Chapter XIII

IN WHICH JAMES GOBSON MIRACULOUSLY ESCAPES THE GALLOWS, AND THE HONORABLE CORONER DAVIS’ REMORSE.

By a strange coincidence, while this scene was occurring, an inventory was being taken of Miss Ada’s furniture and wardrobe.

The owner of the house in Twenty-third Street wishing to take possession of it unfurnished, the law had decided that all that had belonged to the unhappy woman should be sold, and that the proceeds of the sale should be held three years at the disposition of the heirs. At the expiration of this time the money should be placed in the State treasury.

Mr. Mortimer’s clerk and the sheriff took charge of this inventory, and Mary, who, as we have said, was watching the house, was helping these gentlemen. They had just left the parlor to pass into the sleeping-room, and the young girl, with many sobs in her voice, was enumerating each of the articles which the secretary of the justice of peace was writing down on his list, when they heard a carriage stop before the house.

“It is the sheriff, no doubt,” said the clerk to Mary; “you must run and let him in.”

“The watchman is below,” answered the maid.

“Then let us hurry and get through our work.”

But the young girl, who had just taken a bundle of lace from one of the wardrobes, suddenly stood still and her face became frightfully pale.

She had heard in the hall, and the clerk and his secretary also heard, a woman’s voice raised to an angry pitch.

Then the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard in the parlor, the door of the sleeping-room suddenly opened, a woman appeared, and Mary, with eyes wild with fright, shrieked and leaned against a piece of furniture to keep from falling.

“What does all this mean?” asked the new comer, with a questioning look at each actor in the scene.

“Madam, Miss Ada!” gasped the servant. “Miss Ada!” repeated the clerk, bounding from the arm-chair on which he was reclining.

“Well, yes, Miss Ada,” said the young woman. “Are you all mad? And are you even more so than the others?” she said, moving rapidly toward Mary, who threw herself in her arms, crying:

“I said that she was not dead!”

“Dead! What do you say?”

“Why, yes, dead,” repeated the clerk in his turn; “they hanged your murderer this morning.”

“My murderer?”

“Yes--James Gobson.”

“James Gobson, my former husband?”

“That very man, who killed you and threw you into the water, three months ago.”

“Killed me--threw me into the water? Unless this is an odious joke you are playing, gentlemen, it is frightful. Come, Mary, let us run and see what it means.”

“Oh, it is too late,” observed the sheriff. “Master Meyer must have finished his work. It was at nine o’clock, at the Tombs, as usual.”

The woman gave a cry of horror and sank into a chair; but she immediately arose, ran down the stairs and into the street. Without taking time to put on a hat or shawl, Mary followed her.

The carriage which had brought the traveler was waiting for her at the door; they both entered it, ordering the driver to take them to the prison. The horse set off at a gallop.

But when, half an hour later, they reached the square, on one side of which stood the Tombs, the carriage got into so dense a crowd that it had to stop.

“It is impossible to go any farther,” said the driver.

Mary sprang to the ground. She had just caught a glimpse of Captain Young, who, with the aid of one of his agents, was trying to drive away the curious crowd.

“Captain,” she cried, “in the name of God, let us pass.”

“Will it be too late? Oh, these people alarm me. I beg you, sir, to help us,” said the young woman beseechingly, having joined her servant.

“Too late?” asked the chief of detectives in his rough voice, advancing toward them. “What do you mean? There is no execution to-day.”

“What! no execution!” cried the mistress and servant at the same time. “James Gobson is still living.”

“It is put off until to-morrow.”

“God be praised,” said the chamber-maid with a sigh of relief.

“‘God be praised.’ What is it to you?” repeated Young.

“What is it to us, captain?” answered Mary. “Why, here is Miss Ada!”

“Miss Ada,” exclaimed the detective.

“My God, Miss Ada! My God!”

Amazement would not allow him to say any more; he led away the two women whom the crowd were approaching, for the nearest among them had heard the few words that had been exchanged, and they repeated them aloud, pointing to the young woman.

The agents made a passage for their chief, who, after giving an order to one of his men, immediately introduced mistress and maid into the prison yard, then from there into the directors’ office.

Mr. Peters, who was bending over his desk, raised his head at the captain’s noisy entrance, and at the sight of his two proteges, understanding nothing of the unexpected visit, he opened his eyes wide.

“Miss Ada Ricard!” said Mr. Young, who not having quite recovered from his amazement could not utter another word.

“Miss Ada Ricard,” said the officer, rising suddenly; “the wife of....”

“Her very self, sir,” affirmed the visitor; “the divorced wife of that unfortunate James Gobson, who came near losing his life this morning through a frightful mistake.”

Mr. Peters gave one bound toward the woman who said these words, and immediately recognizing her he could not find words to express his astonishment. His looks wandered wildly from her to the chief of detectives, who repeated: “My God, my God, what an adventure; I told Mr. Dow so.”

“You must notify Mr. Kelly and Mortimer at once,” said Mr. Peters finally to the captain, when he had recovered somewhat.

“I sent at once to one of my agents at the Central office,” answered Young.

“Meanwhile, gentlemen, cannot Miss Ada see Mr. Gobson?” asked the young girl.

“It would be cruel,” added her mistress, “to leave him any longer in his horrible situation.”

“You are right,” said the director, moving toward the door. “I have, besides, no right to refuse the prisoner a visitor. What a scandal it will be. Come, accompany us, captain.”

In passing the former, Mr. Peters crossed the clerk’s court to reach that part of the prison in which were the cells of those condemned to death.

The worthy officer walked so quickly, shaking his head and gesticulating, that the two women could hardly keep up with him.

Captain Young, who brought up the rear of the procession, exclaimed:

“Ah! this will be a sad story to tell friend Dow.”

They thus reached, almost on a run, the corridor on which James Gobson’s cell opened. When he had reached the door the director had it opened by the guard, who immediately approached, and he hastened in. The prisoner was still in the position in which we left him. Lolling back in his chair, he was finishing his second cigar, and the worthy Mr. Midler, who was hardly awake, was psalmodizing tenderly:

“Yes, my dear Mr. Gobson, a second of repentance on the part of the sinner is sufficient to pay for all his errors, and....”

But the sudden entrance of Mr. Peters cut short the words of the good Methodist, and when he saw the two women who were accompanying the director, he rubbed his eyes, imagining perhaps that he was still asleep.

As for James Gobson, at the sight of the visitors his face betrayed more strongly than it had done since his sentence a violent emotion, but through a strong effort of will he did not make a gesture or utter a cry, and after having fixed his eyes upon the young woman for a moment he turned to his guest, saying to him in a perfectly calm voice:

“Dear Mr. Midler, permit me to present to you the former Mrs. Gobson, Miss Ada Ricard, my unfortunate victim.”

The reverend gentleman no longer thought he was asleep--he believed he had become crazy.

“Pardon me James for this horrible calamity, of which I involuntarily came near being the cause,” said the woman whom the prisoner at once recognized. “It is fortunate that I came in time.”

“If Master Meyer had not broken his leg you would have come too late,” answered the prisoner dryly.

“I beg you to pardon me,” entreated the young woman, approaching Gobson and holding out her hands.

“Yes, certainly, I pardon you, since you are here;” and rising, he took in his and affectionately pressed the hands of her who had saved his life.

At the same instant Captain Young respectfully made way for a new comer.

It was Mr. Mortimer whom the messenger sent by the chief of detectives met when within a few steps of the prison.

The sheriff was very pale and he stammered to the pretty American:

“Are you Miss Ada Ricard?”

“I think so, sir,” answered the latter, smiling.

In order to prove this identity, if the magistrate had wished to call to his aid one of the well-known details in the person of the former Mrs. Gobson, a detail specified by Dr. O’Neel in his report of the autopsy, he would have seen, when she smiled, the space in her superb teeth; but he paid no attention to it, for doubt was not possible.

“You arrive just in time, madam,” he continued, “to prevent an irreparable calamity; while waiting for the legal examination have the kindness, I beg, to explain your long absence.”

“I am quite willing to do so, sir, but not here,” she said, blushing. Mr. Mortimer understood, and invited her to follow him into the clerk’s room.

“I am ready to obey your orders, sir,” said Miss Ada; “but what are you going to do with James Gobson? Are we going to leave him here?”

“Oh, I find it very pleasant in the worthy Mr. Midler’s society,” observed the condemned, smiling at his consoler.

The good Methodist could thank him only with a low bow, for he hardly knew what he was about.

“Madam,” said the sheriff, “I cannot give any orders in regard to the prisoner.”

“I understood the law did not foresee my case as it now stands,” interrupted James.

“The sentence must be revoked,” said the magistrate; “but I think that Mr. Gobson can be set at liberty at once.”

“Whatever sum is fixed I will pay,” said the young woman, warmly; “it is the least I can do for a man whose life my absence came near costing. I will see you soon again, James Commany.” While saying these words, the former Mrs. Gobson had walked toward the corridor, where Mr. Mortimer awaited her.

The prisoner now held out his hand to the pastor, saying:

“This does not prevent me from being quite grateful for your holy exhortations, my reverend friend; of course you did not expect what has just happened; nor I, either. Suppose we finish our spiritual conversation with a glass of brandy.”

“The designs of God are unfathomable, dear Mr. Gobson,” devoutly answered the good man, holding out his glass; “but still preserve yourself from the danger you have run, most certainly, for the punishment of your errors.”

“Oh, I will never forget it. Here’s to my resurrection and your health.”

While drinking with Mr. Midler the prisoner resumed on his chair that position essentially American in which his deliverer had found him.

The latter meanwhile was saying to Mr. Mortimer, with whom the director had left her alone in his office--

“Unless it is indispensable to do otherwise, I should much prefer, sir, not to confess the motives of my journey, for the recital would oblige me to name someone who is very desirous of remaining unknown. Let it suffice you to know that this kidnapping, laid to the account of my murderers, was planned in advance, and that I passed the two months and a half, partly on the sea and partly at Havana. The only interesting point to the law is that here I am, alive and in very good health. All else belongs to my private life, and none has a right to ask an account of it, for I am not, or rather I am no longer married.”

“You are right, madam,” answered the sheriff, “you will, however, confess that this is very extraordinary.”

“What is more so, still, is your singular mistake.”

“The mistake was general.”

“Not so, for neither Mr. Gobson nor Mary recognized me in that unfortunate woman.”

“You will see the cast which has been made of it and you yourself will be amazed.”

“But Mr. Saunders ought not to have been mistaken.”

“Mr. Saunders is a little out of his head. We have not been able to get anything out of him.”

“Poor man; this news pains me deeply.”

“He accuses himself of your death. To believe him, he killed you himself.”

“He!”

“At least as far as it was possible to understand him.”

“But, first, I hope you are going to let me go home to my house.”

“Certainly. I have notified Mr. Davis, the coroner in your district. In a moment he will be here, and we will make out the necessary formalities.”

Mr. Mortimer did not think he spoke so truly, for that very moment the office door opened and Mr. Kelly and Davis came out. In each of these magistrates emotion was betrayed according to their respective temperaments. The face of the big chief of police was flushed as in a congestion, and that of the coroner was of a livid pallor. After looking a few seconds at the charming face of the young woman, they exchanged despairing looks. It was no longer to be doubted, ridicule would fall on both of them.

Mr. Davis, whose elevated mind saw only the error committed, asked himself in horror what would have become of his honor as a magistrate, if the absent woman had not presented herself in time. He certainly could not have endured the shame.

Mr. Kelly, who was more positive, saw in this strange event only a calamity, which would singularly affect his political career.

When they had recovered somewhat the officers questioned Miss Ada, who told the same story as to Mr. Mortimer.

“It is very well, madam,” answered the chief of police, with difficulty conquering his anger; “but you might have dispensed with that mysterious journey. Devil take it, there was no one to object to your going. You were free to jilt that stupid Saunders for some one else. Who can that woman be who resembles you so greatly? She was even prettier than you. She had a tooth broken out and an ear torn expressly--just as you have.”

Kelly was so furious that, not very gallant usually, he became absolutely rude. For sole answer to these rude questions, the one to whom they were addressed gave him a gracious smile, which disclosed the casket that lacked a pearl, and approaching him she raised with one pretty little finger the big diamond beneath which was concealed the slight wound which she had in her rosy and exquisitely shaped ear.

All this was so coquettishly done that the gruff officer could not help murmuring:

“By George, she is a superb woman.”

“Captain, you will go with the sheriff to escort madam home and to put her in possession of her house. You will afterwards join me at the central office, and notify Mr. William Dow. This time he was less shrewd than every one else. His blunder will perhaps cost me dear.”

Not thinking it prudent to defend his friend, the chief of detectives gave a military salute, and pointing out the way to Miss Ada, who had taken Mary’s arm, left the prison with them.

The crowd on the square was immense; it already knew the error committed by the law, an error that would have been irreparable, but for the accident to the executioner, and the young woman was received with enthusiastic hurrahs.

If the captain had not kept the most excited ones at a distance by means of his agents, they certainly would have had to unharness the horses from the carriage in which he was riding in company with Mr. Mortimer, Miss Ada and Mary.

Suspecting that a different reception was waiting for him, Mr. Kelly hastened to take another direction with Mr. Davis.

“God be praised,” said the coroner, crossing the threshold of the Tombs, “I should never have forgiven myself that mistake.”

“By George,” sighed the chief of police, “I fear that my electors will never forgive me. Devil take William Dow.”