ARRESTED.

Two nights afterward, as Frederick was seated at dinner in the large dining-room of the Cafe Riche, two well dressed men walked up to his table and informed him that they had a warrant for his arrest on a charge of having murdered the demi-mondaine, Rose Hartmann.

It is needless to recount the weary formalities and interrogatories to which Frederick was subjected during the next few weeks. He was, however, clever enough to evade all attempts made to discover his real identity, and was encouraged by his lawyer to believe that his conviction on the evidence which had been obtained against him would be a matter of great difficulty.

A month later the trial was opened with due form and ceremony. As soon as the judges—dressed in their scarlet robes lined with ermine—had taken their seats, immediately under the life-like picture of the Crucifixion which forms so striking a feature of every French court of justice, the prisoner was led in between two “Gardes de Paris,” and was conducted to his place in the dock. The court-room was comparatively empty, popular interest at that moment being centered in the courts-martial which were being held at Versailles on the various leaders of the Commune. After again stating in reply to the inquiries of the president that his name was Frederick Wolff, and that he was of Austrian origin, although born in London, his indictment was read. It charged him with having administered a poisonous dose of morphia to his mistress a femme galante of the name of Rose Hartmann, a native of Berlin. It further stated that an autopsy had revealed the fact that the dose had been administered in a manner which displayed an intimate knowledge of the chemical properties of the drug.

Frederick's counsel thereupon arose and began his speech in defense of the young man. He urged that his client could have no object in murdering his mistress, to whom he was passionately attached, and on whom he had showered innumerable and lavish tokens of his affection. He painted in graphic colors the career of the dead woman in the annals of the Parisian galanterie, related how Frederick had made her acquaintance at the Jardin Mabille, and finally wound up by insinuating that, the woman being addicted to the use of chloral and morphia as sleeping draughts, her death was due to an overdose of the drug, administered by her own hand. He concluded his speech by an eloquent appeal to the jury to acquit his client.

The advocate-general (district attorney) then arose and begged leave of the court to summon two witnesses of whose existence he had only become aware a few hours previously, and whose testimony was calculated to shed a most important light on the case. A few moments afterward a short, fat man, with spectacles, was shown into the witness-box.

Frederick, who had retained a stoical calm until then, became deadly pale.

The witness, after having been duly sworn, stated that his name was Christian Martin, and that he was a bookseller by trade. He testified that about ten days before the newspapers published an account of the murder of Rose Hartmann, a young man visited his shop in the Rue de Rivoli, and purchased several works on toxicology. He had specially asked for the most recent publications on the subject of opium and morphine, and explained that he had recently returned from a long sojourn in the far East, where he had become interested in the study of the deleterious effects of these drugs among the natives. The bookseller added that the stranger had declined to allow him to send the books selected, but had insisted on taking them away with him in his carriage. M. Martin's attention had been specially attracted to the young man by the mention of his residence in the Orient, and by the remarkable knowledge which he displayed of the properties of hashish, and other narcotics used by the Asiatics. He had, however, thought no more about the matter until the previous evening, when passing in front of the offices of the Figaro, a portrait displayed on the bulletin-board of the newspaper had caught his eye. On examining it more closely, he had recognized therein the features of the gentleman who had visited his shop some weeks previously for the purpose of buying books on toxicology; and having learned from the superscription that it was the picture of “Baron” F. Wolff, the suspected murderer of Rose Hartmann, he had deemed it his duty to inform the commissary of police of the district of the facts above mentioned. The latter, knowing that the trial was about to begin, had given him a letter to the advocate-general and had sent him off post-haste to the Palais de Justice.

The sensation produced by this evidence both on the judges and the jury was most prejudicial to Frederick's case, which until then had appeared extremely promising.

But the climax was reached when, a few minutes afterward, a lady, in an extremely loud and startling toilet, was ushered into the witness-box. Frederick gazed at her inquiringly, but was unable to recall to mind ever having met her before.

“Your name, madam?” inquired the president.

“Cora de St. Augustin.”

“Your residence?”

“206 Rue Blanche.”

“Your age?”

(After a moment's hesitation). “Nineteen.”

“Your profession?”

(A long pause). “Premiere danseuse.”

The Judge—“Of what theater? Is it of the Grande Opera?”

(A little longer pause). “Non, mon President—du—du Jardin Mabille.”

This announcement appeared to create a considerable amount of amusement in court.

After furnishing the court with information on all these points, “Mme. de St. Augustin” proceeded to relate that she had been on terms of great intimacy with Rose Hartmann, whose acquaintance she admitted, after some pressure on the part of the president, to having made at St. Lazarre. Meeting Rose a few days after the latter's migration from the Rue de Constantinople to the Avenue de l'Imperatrice, she had congratulated her on her altered fortunes, and had questioned her about her new “Protecteur.” Rose, it appeared, had replied, that, as far as the material advantages were concerned, she had nothing to complain of, but that her lover was a peculiar kind of man, with whom she did not feel altogether safe, and that, if she listened to her presentiments, she would certainly decline to have anything further to do with him. “She added,” declared the fair Cora, “‘I have a queer, uncanny feeling about that man. Indeed, I shouldn't be surprised if I came to grief through him some day. Remember, ma chere, if anything ever happens to me, you may depend upon it that he will have had something to do with the matter. I believe him to be capable of anything, but he is too good a catch, financially speaking, to be abandoned until a more desirable party turns up.’”

Then, satisfied with the impression which her remarks had produced, the witness turned toward the judges, and inquired whether “ces messieurs” had any further questions to ask. On receiving a reply in the negative, she swept out of the witness-box, and dropping a low courtesy, in which she graciously included both the public and the tribunal, she passed out.

Thereupon, the advocate-general arose and commenced his argument for the prosecution. He used the evidence of the two witnesses who had just been heard by the court with crushing effect, and wound up his brilliant and clever peroration by a demand to the jury that they should mete out to the prisoner the full penalty of the law.

The jury then retired, and remained absent about three-quarters of an hour. When they reappeared, their foreman, in response to the inquiry of the presiding judge, declared that their unanimous verdict was to the effect that the prisoner was guilty of the murder of Rose Hartmann; but that, in view of the purely circumstantial nature of the evidence submitted to them, they recommended him to the mercy of the court.

The president, addressing Frederick, asked whether he had any reason to put forward why the sentence of the law should not be pronounced upon him.

Amid a profound silence, Frederick answered:

“I can only once more swear by all that I hold sacred that I am innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I was deeply attached to the poor girl whom I am accused of having murdered, and it ought to be clear to every one present that I had no possible object to attain in putting an end to her days. It is not mercy I demand, but justice.”

The president, after consulting with his two associate judges, then, in a loud and impressive voice, pronounced the sentence of the court, whereby “Frederick Wolff” was condemned to twenty years penal servitude, and to ten years more police supervision and loss of civil rights.