MONDAY morning Arthur entered Peixada’s warehouse promptly as the clock struck ten. Peixada had not yet got down.

Arthur was conducted by a dapper little salesman to an inclosure fenced off at the rear of the showroom, and bidden to “make himself at home.” By and by, to kill time, he picked up a directory—the only literature in sight—and extracted what amusement he could from it, by hunting out the names of famous people—statesmen, financiers, etc. The celebrities exhausted, he turned to his own name and to those of his friends. Among others, he looked for Hart. Of Harts there were a multitude, but of G. Harts only three—a Gustav, a Gerson, and a George. George was written down a laborer, Gerson a peddler, Gustav a barber; none, it was obvious, could be the G. Hart of Beekman Place. In about half an hour Peixada arrived.

“Ah, good morning,” he said briskly. “Well?”

“I am sorry to bother you so soon again, Mr. Peixada,” said Arthur, stiffly; “but——”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Peixada interrupted. “Glad to see you. Sit down. Smoke a cigar.”

“Then,” pursued Arthur, his cigar afire, “having thought the matter well over——”

“You have concluded—?”

“That your view of the case was correct—that we’re in for a long, expensive, and delicate piece of business.”

“Not a doubt of it.”

“You see, beforehand it would strike one as the simplest thing in the world to locate a woman like your sister-in-law. But this case is peculiar. It’s going on four years that nobody has heard from her. Clear back in January, 1881, she was somewhere in Vienna. But since then she’s had the leisure to travel around the world a dozen times. She may be in Australia, California, Brazil—or not a mile away from us, here in New York. She may have changed her name. She may have married again. She may have died.—The point I’m driving at is that you mustn’t attribute it to a lack of diligence on my part, if we shouldn’t obtain any satisfactory results for a long while.”

“Oh, certainly not, certainly not,” protested Peixada, making the words very large, and waving his hand deprecatingly. “I’m a man of common sense, a business man. I don’t need to be told that it’s going to be slow work. I knew that. Otherwise I shouldn’t have hired you. I could have managed it by myself, except that I hadn’t the time to spare.”

“Well, then,” said Arthur, undismayed by Peixada’s frankness, “my idea of the tactics to be pursued is to begin with Vienna, January, ’81, and proceed inch by inch down to the present time. There are two methods of doing this.”

“Which are——?”

“One is to enlist the services of the United States consuls. I can write to Vienna, to our consul, and ask him to find out where Mrs. Peixada went when she left there; then to the consul at the next place—and so on to the end. But this method is cumbrous and uncertain. The trail is liable to be lost at any point. At the best, it would take a long, long time. Besides, the consuls would expect a large remuneration.”

“Well, the other method?”

“I propose it reluctantly. It is one which, so far as my personal inclinations are concerned, I should prefer not to take. I—I might myself go to Vienna and conduct the investigation on the spot.”

“Hum,” reflected Peixada.—After a pause, “That would be still more expensive,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

“Sure.—It seems to me that there is a third method which you haven’t thought of.”

“Indeed? What is it?”

“Why not engage the services of an attorney in Vienna, instead of the consul’s? You can easily get the name of some reliable attorney there. Then write on, stating the case, and offering a sum in consideration of which he is to furnish us with the information we want.”

“Yes, I might do that,” Arthur answered, with a mortifying sense that Peixada’s plan was at once more practical and more promising than either of those which he had proposed.

“Better try it, anyhow,” his client went on. “Attorney’s fees, as I chance to know, are low in Austria. Fifty dollars ought to be ample for a starter. I’ll give you a check for that amount now. You can exchange it for a draft, after you’ve decided on your man.”

Peixada filled out a check. Arthur took up his hat.

“Oh, Àpropos,” said Peixada, without explaining what it was Àpropos of, “I showed you some newspaper clippings about Mrs. P.’. trial the other day—recollect? Well, I’ve got a scrapbook full of them in my safe. Suppose you’d find it useful?”

“I don’t know. It could do no harm for me to run it over.”

Peixada touched a bell, gave the requisite orders to the underling who responded, and said to Arthur, “He’ll fetch it.”

Presently the man returned, bearing a large, square volume, bound in bluish black leather. Arthur bowed himself out, with the volume under his arm.

The remainder of the day he passed in procuring the name of a trustworthy Viennese attorney, drafting a letter to him in English, and having it translated into German. The attorney’s name was Ulrich. Arthur inclosed the amount of Peixada’s check in the form of an order upon an Americo-Austrian banking house. At last, weary, and with his zeal in Peixada’s cause somewhat abated, he went home.

In the course of the evening he dropped into a concert garden on Fifty-eighth Street. He had not been seated there a great while before somebody greeted him with a familiar tap upon the shoulder and an easy “How are you?” Looking up, he saw Mr. Rimo.

“Ah,” said Arthur, offering his hand, “how do you do? Sit down.”

Mr. Rimo had an odoriferous jonquil in his buttonhole, and carried a silver-headed Malacca cane. He drew up to the table, lit a cigar with a wax match, and called for Vichy water.

“Well, Mr. Ripley,” he questioned solicitously, “how are you getting on?”

“Oh, very well, thanks. I saw your uncle this morning.”

“That so? Any news?”

“You mean about the case? Nothing decisive as yet. It’s hardly time to expect anything.”

“Oh, no; of course not. I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve got a nice job before you.”

“Yes, and an odd one.”

“What I was thinking of especially was the lady. She’s a specimen. Not many like her.”

“It’s to be hoped not. You of course knew her very well?”

“No, I can’t say as I did. I can’t say as I knew her very well. She wasn’t an easy woman to know. But I’d seen a great deal of her. It was a mere chance that I didn’t marry her myself. Lucky, wasn’t I?”

“Why, how was that?”

“Well, it was this way. You see, one evening while she was still Miss Karon, I called on her. Who should sail in five minutes later but Uncle Barney? She was right up to the top notch that evening—devilish handsome, with her black eyes and high color, and as sharp as an IXL blade. When we left—we left together, the old man and I—when we left, I was saying to myself, ’By gad, I couldn’t do better. I’ll propose for her to-morrow.’ Just then he pipes up. ’What is your opinion of that young lady?’ he asks. ’My opinion?’ says I. ’My opinion is that she’s a mighty fine gal.’ ’Well, you bet she is,’ says he; ’and I’m glad you think so, because she’s apt to be your auntie before a great while.’ ’The devil!’ says I. ’Yes, sir, says he. ’I’ve made up my mind to marry her. I’m going to speak to her father about it in the morning.’ Well, of course that settled my hash. I wasn’t going to gamble against my uncle. Narrow escape, hey?”

Having concluded this picturesque narrative, Mr. Rimo emptied a bumper of sparkling Vichy water, with the remark, “Well, here’s to you,” and applied a second wax match to his cigar, which had gone out while he was speaking.

“Who were her people?” asked Arthur. “What sort of a family did she come from?”

“Oh, her family was correct enough. Name was Karon, as you know already. Her old man was a watch-maker by trade, and kept a shop on Second Avenue. I guess he did a pretty comfortable business till he got struck on electricity. He invented some sort of an electric clock, and sent it to the Centennial at Philadelphia. It took the cake; and after that Michael Karon was a ruined man. Why? Because after that he neglected his business, and spent all his time and all the money he had saved, in fooling around and trying to improve what the Centennial judges had thought was good enough. He couldn’t let well alone. Result was he spoiled the clock, and went all to pieces. He was in a desperate bad way when Uncle Barney stepped up and married his daughter. Hang a man who’s got an itch for improvement. What I say is, lay on to a good thing, and then stick to it for all you’re worth.”

“He died shortly after the marriage, didn’t he?”

“Yes—handed in his checks that fall. She had had a tip-top education; used to give lessons in music, and this, that, and the other ’ology. She was the most knowing creature I ever saw—had no end of chochmah. Don’t know what chochmah is? Well, that means Jewish shrewdness; and she held a corner in it, too. But such a temper! Lord, when she got excited, her eyes were terrible. I can just imagine her downing the old man. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me one time.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Oh, there ain’t much to tell—only this. Of course, you know, it’s the fashion to kiss the bride at her wedding. But I happened to be on the road at the date of their wedding, and couldn’t get back in time. I didn’t mean to lose that kiss, just the same. So when I called on them, after my return, ’Aunt Judith,’ says I, ’when are you going to liquidate that little debt you owe me?’ ’Owe you?’ says she, looking surprised. ’I didn’t know I owed you any thing.’ ’Why, certainly,’ says I; ’you owe me a kiss:’ She laughed and shied off and tried to change the subject. ’Come,’ says I, ’stepup to the captain’s office and settle.’ ’Yes,’ says Uncle Barney, ’kiss your nephew, Judith.’ ’But I don’t want to kiss him,’ says she, beginning to look dark. ’You kiss him,’ says Uncle Barney, looking darker. And she—she kissed me. But, gad, the way she glared! Her eyes were just swimming in fire. I swear, it frightened me; and I’m pretty tough. I don’t want any more kisses of that sort, thank you. It stung my lips like a hornet.” Mr. Rimo drew a deep breath, and caressed the knob of his cane with the apple of his chin. “It was an awful moment,” as they say on the stage, he added.

“Who was that—what was his name?—the second of her victims,” inquired Arthur.

“Oh, Bolen—Edward Bolen. He was Uncle Barney’s coachman. After the old boy got married and retired from business, he set up a team, and undertook to be aristocratic. The theory was that when he and she began rowing that night, Bolen attempted to step in between them, and that she just reminded him of his proper place with an ounce of lead. She never was tried for his murder. I suppose her acquittal in the case of Uncle Barney made the authorities think it wouldn’t pay to try her again. Every body said it was an infernal outrage for her to go free; but between you and me—and mum’s the word—I was real glad of it. Not that she hadn’t ought to have been punished for shooting her husband. But to have locked up her confoundedly pretty face out of sight in a prison—that would have been an infernal outrage, and no mistake. As for hanging her, they’d never have hanged her, anyhow—not even if the jury had convicted. But I don’t mean to say that she was innocent. Sane? Well, you never saw a saner woman. She knew what she was about better than you and I do now.”

“How do you account for the murder? What motive do you assign?”

“Most everybody said ’money’—claimed that she went deliberately to work and killed the old man for his money. Some few thought there must be another man at the bottom of it—that she had a paramour who put her up to it. But they didn’t know her. She had a hot temper; but as far as men were concerned, she was as cool as a Roman punch. My own notion is that she did it in a fit of passion. He irritated her somehow, and she got mad, and let fire. You see, I recollect the way she glared at me that time. Savage was no word for it. If she’d had a gun in her hand, my life wouldn’t have been worth that”—and Mr. Rimo snapped his fingers.

“I must say, you have contrived to interest me in her. I shall be glad when I have an opportunity of seeing her with my own eyes.”

“Well, you take my advice. When you’ve found out her whereabouts, don’t go too close, as they tell the boys at the menagerie. She’s as vicious as they make them, I don’t deny it. But she’s got a wonderful fascination about her, notwithstanding, and if she thought it worth her while, she could wind you around her finger like a hair, and never know she’d done it. I wish you the best possible luck.”

Mr. Rimo rose, shook hands, moved off.

Arthur’s dreams that night were haunted by a wild, fierce, Medusa-like woman’s face.

At his office, next morning, the first object that caught his eye was the black, leather-bound scrapbook that Peixada had given him yesterday. It lay where he had left it, on his desk. Beginning by listlessly turning the pages, he gradually became interested in their contents. I shall have to beg the reader’s attention to an abstract of Mrs. Peix-ada’s trial, before my story can be completed; and I may as well do so now.

The prosecution set out logically by establishing the fact of death. A surgeon testified to all that was essential in this regard. The second witness was one ’Patrick Martin. I copy his testimony word for word from the columns of the New York Daily Gazette.

“Mr. Martin,” began the district-attorney, “what is your business?”

“I am a merchant, sir.”

“And the commodities in which you deal are?

“Ales, wines, and liquors, your honor.

“At retail or wholesale?”

“Both, sir; but mostly retail.”

“Where is your store situated, Mr. Martin?”

“On the southwest corner of Eighty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.”

“Was the residence of the deceased, Mr. Bernard Peixada, near to your place of business?”

“It was, sir—on the next block.”

“What block? How is the block bounded?”

“The block, sir, is bounded by Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth Streets, and Ninth and Tenth Avenues, your honor.”

“Many houses on that block?

“None, your honor; only the house of the deceased. That stands on the top of a hill, back from the street, with big grounds around it.”

“Had Mr. Peixada lived there long?

“Since the 1st of May, this year.”

“Now, Mr. Martin, do you remember the night of July 30th?”

“Faith, I do, sir; and I’ll not soon forget it.”

“Good. Will you, then, as clearly and as fully as you can, tell the court and jury all the circumstances that combine to fix the night of July 30th in your memory? Take your time, speak up loudly, and look straight at the twelfth juryman.”

“Well, sir, on that night, toward two o’clock the next morning—”

(Laughter among the auditors; speedily repressed by the court attendants.)

“Don’t be disconcerted, Mr. Martin. On the morning of July 31st?”

“The same, sir. On that morning, at about two o’clock, I was outside in the street, putting the shutters over the windows of my store. While I was doing it, your honor, it seemed to me that I heard a noise—very weak and far away—like as if some one—a woman, or it might be a child—was crying out. I stopped for a moment, sir, and listened. Sure enough, I heard a voice—so faint you’d never have known it from the wind, except by sharpening your ears—I heard a voice, coming down the hill from the Jew’s house over the way. I couldn’t make out no words, but it was that thin and screechy that, ’Certain,’ says I to myself, ’that old felley there is up to some mischief, or my name’s not Patsy Martin.’ Well, after I had got done with the shutters, I went into the house by the family entrance, and says I to my wife, ’There’s a woman yelling in the house on the hill,’ says I. ’What of that?’ says she. ’Maybe I’d better go up,’ says I. ’You’d better be after coming to bed and minding your business,’ says she. ’It’s most likely a way them heathen have of amusing themselves,’ says she. But, ’No,’ says I. ’Some one’s in distress,’ says I; ’and I guess the best thing I can do will be to light a lantern and go along up,’ says I. So my wife, your honor, she lights the lantern for me, and, ’Damminus take ’em,’ says she, to wish me good luck; and off I started, across the street, through the gate, and up the wagon-road that leads to Peixada’s house. Meanwhile, your honor, the screaming had stopped. Never a whisper more did I hear; and thinks I to myself, ’It was only my imagination,’ thinks I—when whist! All of a sudden, not two feet away from me, there in the road, a voice calls out ’Help, help.’ The devil take me, I thought I’d jump out of my skin for fright, it came so unexpected. But I raised my lantern all the same, and cast a look around; and there before me on the ground, I seen an object which, as true as gospel, I took to be a ghost until I recognized it for Mrs. Peixada—the lady that’s sitting behind you, sir—the Jew’s wife, herself. There she lay, kneeling in front of me and when she seen who I was, ’Help, for God’s sake, help,’ says she, for all the world like a Christian. I knew right away that something wrong had happened, from her scared face and big, staring eyes; and besides, her bare feet and the white rag she wore in the place of a decent dress—”

At this point considerable sensation was created among the audience by the prosecuting attorney, who, interrupting the witness and addressing the court, remarked, “Your honor will observe that the prisoner has covered her face with a veil. This is a piece of theatricalism against which I must emphatically protest. It is, moreover, the jury’s prerogative to watch the prisoner’s physiognomy, as the story of her crime is told.”

Recorder Hewitt ordered the prisoner to remove her veil.

“Go on, Mr. Martin,” said the prosecutor to the witness.

“Well, sir, as I was saying, there I seen Mrs. Peix-ada, half crouching and half sitting there in the road. And when I got over the start she gave me, ’Excuse me, ma’am,’ says I, ’but didn’t I hear you hollering out for help?’ ’Faith, you did,’ says she. ’Well, here I am, ma’am,’ says I; ’and now, will you be kind enough to inform me what’s the trouble?’ says I. ’The trouble?’ says she. ’The trouble is that there’s two men kilt up at the house, that’s what’s the trouble,’ says she. ’Kilt?’ says I. ’Yes, shot,’ says she. ’And who shot them?’ says I. ’Myself,’ says she. ’Mother o’ God!’ says I. ’Well,’ says she, ’wont you be after going up to the house and trying to help the poor wretches?’ says she. ’I don’t know but I will,’ says I. And on up the road to the house I went. The front door, your honor, was open wide, and the gas blazing at full head within. I ran up the steps and through the vestibil, and there in the hall I seen that what Mrs. Peixada had said was the truest word she ever spoke in her life. Old Peixada, he lay there on one side, as dead as sour beer, with blood all around him; and on the other side lay Mr. Bolen—whom I knew well, for he was a good customer of my own, your honor—more dead than the Jew, if one might say so. I, sir, I just remained long enough to cross myself and whisper, ’God have mercy on them and then off I went to call an officer. On the way down the hill, I passed Mrs. Peixada again; and this time she was laying out stiff in the road, with her eyes closed and her mouth open, like she was in a fit. She had nothing on but that white gown I spoke of before; and very elegant she looked, your honor, flat there, like a corpse.”

Again the district-attorney stopped the witness.

“Your honor,” he said, “I must again direct your attention to the irregular conduct of the prisoner. She has now turned her back to the jury, and covered her face with her hands. This is merely a method of evading the injunction which your honor saw fit to impose upon her with respect to her veil. I must insist upon her displaying her full face to the jury.”

Mr. Sondheim, of counsel for the defendant: “If the Court please, it strikes me that my learned brother is really a trifle too exacting. I can certainly see no objection to my client’s holding her hands to her face. Considering the painfulness of her situation, it is no more than natural that she should desire to shield her face. I must beg the Court to remember that this prisoner is no ordinary criminal, but a lady of refined and sensitive instincts. A little indulgence, it seems to me, is due to her on account of her sex.”

The district-attorney: “The prisoner had better understand once for all that her sex isn’t going to protect her in this prosecution. The law is no respecter of sex. As for her refined and sensitive instincts, if she has any, I advise her to put them into her pocket. This jury has too much good sense to be affected by any exhibition that she may make for their benefit. I submit the matter to the Court’s good judgment.”

The recorder: “Madam, you will turn your chair toward the jury, and keep your face uncovered.”

The district-attorney: “Well, Mr. Martin, what next?”

The witness: “Weil, sir, I hurried along down as fast as ever I could, and stopped at my own place just long enough to tell my wife what had happened, and to send her up to Mrs. Peixada with a bottle of spirits to bring her around. Then I went to the station-house, and informed the gentleman at the desk of the state of affairs. Him and a couple of officers came back with me; and they, your honor, took charge of the premises, and—and that’s all I know about it.”

Martin was not cross-examined. Police Sergeant Riley, succeeding him, gave an account of the prisoner’s arrest and of her subsequent demeanor at the station-house. “The lady,” said he, “appeared to be unable to walk—leastwise, she limped all the way with great difficulty. We thought she was shamming, and treated her accordingly. But afterwards it turned out that she had a sprained ankle.” She had answered the formal questions—name? age? residence?—in full; and to the inquiry whether she desired to make any statement or remark relative to the charge preferred against her, had replied, “Nothing, except that I shot them both—Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen.” They had locked her up in the captain’s private room for the rest of the night; and the following morning she had been transferred to the Tombs.

The next witness was Miss Ann Doyle.

“Miss Doyle, what is your occupation?” asked the district-attorney.

“I am a cook, sir.”

“Have you a situation, at present?”

“I have not, sir.”

“How long have you been idle?”

“Since the 31st of July, sir.”

“Prior to that date where were you employed?”

“In the family of Mr. Peixada, sir.”

“Were you present at Mr. Peixada’s house on the night of July 30th?”

“I was not, sir.”

“Tell us, please, how you came to be absent?”

“Well, sir, just after dinner, along about seven o’clock, Mrs. Peixada, who was laying abed with a sore foot, she called me to her, sir, and, ’Ann,’ says she, ’you can have the evening out, and you needn’t come home till to-morrow morning,’ sir, says she.”

“And you availed yourself of this privilege?”

“Sure, I did, sir. I came home the next morning, sir, in time to get breakfast, having passed the night at my sister’s; and when I got there, sir—”

“Never mind about that, Miss Doyle. Now, tell us, was it a customary thing for Mrs. Peixada to let you go away for the entire night?”

“She never did it before, sir. Of course I had my regular Thursday and Sunday, but I was always expected to be in the house by ten o’clock, sir.”

“That will do, Miss Doyle. Miss Katharine Mahoney, take the stand.”

Miss Mahoney described herself as an “upstairs girl,” and said that she, too, until the date of the murder, had been employed in Mr. Peixada’s household. To her also, on the evening of July 30th, Mrs. Peixada had accorded leave of absence for the night.

“So that,” reasoned the district-attorney, “all the servants were away, by the prisoner’s prearrangement, at the hour of the perpetration of the crime?”

“Yes, sir; since me and Ann were the only servants they kept. Mr. Bolen staid behind, to his sorrow.”

In the case of each of these witnesses, the prisoner’s counsel waived cross-examination, saying, “If the court please, we shall not take issue on the allegations of fact.”

The prosecution rested, reserving, however, the right to call witnesses in rebuttal, if need should be. The defense started with a physician, Dr. Leopold Jetz, of Lexington Avenue, near Fifty-ninth Street.

“Dr. Jetz, how long have you known Mrs. Peix-ada, the prisoner at the bar?”

“Ever since she was born. I helped to bring her into the world.”

“When did you last attend her professionally?”

“I paid her my last professional visit on the 1st of August, 1878; eight days before she was married.”

“What was her trouble at that time?”

“General depression of the nervous system. To speak technically, cerebral anemia, or insufficient nourishment of the brain, complicated by sacral neuralgia—neuralgia at the base of the spine.”

“Were these ailments of long standing?”

“I was called in on the 29th of May. I treated her consecutively till August 1st. That would make two months. But she had been suffering for some time before I was summoned. The troubles had crept upon her gradually. On the 8th of August she was married. She had just completed her nineteenth year.”

“Now, doctor, was the condition of Mrs. Peixada’s health, at the time your treatment was discontinued, such as to predispose her to insanity?” (Question objected to, on the ground that the witness had not been produced as an expert, and that his competence to give expert testimony was not established. Objection overruled.)

“In my opinion,” said Dr. Jetz, “at the time I last saw her professionally, Mrs. Peixada was in an exceedingly critical condition. Although evincing no symptoms of insanity proper, her brain was highly irritated, and her whole nervous system deranged; so that an additional strain of any kind put upon her, might easily have precipitated acute mania. I told her father that she was in no wise fit to get married; but he chose to disregard my advice. I think I may answer your question affirmatively, and say that her health was such as to predispose her to insanity.”

By the district attorney: “Doctor, are your sentiments—your personal sentiments—for the prisoner of a friendly or an unfriendly nature?”

“Decidedly, sir, of a friendly nature.”

“You would be sorry to see her hanged?”

The doctor replied by a gesture.

“Or sent to State Prison?”

“I could not bear to think of it.”

“You would do your utmost—would you not?—to save her from such a fate?”

“Eagerly, sir, eagerly.”

“That’s sufficient, doctor.”

An alienist of some distinction followed Dr. Jetz. He said that he had listened attentively to the evidence so far adduced in court, had read the depositions taken before the magistrate and the coroner, had conferred at length with the preceding witness, and finally had made a diagnosis of Mrs. Peixada’s case in her cell at the Tombs. He believed that, though perfectly sane and responsible at present, she had “within a brief period suffered from a disturbance of cerebral function.” There were “indications which led him to infer that at the time of the homicide she was organically a lunatic.” The district-attorney took him in hand.

“Doctor, are you the author of a work entitled, ’Pathology of Mind Popularly Expounded’—published, as I see by the title page, in 1873?”

“I am, sir, yes.”

“Does that book express with tolerable accuracy your views on the subject of insanity?’

“It does—certainly.”

“Very well. Now, doctor, I will read aloud from Chapter III., page 75. Be good enough to follow.—’It is then a fact that there exists a borderland between pronounced dementia, or mania, and sound mental health, in which it is impossible to apply the terms, sane and insane, with any approach to scientific nicety. Nor is it to be disputed that a person may have entered this borderland may have departed from the realm of unimpaired intelligence, and not yet have attained the pandemonium of complete madness—and withal, retain the faculty of distinguishing between right and wrong, together with the control of will necessary to the selection and employment of either. This borderland is a sort of twilight region in which, though blurred in outline, objects have not become invisible. Crimes committed by subject? in the state thus described, can not philosophically be extenuated on the ground of mental aberration.’—I suppose, doctor, you acknowledge the authorship of this passage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And subscribe to its correctness?”

“It expresses the opinion which prevails among the authorities.”

“Well and good. Now, to return to the case at bar, are you willing to swear that on the night of July 30th, the ’disturbance of cerebral function’ which, you have told us, Mrs. Peixada was perhaps suffering from—are you willing to swear that it had progressed beyond this borderland which you have so clearly elucidated in your book?”

“I am not willing to swear positively. It is my opinion that it had.”

“You are not willing to swear positively. Then, you are not willing to swear positively, I take it, that Mrs. Peixada’s crime did not belong to that category which ’can not philosophically be extenuated on the ground of mental aberration?’.rdquo;

“Not positively—no, sir.”

“It is your opinion?”

“It is my opinion.”

“How firm?”

“Very firm.”

“So firm, doctor, that if you were on this jury, you would feel bound, under any and all circumstances, to acquit the prisoner?”

“So firm that I should feel bound to acquit her, unless evidence of a highly damaging character was forthcoming.”

“Well, suppose that evidence of a highly damaging character was forthcoming, would you convict?”

“I might.”

“Thanks, doctor. You can go.”

Having thus sought to prove the prisoner’s irresponsibility, the defense endeavored to establish her fair name. Half-a-dozen ladies and two or three gentleman attested that they had known her for many years, and had always found her to be of a peculiarly sweet and gentle temperament. Not one of them would believe her capable of an act of violence, unless, at the time of committing it, she was out of her right mind. As the last of these persons left the stand, Mr. Sondheim said, “Your honor, our case is in.”

“And a pretty lame case it is,” commented the district-attorney. “I beg leave to remind the court that it is Friday, and to move for an adjournment until Monday, in order that the People may have an opportunity to produce witnesses in rebuttal.” The motion was granted.

On Monday a second alienist, one whose renown quite equaled that of the first, declared it as his opinion, based upon a personal examination of the accused, that she was not and never had been in the slightest degree insane.

“Is Dr. Julius Gunther in court?” called out the district-attorney.

Dr. Gunther elbowed his way to the front, and was sworn.

“Dr. Gunther,” the prosecutor inquired, “you are a physician in general practice—yes?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You were also, I believe, up to the time of his death, physician to the family of Mr. Bernard Peixada?”

The doctor nodded affirmatively.

“Did you ever attend the decedent’s wife—Mrs. Peixada—this woman here—the prisoner at the bar?”

“On the 20th of July last I began to treat her for a sprained ankle. I called on her every day or two, up to the 30th.”

“You were treating her for a sprained ankle. Did you make any observation of her general health?”

“Naturally.”

“And you found it?”

“Excellent.”

“How about her mental faculties? Any symptoms of derangement?”

“Not one. I have seldom known a smarter woman. She had an exceptionally well-balanced mind.”

“That’ll do, doctor,” said the district-attorney. To the other side, “Want to cross-examine?”

“Is a well-balanced mind, doctor,” asked Mr. Sondheim, “proof positive of sanity? Is it not possible for one to be perfectly rational on ordinary topics, and yet liable to attacks of mama when irritated by some special circumstances?”

“Oh, speaking broadly, I suppose so. But in this particular instance, no. That woman is no more crazy than you are.”

“Now,” said the prosecutor, “now, as to my lady’s alleged good character?”

A score of witnesses proceeded to demolish it. Miss Emily Millard had acted as music teacher to the prisoner when she was a little girl. Miss Millard related a dozen anecdotes illustrative of the prisoner’s ungovernable temper. Misses Sophie Dedold, Florentine Worch, and Esther Steinbaum had gone to school with the prisoner. If their accounts were to be believed, she was a “flirt,” and a “doubleface.” At length, Mrs. George Washington Shapiro took the stand.

“Mrs. Shapiro, were you acquainted with Mr. Bernard Peixada, the decedent?”

“Well acquainted with him—an old friend of his family.”

“And with his wife, the prisoner?

“I made her acquaintance shortly before Mr. Peixada married her. After that I saw her as often as once a week.”

“Will you please give us your estimate of her character?”

“Bad, very bad. She is false, she is treacherous, but above all, she is spiteful and ill-humored.”

“For example?”

“Oh, I could give twenty examples.”

“Give one, please.”

“Well, one day I called upon her and found her in tears. ’My dear,’ said I, ’what are you crying about?’ ’Oh,’ she answered, ’I wish Bernard Peixada’—she always spoke of her husband as Bernard Peixada—’I wish Bernard Peixada was dead.’ ’What!’ I remonstrated. ’You wish your husband was dead? You ought not to say such a thing. What can you mean?’ ’I mean that I hate him,’ she replied. ’But if you hate him,’ said I, ’if you are unhappy with him, why don’t you wish that you yourself were dead, instead of wishing it of him?’ ’Oh,’ she explained, ’I am young. I have much to live for. He is an old, bad man. It would a good thing all around, if he were dead.’.rdquo;

“Can you give us the date of this extraordinary conversation?”

“It was some time, I think, in last June; a little more than a month before she murdered him.”

The efforts of the prisoner’s counsel to break down Mrs. Shapiro’s testimony were unavailing.

“Mr. Short,” says the Gazette, “now summed up in his most effective style, dwelling at length upon the prisoner’s youth and previous good character, and arguing that she could never have committed the crime in question, except under the sway of an uncontrollable impulse induced by mental disease. He wept copiously, and succeeded in bringing tears to the eyes of several jurymen. He was followed by Assistant-district-attorney Sardick, for the People, who carefully analyzed the evidence, and showed that it placed the guilt of the accused beyond the reach of a reasonable doubt. Recorder Hewitt charged dead against the fair defendant, consuming an hour and a quarter. The jury thereupon retired; but at the expiration of seventeen minutes they returned to the court-room, and, much to the surprise of every one present, announced that they had agreed upon a verdict. The prisoner was directed to stand up. She was deathly pale; her teeth chattered; her hands clutched at the railing in front of the clerk’s desk. The formal questions were put in their due order and with becoming solemnity. A profound sensation was created among the spectators when the foreman pronounced the two decisive words, ’Not guilty.’ A vivid crimson suffused the prisoner’s throat and cheeks, but otherwise her appearance did not alter. Recorder Hewitt seemed for a moment to discredit his senses. Then, suddenly straightening up and scowling at the jury-box, ’You have rendered an outrageous verdict; a verdict grossly at variance with the evidence,’ he said. ’You are one and all excused from further service in this tribunal.’ Turning to Mrs. Peixada, ’As for you, madam,’ he continued, ’you have been unrighteously acquitted of as heinous a crime as ever woman was guilty of. Your defense was a sham and a perjury. The ends of justice have been defeated, because, forsooth, you have a pretty face. You can go free. But let me counsel you to beware, in the future, how you tamper with the lives of human beings, better and worthier in every respect than yourself. I had hoped that it would be my duty and my privilege to sentence you to a life of hard labor in the prison at Sing Sing, if not to expiation of your sin upon the gallows. Unfortunately for the public welfare, and much to my personal regret, I have no alternative but to commit you to the keeping of your own guilty conscience, trusting that in time you may, by its action, and by the just horror with which your fellow-beings will shun your touch, be chastised and chastened. You are discharged.’ Mrs. Peixada bowed to the court, and left the room on the arm of her counsel.”

Undramatic and matter-of-fact though it was, Arthur got deeply absorbed in the perusal of this newspaper report of Mrs. Peixada’s trial. When the jury returned from their deliberations, it was with breathless interest that he learned the result; he had forgotten that he already knew it. As the words “Not guilty” took shape before him, he drew a genuine sigh of relief. Then, at once recollecting himself, “Bah!” he cried. “I was actually rejoicing at a miscarriage of justice. I am weak-minded.” By and by he added, “I wish, though, that I could get at the true inwardness of the matter—the secret motives that nobody but the murderess herself could reveal.” For the sake of local color, he put on his hat and went over to the General Sessions court-room—now empty and in charge of a single melancholy officer—and tried to reconstruct the scene, with the aid of his imagination. The recorder had sat there, on the bench; the jury there; the prisoner there, at the counsel table. The atmosphere of the court-room was depressing. The four walls, that had listened to so many tales of sin and unhappiness, seemed to exude a deadly miasma. This room was reserved for the trial of criminal causes. How many hearts had here stood still for suspense! How many wretched secrets had here been uncovered! How many mothers and wives had wept here! How many guilt-burdened souls had here seen their last ray of light go out, and the shadows of the prison settle over them! The very tick-tack of the clock opposite the door sounded strangely ominous. Looking around him, Arthur felt his own heart grow cold, as if it had been touched with ice.