The Council of Twelve

The Council of Twelve

By

Frank L. Packard

From the Fonds of Frank L. Packard at the Library and Archives, Canada. First published [Richard Marters], (ss) Gunter’s Magazine Feb 1908.

For           Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca          December 2018.

Though the morning repast that James set before his master was no whit less tempting, the table appointments in no particular less dainty or inviting, and James’ own attentions even more pronounced than usual, Marters toyed with his breakfast. The morning’s mail beside his plate was mostly unopened. The task had been halted before it was fairly begun by the very strange epistle that had lain almost at the top of the pile. He had spread the letter open before him to read and re-read it with a puzzled expression on his face that now and then deepened into a frown. Finally, he pushed back his plate and, gathering up his mail, passed from the breakfast room into his study. Here, for half an hour, he paced up and down in indecision. For all his powers of analysis and intuition, he was for once at a loss.

It might well be but a plot for his undoing. Hardly a city in any State of the Union but harbored those whose crimes he had brought to light, and the perpetrators themselves to justice. Nor were these men—and women—confined to the lower criminal classes. No one realized more fully than Marters himself, the power, in money and influence, that lay behind many of those to whom there could be no sweeter thing in life than to wreak a full, even if belated, vengeance upon him.

Marters, rich, eccentric, fastidious to a degree in his person and surroundings, man of the world and fashion, smiled grimly as he reflected on what had been the outcome of his hobby. On the one hand, an almost world-wide reputation; on the other, the ever-present, constant menace that threatened even in the very air he breathed.

A plot? Perhaps. And yet there was something genuine, something simple and direct in the appeal, that seemed to override and stamp suspicion as groundless.

The letter bore neither date nor address. He picked it up again and read it slowly:

“Dear Mr. Marters:

“This appeal is made to you by one whom you have never known. I do not know that you can aid me, even if you are willing and will consent to make the attempt. I dare hardly hope that you will do more than throw this communication in the waste-paper basket—though I pray God you may not. I fear I am incoherent—I cannot explain.

I am permitted only to make the request that you will come to me.

I have nothing to offer in return, save the absolute assurance that no harm will befall you, and, in the event of your being successful, that your soul will carry to the grave the knowledge that you have saved a human life. If you fail, you will at least have participated in a scene that will be of peculiar interest to you, and one that it falls to the lot of few men to witness.

“I have read these few lines just written. Oh, God! how pitifully inadequate the words to make you realize the awful extremity in which I find myself. If only you might read, instead, the soul-anguish that is mine!

“I may not sign my own name, and I will use no other. I beg and implore your aid. I pray God you will come.”

Below, in a different hand, in cold and impartial language, were these words:

“A carriage will call for you at your club this evening (Tuesday) at eight o’clock. You may either enter it or dismiss it at your discretion. In the latter event, you will hear no more of the matter. Should you elect to respond to the request, you are guaranteed a safe conduct, provided that in all things you conform to the requests and instructions given you. It is further agreed that your act of entering the carriage pledges you to hold sacred and inviolate anything that you may see or hear.”

“Curious,” Marters commented, as he again laid the letter down, “curious, and—er—quite perplexing.”

Indecision was no characteristic of Marters, and now his inability to formulate promptly and emphatically his course of action annoyed and irritated him to an almost unbearable degree.

To him, a pledge given directly or tacitly implied, was something to be strictly adhered to; so that were it a trap, he must walk blindly into it with no precautions taken that would place at his command assistance or help should it prove needed. To inform any one of his proposed actions, to have the carriage followed, would, at the outset, be a violation of the restrictions placed upon him. There were but two courses open to him—to go or to stay. Plainly, to go was to do so in accordance with the terms laid down, and the terms were the only things connected with the entire matter that were not ambiguous.

Marters, above all things a keen self-analyst, had laid open the crux of the affair as it presented itself to him in his comment “curious.” The appeal as a bit of human interest was at once relegated to its proper position as a secondary consideration, for the very simple reason that he had no means of convincing himself that it was a bona fide pleas for help. His interest was aroused because the situation hinted at in the letter, the corollary in the shape of the postscript, everything in fact connected with the entire matter, was unique, bizarre, and out of the ordinary, and, trap or not, offered an alluring setting to what might well prove a climax of absorbing and vital interest.

Shortly before eight that evening, Marters rose from his dinner at the Athenaeum and descended to the smoking-room. He drew up at a big lounging chair to one of the windows that gave onto that most fashionable section of Fifth Avenue upon which the club fronted, and lighting his cigar sat staring out through the rain-splashed panes. The wet asphalt pavement glistened under the rays of the street lamps, while the few pedestrians hurried along with coat collars turned up and heads bent against the storm.

“A beastly night,” Marters muttered. “Ah!” A carriage had swung suddenly around the corner. He leaned forward and pushed the button. “My coat and hat,” he directed, as a club attendant answered his summons.

Marters looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock precisely

“The porter told me to say your carriage was waiting, sir,” said the man, returning with Marters’ things.

“Very good,” Marters replied, getting into his coat. “Ah, thank you.”

At the door of the club, he halted for an instant. A closed carriage, drawn by two horses, was at the curb, the driver upon the box. As Marters crossed the sidewalk, the door was opened from within and almost before it was shut behind him the carriage had started at a rapid pace up the Avenue.

The window curtains had been tightly drawn, and pitch dark though it was, Marters lifted his hat politely. “If it is permissible, Madam,” he remarked, courteously, “I will open the door sufficiently to enable me to dispose of my cigar. I must confess I had—er— hardly anticipated the pleasure of a lady’s company.”

His companion laughed softly. “I do not mind it in the least, Mr. Marters. Do you know, I hardly expected you would come. Confess, it was for a woman’s reason.”

“A woman’s reason?”

“Yes, curiosity. The element of mystery was the appeal you were unable to resist.”

“U-um,” said Marters slowly, “you are not entirely complimentary.”

“Really! Nevertheless, Mr. Marters, leaving aside the motive, it was somewhat hazardous for a man in your position to embark upon an adventure like the present. Are you not even now thinking it was a trifle foolhardy, and rather like flying in the face of Providence?”

“On the contrary, madam, I am—ah—quite reassured.”

Again the low, musical laugh, then silence. Suddenly she leaned over and caught his arm.

“Listen,” she said, speaking rapidly. “It is I who am responsible for the choice having fallen upon you. You will be placed in the peculiar position of being asked to aid one who, from your standpoint, will, I am afraid, be regarded as a criminal. Tell me you will not refuse your help on that account.”

“Surely, madam,” Marters answered, severely, “you have not been so shortsighted as to bring me out on such an errand. To aid or abet a criminal against the law is to compound a felony. Your estimate of me is—er—pardon me, hardly flattering. If it is not too late, I would suggest that we return.”

“No, no,” she cried, quickly, “you do not understand. It is not that. I—I have no right to say anything, but I must speak for very fear that you might misunderstand and refuse to help us—him. There is not one but you, Mr. Marters. If you fail us, then—then—” her voice broke into a half sob.

“It is very dark,” Marters remarked, quietly, “and being unable to distinguish your features, I am not only in a physical but in a mental condition of obscurity as well. Er—you will forgive me if I express myself somewhat harshly, my dear madam, but I must confess I am a little at a loss whether to credit your emotion to sincerity or to very clever acting. It is at least possible that your absorbing conversation might be solely for the purpose of enabling your driver the more completely to bewilder me as to the direction in which we are travelling, by distracting my attention from the many turns and evolutions that I have noticed he has already indulged in.”

“Indeed, I can hardly blame you,” she answered, more composedly, “As for rendering assistance to the driver, however, there is no occasion whatever that I should do so. Even the possibility does not exist that you will know your whereabouts when we arrive at our destination. As for my sincerity, what does it matter? So that I succeed in obtaining from you your promise of assistance I will, whether I am sincere or not, have achieved my end in either case, since that is the subject for conversation that I have introduced.”

“Um-m,” said Marters, “do you know, you are a very extraordinary woman.”

“Listen, then,” she said. “You would not countenance the taking of human life except after a fair and impartial trial, and then only at the hands of the authorities. If he—my friend —shall prove a criminal in your eyes, then, too, those in whose power he is are equally criminals. Oh, I dare not say too much. Don’t you see it is not against the law I ask your help.           They— they have no right to take his life even if they do allow him every opportunity to defend himself. But they will, Mr. Marters, unless you can prove his innocence. Do you understand?”

“Really,” barters remarked, “it is quite interesting. This person, I take it, is to answer to his associates for an alleged offense. He is to he permitted to defend himself, but in default of proving his innocence, these associates constitute themselves his judges and executioners. Am I correct in my supposition, madam?”

“Yes, yes. Will you promise?” she cried anxiously.

“It is very singular,” Marters commented, half musingly. “Um-m, yes, quite. Well, well, we shall see. Yes, madam, if I can be of any assistance to your—er—friend, you have my assurance, to that effect. Always providing, let it be understood, that no action of mine in his behalf will in any way interfere with the course of the law.”

“Oh, I do thank you, indeed, I do. If I could only express my—”

“Say no more, madam. Let us hope for his sake, and—er— yours, that I may he of some service.”

Marters settled back on the cushions, and for a long time there was silence between them, Five, ten, twenty minutes passed, and from the motion of the carriage Marters knew they were on a macadamized road, and had consequently left the city streets. Presumably, then, they were out in the country, or else, he added as a mental reservation, were driving round and round in some park. He shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly, and turned again to the woman beside him.

“I find it difficult,” he said, abruptly, “to reconcile your presence here with the, it is true, very meagre, facts in my possession.”

“Perhaps,” she answered, “I was sent because, being a woman, you would be the more readily assured that no violence was contemplated against you, and also, for the same reason, that you might with better grace comply with what will be required of you.”

“Neither of which reasons account for an association with those involved in the affair, which you must have to warrant your presence in this carriage at this moment,” said Marters bluntly.

“Then, perhaps, I, too, am one of those who—”

She broke off abruptly at the sound of three sharp taps on the roof of the carriage overhead.

“We are nearly there,” she said quickly. “You are to be blindfolded. You see one of my reasons at least was valid. Since I am a woman I am sure you will not resist.”

“On the contrary,” Marters laughed, “I shall be delighted to assist you. My only regret is” he took off his hat and helped her knot the scarf she extended over his eyes— “that our acquaintance has been formed under such—er—one-sided circumstances. Perhaps later I may he more favored—”

“I am afraid not. You must take me on trust—always. I leave you here.” She leaned over and caught his hand. “Not a word of what I have said,” she breathed. “My trust has been even greater than yours, if you but knew it. You must profess entire ignorance of your errand except what you might naturally be supposed to have gleaned from the letter you received. And, oh, believe me, I am so grateful to you for your promise. Goodbye.”

A quick pressure of the hand as the carriage stopped, then the door was opened and she was gone. An instant later, and a man’s voice bade Marters descend. He felt his way out, and as he stepped to the ground an arm was slipped through his, and he was led up three or four stone steps, then across what was presumably a wide veranda. Here, there was a momentary halt while a few low spoken words were exchanged between his conductor and some other person. Then on again into the house, down a long corridor through several rooms with a slight pause here and there to open and shut the connecting doors.

Suddenly the scarf was snatched from his eyes. He was standing at one end of a long table in a large, spacious, high studded room. His eyes swept the surroundings with a swift, comprehensive glance. The polished hardwood floor, the rich and costly rugs—everything was eloquent of taste and refinement, but about the table and the men who sat around it in absolute silence, was an air of stern solemnity that for a moment chilled even Marters, nonchalant as he was.

It was the longest table he had ever seen—long enough to seat fifteen or twenty men comfortably on either side, yet on each side there were but six, grouped closely together in the center making twelve in all except for one at the further end who sat facing Marters. And of them all, this man’s features alone were discernible. The room was lighted only by the soft glow of the four shaded incandescent lamps upon the table, one in each corner, leaving the faces of the six men on either side completely in the shadow. Down the length of the table between the rows of motionless figures, Marters’ eyes met those of the man at the opposite end. The face was ghastly pale—or was it the light effect which produced the unusual pallor, he wondered? His question was answered as he read the mute and piteous appeal in the other’s eyes. This, then, was the man in whose behalf he had pledged his aid to the unknown companion of his drive. He looked again at the twelve men ranged six on either hand, but apart from the fact that they were in conventional evening attire, he gained nothing from his additional scrutiny.

Not a word had been spoken during the time that he had been standing in the room. Those about him evidently preferring that the scene should make its own impression upon him.

It was Marters who broke the silence. “I am at your service, gentlemen,” he said, with even composure.

“You may be seated, Mr. Marters.” It was the man on his right who spoke.

When Marters had complied, the one who had just spoken resumed: “You are present, Mr. Marters,” he said, in serious tones, “at a meeting of the Governing Council, of this country, of an organization whose objects and purposes it is not necessary that we should dwell upon. Before proceeding further, I have several questions I desire to put to you. You have come here voluntarily, of your own accord, and without coercion?”

“I have,” said Marters.

“And in so doing you consider yourself, upon your honor, pledged to keep forever secret anything that may transpire, anything that you may see or hear, anything that you yourself may do?”

“I do.”

“We desire that you should fully understand the portent and gravity of the situation. It is with no desire to create an impression in your mind that we wish to threaten or intimidate you, that I say that once invoked, in no corner of the world could you escape the vengeance of this Society. You may even yet, if you so desire, withdraw.”

“The—er—situation is quite clear,” Marters replied. “I am content to subscribe to your conditions.”

“Very well. It is the law, amongst us, that when a brother shall be placed on trial on a charge which, if proven against him, entails the death penalty, he shall have the privilege of calling to his aid anyone whom he may name, providing always that in the opinion of the Council such person shall be one in whose honor and secrecy they have reason to believe they may rely. The prisoner, who sits facing you, has chosen you.”

Marters bowed.

“You are at liberty to conduct his defense with perfect freedom. No restraint will be placed upon you as far as essentials go. The Council are unprejudiced, unless it be in favor of the accused himself, who, until recently, was honored with a seat amongst us. Have I made your position clear to you, Mr. Marters?”

“Quite clear,” said Marters placidly.

The spokesman turned to his colleagues. “Brethren, have I, as your president, stated the case to your satisfaction?”

Each one of the eleven nodded his head in affirmation.

“We are agreed,” said the president; then sternly: “Brother Hermann Vogel, stand up!”

The man at the end of the table rose slowly, and catching at the edge of the table to steady himself, stood leaning heavily upon it for support. As Marters studied the man all doubt that the scene before him was anything, but one of deadly earnest vanished. Vogel’s face was like a death’s head, utterly devoid of color, his expression that of one from whom all hope had gone.

Absolute silence—broken after a moment by the stern, grave tones of the president’s voice;

“You are here to answer to the charge of treason to the Brotherhood of violation of your oath, and of having done to death a brother of this Society. You will plead to the accusation.” Once, twice, the man essayed to speak. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. He reached out his arms imploringly. Then, with an effort he pulled himself together.

“Oh, this is horrible!—horrible!” he burst out. “It is not true! You know it cannot be true!”

“Three weeks ago to-night,” continued the president, impassively, still addressing himself to Vogel, “the Council, of which you were then a member, drew lots for the purpose of choosing those to whom should be given the task of effecting the liberation of one who stood high in the esteem of our Society, one who had many times proven his loyalty by risking life and liberty for the cause. This is so?”

“It is so,” said Vogel, almost inaudibly.

“The plans were perfected, and to you was allotted the final task of displaying the signal that should inform our friend that the time had come when he was to carry out the instructions given him that would result in his escape. The signal was not shown, the plans fell through and the suspicions of the authorities were aroused. In consequence, our friend was hurriedly transferred to another prison, extradition proceedings were expedited, and before any further efforts on his behalf could be undertaken, he was on his way to death—or worse than death in the mines of Siberia. We are ready to listen to any defense you have to offer.”

“What can I say?” cried Vogel, desperately. “Great God, what can I say? I am no traitor. The signal was displayed. I say it was! I cannot prove it. There is no way to prove it, and yet, and—” He was swaying heavily from side to side.

“Er—pardon me,” Marters interrupted, suavely, leaning forward in his chair, “might I be permitted to suggest, Mr. President, that the—er—accused be allowed to resume his seat? Thank you, I must confess that I am not entirely at home in the—ah—most peculiar position in which I find myself, nor am I at all versed in the ethics of a procedure such as the present. You will, however, I believe, admit the justice of my calling your attention to a fact that it would seem you have overlooked. The burden of proof does not lie with the accused, but on you. A bald indictment, with no supporting evidence, is valueless, and the prisoner’s denial under such conditions is sufficient to secure his release.”

“Are you not a little hasty, Mr. Marters?” inquired the president sharply,

“Um-m, I was about to add,” Marters went on, “that an indictment generally presupposes the existence of evidence in its support, and I infer that the case engaging our attention is no exception to the rule. With your permission, I would suggest that you allow me to ask a few leading questions that will tend to bring out this evidence, and at the same time furnish me with a comprehensive knowledge of the case, the details of which I am at present in profound ignorance.”

“Your request is reasonable. You may proceed.”

Marters bowed in acknowledgment. “You have spoken of a signal,” he began. “Will you be kind enough to explain its precise nature?”

“The prison where our friend was confined is on the outskirts of a small town, there are, in fact, no houses within some four or five hundred yards of it. A short distance up the road, and, on the opposite side from the jail, there is a small clump of trees. It was at this point that it was arranged that the signal should be given by displaying a light.”

“Just so,” Marters commented. “Did the cells parallel the road?”

“They did.”

“In that case, then, the trees you refer to were not in full view of the cell occupied by your—‘er—friend.”

“That is quite true, but from the cell you could look far enough up the road so that they were really distinguishable. To remove any question of doubt on that score, the trees were suggested by our friend himself, who pointed them out from his window to the visitor who had, who was—”

“Who was explaining the plans arranged for his escape,” Marters supplied, crisply. “Quite so, I understand. Sometimes— er—I might say not infrequently, prisoners are changed from one cell to another. Was such a contingency provided for by you?”

“I am afraid,” the president admitted, “that it was not, and though in the present instance our friend was transferred to another cell, I am able to state that fact has no bearing on the guilt or innocence of the accused. We did not, it is true, know of this transfer until after our plans had failed, when, in making an investigation, we found that our friend had been removed to the cell at the end of the corridor. It was, however, on the same side as the one previously occupied by him. Wishing to give Brother Vogel the benefit of any possible doubt, this cell has since been visited, and, though not quite so readily seen, the trees are nevertheless still within the field of vision. One of our number is prepared to testify to that fact if you so desire.”

Marters waived the offer with a sweep of his hand. “I take it, then,” he remarked, “that the transfer of cells resulted in the one at the end of the corridor farthest away from the objective point, that is to say, the trees?”

“Yes,” said the president.

“Very good. I should be indebted to you if you would explain the manner in which it was proposed to display the signal.”

“Our friend was instructed to look for it each night at midnight. On the night that he should see it, he was to follow the course of action previously mapped out for him.”

“Um-m,” said Marters, “I do not quite understand. The uncertainty which seems to exist as to just when the plans were to be carried out to their fulfillment, could this have not been arranged with him verbally as the other details were? In fact, I—er—am a little at a loss to appreciate the necessity of any signal at all.”

“Perhaps,” the president replied, “it was impossible to determine just what night would find the plans perfected. Perhaps, too, owing to the nature of the charge against our friend, which from my allusion to the Siberian mines you have already guessed was a political one preferred by Russia, it was exceedingly difficult for a visitor to see him, and requests for permission to do so could result only in exciting suspicion in the minds of the authorities,”

“Quite right. You previously mentioned, I believe, that the morning after the failure of your—er—plans, the suspicions of the authorities were aroused, and your friend was at once taken to another prison. May I inquire what aroused those suspicions?”

“I must warn you that you are trespassing on dangerous ground,” said the president gravely. “Any question that involves an exposition of the methods employed in the attempted rescue will not, for very obvious reasons, be answered. They do not affect the case.”

“Really!” said Marters, coolly. “And yet I am afraid I shall feel compelled to ask an even more pertinent one. I understand that others, aside from the accused here, were associated in the plans, his share in which was to display the signal at the proper time. These others, then, were they not present to carry out that detail in case this man should fail?”

“They were not.”

“Ah! Then, in that case, you cannot prove that the accused did not display the signal!”

For an instant there was silence. “What you say, Mr. Marters,” said the president, gravely, after a moment, “is quite true. We have no direct evidence of Brother Vogel’s guilt. Were I able to acquaint you with the nature of the plans, you would at once understand the reason for this. It is sufficient to state, however, that we know there was no miscarriage in any single detail of the plans, save that detail only entrusted to Brother Vogel. This fact he, himself, not only knows to be so, but will admit. That our friend in the cell knew that his life depended on seeing the signal, precludes the supposition that he was not on the watch for it, and leaves us with no other conclusion than that the signal was not displayed, and that the man who has called upon you for aid is guilty.”

“If Mr. Vogel will admit that fact,” Marters countered, “we must of necessity dismiss the nature of the plans employed, and the possibility that their failure was due to some cause foreign to the ones mentioned, as extraneous. Do you, Mr. Vogel, admit this? Do you know that all details were carried out, and that the attempt must have been successful had the signal been obeyed?”

During the time that Marters had been questioning the president, Mr. Vogel had apparently regained some of the confidence and self-control that had so absolutely deserted him at the beginning of the proceedings. But now at the abrupt question, the old, hopeless, haunting expression settled again upon his features.

The very silence while they waited his reply seemed to unnerve him completely. Once or twice he clasped and unclasped his hands, and once or twice he tried to speak, without avail. Then suddenly, his face flushed red, almost it would seen in shame for the lack of manhood he had displayed, for now the words, though low, came full and firm:

“It is like signing my own death warrant to answer that question,” he said, bitterly. “And yet it would be useless to refuse to do so. These men”—he pointed to the twelve at the table—“know that I can answer it, and know, as well as I do myself, what that answer must be. It is true, Mr. Marters. Had the signal been obeyed, everything would have been carried through successfully.”

He got up from his chair, and faced them almost defiantly. “Let us end it. I am already condemned. You cannot, you see, help me, Mr. Marters—I never dared to hope you could. And yet I beg you to believe that I am grateful to you.”

Marters brows were puckered into a frown. “Quite extraordinary—er—very,” he muttered half to himself.

The president turned to Marters. “You have heard,” he said. “Have you any evidence to offer in this man’s behalf?”

“Evidence!” said Marters in surprise. “Why, no, how could I?”

“Very true,” the president assented, gravely, “how could you?” He turned to his companions. “In that case nothing remains to be done but to pass judgment on the accused. You will vote one by one on these slips of blank paper. The death penalty you will signify by marking a cross, the—”

“Er—pardon me, just a moment,” Marters interposed, with a snap of his jaws. “You asked me if I had any evidence to put forward, and I answered no. Obviously, I had none, as I have had no opportunity to procure any. I have, however, a few words to say, and a proposition to lay before you. You will, I trust, not hold me discourteous or over blunt in speech if I state quite frankly that I—er—have no sympathy at all with either anarchy or nihilism, or both combined, of which movement, I take it, you who sit around this table are the potential heads in the country.”

A murmur of disapproval greeted Marters’ words. He sat smiling quietly until it had subsided.

“I do not wish to antagonize you,” he went on, “but rather to be wholly unreserved, so that you may the better understand what I have to say later. I find myself, then, in a very delicate and peculiar situation—one that, I might say, would hardly obtain credence from any but one who had been an eye witness to it. Furthermore, gentlemen, I do not like the atmosphere, either mental or physical, that surrounds it. I protest against any arbitrary right you may claim the violation of such oath as this man may have taken has given you to take his life. I am very fully aware that any protest of mine in this respect is of no avail, and that nothing but my ability to demonstrate his innocence will save his life. Very well, I will make the attempt. If he is innocent I will establish that fact; if I fail to do so, it is distinctly understood that this man’s death at your hands will, in my eyes, be none the less a ghastly, brutal, and cold-blooded murder.”

“We have not asked for your endorsement of our actions or proceedings, Mr. Marters,” said the president, coldly.

“Quite so,” Marters returned, evenly, “My remarks were —er—perhaps a little apart, though put forward with the object of impressing you with the fact that the motive that now actuates me in desiring to investigate the problem in question, is to prevent the crime of this man’s murder. You have said to me that I was permitted to conduct his defense with perfect freedom, and that no restraint would be placed upon me. Very well, gentlemen, those are the rules you yourselves have formulated. Let us play the game accordingly. First, I request an opportunity to converse with the prisoner in private.”

Without a word in reply, the president rose from his seat and followed by the remaining eleven, marched silently past Marters to the end of the room, taking care, as he noted half-amusedly to keep well in the shadow so that he might not see their faces. As soon as they had passed him, Marters in his turn rose and walked quickly down the length of the table to Vogel.

“Who suggested my name to you?” he asked, abruptly, in a low tone.

Vogel shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered.

Marters frowned. “You do not know!” he repeated sharply.

“No, I do no know.” Vogel spoke monotonously, hopelessly. “I have been kept a prisoner here. Two days ago, concealed in my food, was a little note that said: ‘Ask for Richard Marters.’ That was all. God bless you for coming, Mr. Marters; but you see there is nothing you can do. I—I want to get it over as soon as possible.”

“Um-m,” said Marters musingly; then quickly: “Who was the person that accompanied me here in the carriage?”

Again Vogel shook his head. “How can I tell?” he asked, with a wan smile.

“It is important,” Marters insisted. “I cannot describe her since—”

“ ‘Her’ A woman—oh, God!” Vogel fell forward over the table and buried his face in his arms.

Marters stood for a moment with a puzzled expression on his face, then he bent over and grasping the man by the shoulders, forced him into an upright position in the chair.

“You must control yourself,” he said, sternly. “Your life depends upon it. Why should the fact that it was a woman who accompanied me here affect you in this way?”

“Because—because there is only one woman who would be entrusted by the Council with such an errand—his sister. Oh, God, does she, too, believe me guilty, or”— he seized Marters’ arm convulsively—“quick, tell me! What did she say? I have heard not a word from her all these awful days. I love her, do you hear! Is not that proof that I could never have done this thing?”

“If you could be explicit enough to inform me whose sister you love,” said Marters, a little impatiently, “I might perhaps be able to advance an opinion as to the value of such a statement as proof of your innocence.”

“Oh, don’t you see! His sister—the man they say I betrayed to death. Merciful God, how could I! Tell me, tell me, does she believe it, too?”

“Um-m,” said Marters, “I am afraid that defense would hardly satisfy your judges. Personally, however, I may say I am prepared to accept it in view of the position the lady has taken in the case. That was my object in speaking to you—to establish, if possible, some tangible fact on which I might base a belief in your guilt or innocence. For the rest, we shall see. If it is any relief to you to know, it was the lady herself who sent you the note with my name on it.”

“Thank God for that,” cried Vogel, a new note of strength and determination in his voice. “Now let them do their worst!”

“Er—yes—quite so,” said Marters. He turned, and walked slowly back to his place at the opposite end of the table. And the Council, accepting his action as an intimation that the interview was ended, returned to their places and resumed their seats.

“Gentlemen,” Marters announced, “I have but one other request to make. That is, that I be afforded an opportunity of visiting the scene where this abortive attempt at escape was made.”

There were movements of surprise amongst the men, hurried whispered consultations, then silence again as the president spoke

“I warn you, Mr. Marters,” he said sternly, “that the postponing of the inevitable for a few days is no kindness to the accused.”

“Your objections to my request,” said Marters, imperturbably, “are really invalid. True, I should learn the location of this prison, and in all probability the name of the man in whose behalf the attempt was made. I might, however, call your attention to the fact that half an hour’s search through any file of newspaper would, with the knowledge now in my possession, furnish me with the same information.”

Again the twelve men withdrew to the upper end of the room and again, after a few moments’ consultation, resumed their seats.

“Do you seriously assert, Mr. Marters,” the president demanded, “that an investigation such as you propose could possibly be productive of any results that would tend to clear the prisoner of the charge against him? I must ask you to reflect that we have already, very clearly and concisely, explained the conditions that obtain at the prison. If your move, as I have before intimated, is solely for the purpose of gaining time, then, sir, you are —”

“The point at issue,” Marters broke in irritably, “is the establishment of this man’s guilt or innocence, not the few hours more of life that the granting of my request would give him. I— er—assure you I am quite able to appreciate the fact. Fifteen minutes in the interior of this prison is all I ask.”

“Very well,” said the president shortly, “we will grant it. On the third night from this date you will return here. Tomorrow, one whom we will send you will conduct you to the prison. Until then these proceedings stand adjourned. This is satisfactory to you?”

As Marters bowed his assent the scarf was again slipped over his eyes, and he was led from the room and outside to the carriage. This time his conductor was a man, and the drive passed in silence save for the one question when near the end of the journey;

“Your club, or your rooms, Mr. Marters?”

“My rooms,” Marters replied.

A few minutes later the carriage drew up at the Thorndyke Apartments and the man, removing the blindfold, bade Marters a gruff good-night.

The three days of grace had passed, and again Marters sat at the end of the table in the dimly lighted room, the six men on either side, the prisoner, pale and nervous, leaning eagerly forward in his chair, staring desperately down the length of the table in an effort to read the verdict from the impassive and unconcerned countenance of the man who alone stood between him and death. The president’s words cut the gloomy and foreboding silence with grim significance.

“You may proceed, Mr. Marters. We are prepared to listen to anything you may have to say on the prisoner’s behalf.”

There was a curious little smile on Meters’ face as he leaned comfortably back in his chair. “You will, gentlemen, I am sure,” he began quietly, “acquit me of being paradoxical if I say at the outset that the difficulty presented by the little problem we have under consideration is nothing more or less than its simplicity. It is a profound truth that it is the obvious that is most generally overlooked. With your permission I will, very briefly, review the case as you have presented it against the accused. I wish first of all to call you attention to the fact that your evidence is entirely of a negative nature. That is to say, that by the process of elimination, you have limited the possible reasons for the failure of your plans to two causes— either the signal was not shown, or else that the man in the cell did not see it. On the supposition that the man’s life depended on seeing the signal, you have dismissed, and very justly, too, the possibility that he was not on the watch for it. I will beg you to keep that point in mind, it is not only vital and significant, but is, in fact, the pivot on which the whole case turns. So far, I am—er—entirely in accord with your reasoning; but here, gentlemen, through having—ah—perhaps naturally, followed the line of least resistance, you have fallen into very grave error. Of the two possible causes you discarded one because you assumed that the man would have seen the signal if it were made, ergo, it was not made and therefore this man Vogel is guilty.”

“I must ask you to be careful, Mr. Marters,” said the president sharply. “You are not stating the case fairly. We did not assume anything. The fact was established that, from his original cell, our friend could not only see, but himself indicated the point where the signal should be displayed. Furthermore, we have already informed you that we afterwards verified the fact, through one of those here present, myself, to be exact, that the clump of trees, where the signal was to be placed, was still within view from the cell to which he was removed.”

“Quite so, precisely so!” said barters, dryly. “It is for that reason that I employed the word ‘assume’. It is very true, Mr. President, that you could see the clump of trees, I am aware of that—so could I, and did, for that matter. You did not, however, know that your—er—friend could. I say, then, that you assumed that if the signal had been shown he would have seen it, whereas, as a matter of fact, he could not. The man in the cell was blind in his left eye.”

Instantly there was a chorus of angry cries, muttered threats, and fierce, heated exclamations, and above them all the presidents voice.

“Is it possible,” he demanded, furiously, “that you presume to treat this matter as a jest, that you should dare to insult us with preposterous and absurd nonsense? Have you not yet realized that even you, under the pledge of our protection as you are, may go too far for your own safety? Answer me!”

“Really,” said Marters, coolly, “you will pardon my saying so, but do you know, you—er—annoy me. I am—ah—not in the habit of trifling. I have simply stated a fact, which, if you will allow me to do so, I can very readily demonstrate.”

“Go on,” said the president, icily.

“You—er—surprise”—Marters smiled grimly— “at my statement is no doubt due principally to the fact that though some of you, no doubt all of you, have known, conversed, and come into personal touch with this man, none of you ever noticed or saw anything that would lead you to believe that one of his eyes was not in a normal condition! Paralysis of the optic nerve, either temporary or permanent, is by no means uncommon, and while afflicted with this disease, though to all outward appearance the eye is perfect, yet no visual impression is carried from the eye to the brain. We will now proceed to the practical demonstration. If I am not in error, this house stands within its own grounds. I have noticed that, shortly after leaving and shortly before arriving, the carriage always made a sharp turn as it presumably left and entered the main road. Am I correct?”

“You are,” the president answered, a little more affably.

“Very good. I perceive that running lengthwise with this room there are five windows. Will you be good enough to direct someone to light a lantern and take it out onto that portion of the lawn directly beneath them?”

The president struck a bell. A man appeared in answer to the summons, who, after receiving the necessary orders, bowed and withdrew.

Marters got up from his chair and walked over to the windows. He pulled up the shades and opened each window in turn. A moment afterward, the man appeared on the lawn. Marters, leaned out and gave him some curt directions. The man replied and moved slowly off with the light. Marters stepped quickly from one window to another and as the light receded in the distance kept shouting his instructions. Finally, at the end of three or four minutes, he ordered the man to halt and place the lantern on the ground. Then he turned to face those within the room.

“Gentlemen,” he announced. “I have reproduced in all essential details exactly the conditions that obtained at the prison.We will consider each one of these windows, the window of one of the cells. I will however, close them, and we will assume that the panes are the steel bars with which the jail windows are grated. That is to say that, since an inmate could not thrust out his head, from each window, its own angle of vision is fixed. The man with the lantern has, we will suppose, gone up the road to the clump of trees. If you stand facing in approximately that direction, the windows are yt your left.”

Marters returned to the table and produced from this pocket a small package which he opened, and taking from it twelve green patches, tossed them upon the table.

“Be good enough to adjust these over your left eye,” he requested. “Thank you. Now, gentlemen, you will go to the window—the one nearest the light.”

The twelve men got up, walked to the window indicated, and one by one looked through it.

“You see the light quite plainly, do you not?” Marters asked.

“Yes,” said the president.

“Very good. Now come back to the next window. You still see it?”

“Yes,” replied the president as before.

“Quite so. Now the next. Is it still in sight?”

“Yes,”

“You are now at the fourth. I notice you are obliged to press your cheek quite closely to the pane. You see the light, however?”

“Yes.”

“Try the last one—the one farthest away from the lantern and corresponding to the cell at the end of the tier in which the man was confined on the night the signal was given.”

“I cannot see it,” the president admitted.

“Take off the patch,” Marters suggested, suavely.

There was a startled exclamation from the president as he complied. “It’s true, I see it now!” he gasped. Hurriedly he put on and took off the patch several times to convince himself there was no mistake. He turned in embarrassed manner to Marters. “I—it is—”

“Very simple, and—er—absurdly obvious, is it not?” Marters supplied, quietly. “Might I suggest that it would—er—perhaps interest Mr. Vogel to see for himself the cause of the very grave accusation under which he has been so unjustly laboring?”

The End.

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