. Fine clothes were her weakness.”
“I see, I see; but why such an attempt on your part to keep yourself in the background? Why let your wife write your assumed names in the hotel register, for instance, instead of doing it yourself?”
“It was easier for her; I know no other reason. She did not mind putting down the name Pope. I did.”
It was an ungracious reflection upon his wife, and he seemed to feel it so; for he almost immediately added: “A man will sometimes lend himself to a scheme of which the details are obnoxious. It was so in this case; but she was too interested in her plans to be affected by so small a matter as this.”
This explained more than one mysterious action on the part of this pair while they were at the Hotel D——. The Coroner evidently considered it in this light, for he dwelt but little longer on this phase of the case, passing at once to a fact concerning which curiosity had hitherto been roused without receiving any satisfaction.
“In leaving the hotel,” said he, “you and your wife were seen carrying certain packages, which were missing from your arms when you alighted at Mr. Van Burnam’s house. What was in those packages, and where did you dispose of them before you entered the second carriage?”
Howard made no demur in answering.
“My wife’s clothes were in them,” said he, “and we dropped them somewhere on Twenty-seventh Street near Third Avenue, just as we saw an old woman coming along the sidewalk. We knew that she would stop and pick them up, and she did, for we slid into a dark shadow made by a projecting stoop and watched her. Is that too simple a method for disposing of certain encumbering bundles, to be believed, sir?”
“That is for the jury to decide,” answered the Coroner, stiffly. “But why were you so anxious to dispose of these articles? Were they not worth some money, and would it not have been simpler and much more natural to have left them at the hotel till you chose to send for them? That is, if you were simply engaged in playing, as you say, a game upon your father, and not upon the whole community?”
“Yes,” Mr. Van Burnam acknowledged, “that would have been the natural thing,