These questions he could not answer, and his brain was all in a whirl when the train reached Springfield, and, with the others, he registered himself at the hotel. Suddenly, like a gleam of lightning seen through a rift of clouds, there came back to him, with a horrible distinctness, the words the child Jerry had spoken to him that day years ago, when he had walked homeward with her through the leafy woods from the Park House, where he had been questioned so closely by Mrs. Tracy with regard to her diamonds and what he had been doing in the house on the morning of their disappearance.

'I know where those diamonds are, but I shan't tell while there is such a fuss,' she had said, and in his abstraction he had scarcely noticed it then, but it came back to him now with fearful significance, making him sick, and faint, and cold, although the great drops of sweat stood thickly upon his lips and under his hair, as, after the gas was lighted, he sat alone in a little reception-room opening from one of the parlors.

Did Jerrie know where they were, and had she known all the time and not spoken? And, if so, was she not guilty as an accessory, at least in trying to shield another? For that she took them herself he never for a moment dreamed. It was some one else, and she knew and did not tell. He was certain of it now, as every incident connected with her strange sickness came back to him, when she seemed to be doing penance for another's fault. She had called herself an accessory, and that was what she was, or rather what the world would call her, if it knew. To him she was Jerrie, the girl he loved, and he would defend her to the bitter end, no matter how culpable she had been in keeping silence so long.

But who took them! That was the question puzzling him so much as he sat thinking with his head bent down, and so absorbed that he did not hear a step in the adjoining room, or know that Peterkin had seated himself just where a large mirror showed him distinctly the young man in the next room, whom he recognized at once, though Harold never moved for a few moments or lifted his head.

At last, however, he unb.u.t.toned his coat and after glancing cautiously around to make sure no one was near, he took the box from his pocket, and holding the stones to the light examined them carefully, taking in his hand first the ear-rings and then the pin, and holding them in such a way that two or three times they flashed directly in the eyes of the cruel man watching him.

'Yes, they are Mrs. Tracy's diamonds; there can be no mistake,' he whispered, just as he became conscious that there was some one in the door looking at him.

Quick as thought he put the box out of sight just as Peterkin's voice, exultant and hateful, cried out:

'Hallo, Mr. Prayer-book! your piety won't let you keep back a darned thing you know agin me, but it lets you have in your possession diamonds which I'd eenamost sware was them stones Miss Tracy lost years ago and suspected you of takin. I know the box anyway, I heard it described so often, and I b'lieve I know them diamonds. I seen 'em in the lookin'-gla.s.s, settin' in t'other room, and seen you look all round like a thief afore you opened 'em. So, fork over, and mebby you can give me back May Jane's pin you stole at the party the night Mr. Arthur came home. Fork over, I say!'

Too much astonished at first to speak, Harold stood staring at the man who had attacked him so brutally, while his hand closed tightly over the diamonds in his pocket, as if fearing they might be wrenched from him by force.

'Will you fork over, or shall I call the perlice?' Peterkin asked.

'Call the police as soon as you like,' Harold replied, 'but I shall not give you the diamonds.'

'Then you own that you've got 'em! That's half the battle!' Peterkin said, coming up close to him, and looking at him with a meaning smile more detestable than any menace could have been. 'I know you've got 'em, and I can run you if I try, and then what will your doxie think of you!

Will she refuse my Bill for a thief, and treat me as if I was dirt?'

'What do you mean, sir?' Harold demanded, feeling intuitively that by his _doxie_ Jerrie was meant, and feeling a great horror, too, lest by some means Jerrie's name should be mixed up with the affair before she had a chance to explain.

The reference to Billy was a puzzle, but Peterkin did not leave him in doubt.

'I mean that you think yourself very fine, and always have, and that are girl of the carpet-bag thinks herself fine, too, and refused my Bill for you, who hain't a cent in the world. I seen it in her face when I twitted her on it, and she riz up agin me like a catamount. But I'll be even with you both yit. I've got you in my power, young man, but--' and here he came a step or two nearer to Harold, and dropping his voice to a whisper said: 'I sha'n't do nothin', nor say nothin' till you've gin your evidence, and if you hold your tongue I will. You tickle me, and I'll tickle you! see!'

Harold was too indignant to reply, and feeling that he was degrading himself every moment he spent in the presence of that man, he left the room without a word, and went to his own apartment, but not to sleep, for never had he spent so wretched a night as that which followed his interview with Peterkin. Of what the man could do to him, he had no fear. His anxiety was all for Jerrie. Where did she find the diamonds, and for whom did she keep silence so long? and what would be said of the act when it was known, as it might be, though not from him?

Two or three times he arose and lighted the gas, examined the diamonds carefully to see if there were not some mistake. But there could be none. He had seen them on the lady's person and had heard them described so accurately that he could not be mistaken; and then the box was the same he had once seen when Jack took him to his mother's room to show him what Uncle Arthur had brought. That was a tortoise sh.e.l.l, of an oval shape, lined with blue satin, and this was a tortoise sh.e.l.l, oval shaped, and lined with blue satin. Harold felt, when at last the daylight shone into his room, that if it had tarried a moment longer he must have gone mad. He was very white and haggard, and there were dark rings under his eyes, when he went down to the office, where the first person he met was Billy, who also looked pale and worn, with a different expression upon his face from anything Harold had ever seen before. It was as if all life and hope had gone, leaving him nothing now to care for. In his anxiety and worry about the diamonds Harold had scarcely given a thought to what Peterkin had said of Jerrie's refusal of Billy, for it seemed so improbable that the latter would presume to offer himself to her; but at sight of Billy's face it came back to him with a throb of pity for the man, and a thrill of joy for himself for whom Peterkin had said his son was rejected.

'Does Billy know of the diamonds, I wonder?' he thought.

As if to answer the question in the negative, Billy came quickly forward, and offering his hand, bade Harold good-morning, and then motioning him to a seat, took one beside him, and began:

'I'm awful sorry, Hal, th-that you are mix-mixed up in th-this but I sup suppose you m-must t-tell the truth.'

'Yes, I must tell the truth, Harold said.'

'Fa-father will be so m-mad,' Billy continued. 'I wi-wish I could t-t-testify f-for you, bu-but I can't. You were th-there, I wa-wan't, and all I know fa-father told me; bu-but d don't volunteer information.'

'No,' Harold said, slowly, wishing that the ocean were rolling between him and this detestable suit.

Once he resolved to go to Judge St. Claire, deliver up the diamonds, and tell him all he knew about them, but this would be bringing Jerrie into the matter, and so he changed his mind and wondered aimlessly about the town until it was time for him to appear at the court-house, where a crowd was gathering. It was late before the suit known as _Wilson vs.

Peterkin_ was called, and later still when Harold took the stand.

White and trembling, so that both his hands and his knees were shaking visibly, he seemed more like a criminal than a witness, he was so agitated and pre-occupied, too, it would seem, for at first his answers were given at random, as if he hardly knew what he was saying; nor did he, for over and beyond the sea of long faces confronting him, Judge St.

Claire's wondering and curious--Billy's wondering, too--Wilson's disappointed and surprised, and Peterkin's threatening and exultant by turns--he saw only Jerrie coming to him in the lane and asking him to keep the diamonds for her--saw her, too, away back years ago up in the little low room, with her fever-stained cheeks and shorn head, talking the strangest things of prisons, and subst.i.tutes, and accessories, and a.s.suring some one that she would never tell, and was going for him, if necessary.

Who was that man? Where was he now? and why had he imposed this terrible secret upon Jerrie?

These were the thoughts crowding through his brain while he was being questioned as to what he knew of the agreement between the plaintiff and defendant while in the office of the latter. Once a thought of Maude crossed his mind with a keen pang of regret, as he remembered the lovely face which had smiled so fondly upon him, mistaking his meaning utterly, and appropriating to herself the love he was trying to tell her was another's. And with thoughts of Maude there came a thought of Arthur, the very first which Harold had given him, Arthur, the crazy man, who himself had hidden the diamonds and for whom Jerrie was ready to sacrifice so much. It was clear as daylight to him now, the anxiety and stain were over, and those who were watching him so intently as he gave his answers at random, with the sweat pouring like rain down his face, were electrified at the start he gave as he came to himself and realized for the first time where he was, and why he was there. Arthur would never see Jerrie wronged. _She_ was safe, and with this load lifted from him, he gave his whole attention to the business on hand, answering the questions now clearly and distinctly.

When at last the lawyer said to him, 'Repeat what you can remember of the conversation which took place between the plaintiff and the defendant on the morning of ----, 18--,' he gave one sorry look at poor Billy, who was the picture of shame and confusion, and then, in a clear, distinct voice, which filled every corner of the room, told what he had heard said in his presence, and what he knew of the transaction, proving conclusively that the plaintiff was right and Peterkin a rascal, and this in the face of the man who had asked him not to _blab_ and who shook his fist at him threateningly as the narrative went on.

'Would you believe the defendant under oath?' was asked at the close, and Harold answered, promptly:

'Under oath--yes.'

'Would you, if not under oath?'

'If an untruth would be to his advantage, no,' and then Harold was through.

As he stepped down from the witness stand old Peterkin arose, so angry that at first he could scarcely articulate his words.

'You dog! you liar! you thief! he screamed; 'to stand there and lie so about me! I'll teach you--I'll show 'em what you are. If there's a perlice here, I call on 'em to arrest this feller for them diamonds of Miss Tracy's! They are in his pocket--or was last night. I seen 'em myself, and he da.s.sent deny it.'

By this time the court-house was in wild confusion, as the spectators arose from their seats and pressed forward to where Peterkin stood denouncing Harold, who was white as ashes, and looked as if he were going to faint, as Billy hastened to his side, whispering:

'Lean on me, and I will get you out of this. Father is mad.'

But order was soon restored, though not until Peterkin had yelled again, as Harold was leaving the room:

'Search him, I tell you! Don't let him escape! He's got 'em in his pocket--Miss Tracy's diamonds! Lord of heavens! don't you remember the row there was about 'em years ago?'

Of what followed during the next hour Harold knew very little. There was a crowd around him, and cries of 'He is going to faint!' while Billy's stammering voice called pleadingly, 'St-stand back, ca-can't you, and gi-give him air.'

Then, a deluge of water in his face; then a great darkness and the voices sounded a long way off, and he felt so tired and sleepy, and thought of Jerry, and Maude, and lived over again the scene in the Tramp-House, when he found the former in the bag, and felt her little fat arms around his neck as he staggered with her through the snow, wondering why she was so heavy, and why her feet were dragging on the ground. When he came more fully to himself, he was in a little room in the court-house, and Billy's arm was lying protectingly across his shoulder, while Billy's father was bellowing like a bull:

'Be you goin' to let him go! Ain't you goin' to git a writ and arrest him! Why don't you handcuff him, somebody? And you, Bill, be you a fool to stan' there a huggin' him as if he was a gal! What do you mean?'

'Ha-Hal is my fr-friend, father. He never to-took the diamonds,' Billy answered, sadly, while Judge St. Claire, who had the box of jewels in his hand and was looking very anxious, turned to the angry man clamoring so loudly for a _writ_ and said, sternly:

'Even if Harold took the diamonds--which he did not, I am certain of that--there is some mistake which he will explain; but if he took them, it is too late to arrest him. A theft commited ten years ago cannot be punished now.'

'May the Lord give you sense,' Peterkin rejoined, with a derisive laugh.

'Don't tell me that a body can't be punished for stealin' diamonds ef 'twas done a hundred years ago,'

'But it is true, nevertheless,' the judge replied.

Turning to another lawyer who was standing near, Peterkin asked:

'Is that so, square? Is it so writ? Is that the law?'

'That is the law,' was the response.