The Coquette's Victim Part 1

The Coquette's Victim.

by Charlotte M. Braeme.

CHAPTER I.

The Trial.

Mr. Kent was a very able magistrate. He had sat on the bench for many years and was considered a man of great legal attainments and skill. He very seldom erred in his judgment, and being gifted with a natural shrewdness, he saw the difference at once between a guilty and an innocent man.

He rarely erred; long practice had made him an adept in reading faces.

But on this morning, the fourteenth of May, he was puzzled. Many cases had been brought before him. Drunken men dismissed with a fine and a reprimand, thieves sentenced to weeks or months of imprisonment, wives with pale faces and bruised arms had given reluctant evidence against husbands who had promised to love and cherish them until death.

It was a bright May morning, and the sun did his best to pour through the dusky windows of the police court; a faint beam fell on the stolid faces of the policemen and ushers of the court, the witnesses and the lookers-on; a faint beam that yet, perhaps, brought many messages of bright promise to those present.

A little boy had been sent on an errand with sixpence and had stolen the money; with many sobs and tears he confessed that he had spent it in cakes. Mr. Kent looked at the tear-stained face; the untidy brown head scarcely reached to the table, and the good magistrate thought, with something like pain at his heart, of a fair-haired boy at home. So he spoke kindly to the poor, trembling prisoner, and while he strongly reprimanded, still encouraged him to better ways. The boy was removed, and then Mr. Kent was puzzled by the prisoner who took his place.

A tall, handsome young man, apparently not more than twenty, with a clear-cut aristocratic face, and luminous dark gray eyes. A face that no one could look into without admiration--that irresistibly attracted man, woman and child. He was a gentleman--there could be no mistake about it.

That clear-cut Norman face had descended to him from a long line of ancestors; the well-built, manly figure, with its peculiar easy grace and dignity told of ancient lineage and n.o.ble birth.

His hands were white, slender and strong, with almond-shaped nails--hands that had never been soiled with labor, and surely never stained with crime.

He carried his handsome head high; it was proudly set on a firm, graceful neck, and covered with cl.u.s.ters of dark hair. He would have looked in his place near the throne of a queen, or, on the back of a war horse, leading a forlorn hope; but no one could understand his being prisoner in a dock. Mr. Kent looked at him, wondering with what he was charged. Surely, with that n.o.ble face and gentlemanly bearing, he had never been guilty of a common a.s.sault. Magistrate as he was, Mr. Kent listened to the recital of the charge, with some curiosity.

Jules St. Croix, Count of the French Empire, charged the prisoner at the bar with having broken into his rooms for the purpose of robbery. He had been discovered in the count's drawing-room, where he had forced open an ivory casket and stolen the contents, which were an ancient and valuable gold watch and a gold ring, also of considerable value. At the moment that the count, followed by his servant, entered the room, the prisoner had these articles in his hand. He dropped them immediately, but the count, hastily calling for the police, gave him in charge.

There was a smell of burned paper in the room and it was nearly eleven at night.

The magistrate asked if the prisoner had made any resistance. Policeman C. No. 14, answered, "No, he gave in at once; and came straight away."

Mr. Kent asked again: "Was there anything in the casket beside the jewelry?"

It seemed to be a very insignificant question, but the prisoner and the count looked steadfastly at each other and both answered: "No."

There were two witnesses. Robert Bolton, the count's servant, and C. No.

14, the policeman. The evidence of the servant was taken first. He said that the prisoner had called several times to see his master, always coming when the count was from home; that he had, before, made one or two efforts to get into the count's room, but that he, the servant, had always refused him permission.

On this evening the count went out early, and Robert Bolton having some errands to do, followed his master. About ten o'clock the prisoner called at the house, No. 24 Cambridge Terrace, and asked to speak to Count St. Croix. The landlady of the house told him the count was from home; then the prisoner said:

"I know. I will go to his room and wait there for him."

The landlady, believing him to be a perfect gentleman, allowed him to go up to the count's room. Robert Bolton returned home just as his master was at the door; when the landlady told him a gentleman was waiting there, it flashed instantly into his mind there was something wrong. He hastily told his suspicions to the count and they ran upstairs together. Opening the door quickly, they found the prisoner with the casket in one hand and the watch in the other. There was an odor of burnt paper in the room.

The count immediately opened the window and called for the police. C.

No. 14 was just pa.s.sing, and in marvelously quick time he ran upstairs.

"This man has gotten into my room on false pretences," said the count.

"He is a stranger to me. I give him in charge for breaking open my casket and stealing a watch and ring from it."

"What did the prisoner say."

"He pointed to the watch and ring, and said: 'There they are;' then he looked at the count with a smile."

"Did he seem frightened?"

"Not the least in the world," was the answer; "just the contrary."

"What happened next?"

"The prisoner told him he must consider himself a prisoner on the charge of stealing a watch. He laughed aloud and walked away."

The landlady of the house, the policeman and the count all gave the same evidence. It seemed very clear against him.

"What have you to say?" asked, the magistrate of the prisoner.

He raised his luminous gray eyes.

"Not one word," he replied, in a clear, refined voice.

"What is your name? I see you have refused to give any."

For the first time the prisoner's face flushed crimson, and the count smiled malignantly.

"My name is--John Smith," he replied, and again the count smiled.

"Your address?"

He gave some number and street which every one knew to be false.

"Your occupation?" asked the magistrate again.

"I have none--that is, no settled occupation," he replied.

"Have you no lawyer to defend you?" asked Mr. Kent.

"I require none," said the prisoner; "I have no defense. All that Count Jules St. Croix says is true; he found me in his room with the open casket in my hand."

"You had gone there for the purpose of robbery?"

"I have not a word to answer."

"You can surely give some account of your presence there?"

The prisoner smiled again.

"I refuse to do so," he replied, with great firmness, yet courtesy of manner.