The Leavenworth Case | Page 8

before mentioned, slipped forward
to the edge of his chair and asked, this time without hesitation: "At
what time did you unfasten the house this morning?"
"About six, sir."
"Now, could any one leave the house after that time without your
knowledge?"
Thomas glanced a trifle uneasily at his' fellow-servants, but answered
up promptly and as if without reserve;
"I don't think it would be possible for anybody to leave this house after
six in the morning without either myself or the cook's knowing of it.
Folks don't jump from second-story windows in broad daylight, and as
to leaving by the doors, the front door closes with such a slam all the
house can hear it from top to bottom, and as for the back-door, no one
that goes out of that can get clear of the yard without going by the
kitchen window, and no one can go by our kitchen window without the
cook's a-seeing of them, that I can just swear to." And he cast a
half-quizzing, half-malicious look at the round, red-faced individual in
question, strongly suggestive of late and unforgotten bickerings over
the kitchen coffee-urn and castor.
This reply, which was of a nature calculated to deepen the forebodings
which had already settled upon the minds of those present, produced a
visible effect. The house found locked, and no one seen to leave it!
Evidently, then, we had not far to look for the assassin.

Shifting on his chair with increased fervor, if I may so speak, the
juryman glanced sharply around. But perceiving the renewed interest in
the faces about him, declined to weaken the effect of the last admission,
by any further questions. Settling, therefore, comfortably back, he left
the field open for any other juror who might choose to press the inquiry.
But no one seeming to be ready to do this, Thomas in his turn evinced
impatience, and at last, looking respectfully around, inquired:
"Would any other gentleman like to ask me anything?"
No one replying, he threw a hurried glance of relief towards the
servants at his side, then, while each one marvelled at the sudden
change that had taken place in his countenance, withdrew with an eager
alacrity and evident satisfaction for which I could not at the moment
account.
But the next witness proving to be none other than my acquaintance of
the morning, Mr. Harwell, I soon forgot both Thomas and the doubts
his last movement had awakened, in the interest which the examination
of so important a person as the secretary and right-hand man of Mr.
Leavenworth was likely to create.
Advancing with the calm and determined air of one who realized that
life and death itself might hang upon his words, Mr. Harwell took his
stand before the jury with a degree of dignity not only highly
prepossessing in itself, but to me, who had not been over and above
pleased with him in our first interview, admirable and surprising.
Lacking, as I have said, any distinctive quality of face or form
agreeable or otherwise--being what you might call in appearance a
negative sort of person, his pale, regular features, dark, well-smoothed
hair and simple whiskers, all belonging to a recognized type and very
commonplace--there was still visible, on this occasion at least, a certain
self-possession in his carriage, which went far towards making up for
the want of impressiveness in his countenance and expression. Not that
even this was in any way remarkable. Indeed, there was nothing
remarkable about the man, any more than there is about a thousand
others you meet every day on Broadway, unless you except the look of
concentration and solemnity which pervaded his whole person; a

solemnity which at this time would not have been noticeable, perhaps,
if it had not appeared to be the habitual expression of one who in his
short life had seen more of sorrow than joy, less of pleasure than care
and anxiety.
The coroner, to whom his appearance one way or the other seemed to
be a matter of no moment, addressed him immediately and without
reserve:
"Your name?"
"James Trueman Harwell."
"Your business?"
"I have occupied the position of private secretary and amanuensis to Mr.
Leavenworth for the past eight months."
"You are the person who last saw Mr. Leavenworth alive, are you not?"
The young man raised his head with a haughty gesture which well-nigh
transfigured it.
"Certainly not, as I am not the man who killed him."
This answer, which seemed to introduce something akin to levity or
badinage into an examination the seriousness of which we were all
beginning to realize, produced an immediate revulsion of feeling
toward the man who, in face of facts revealed and to be revealed, could
so lightly make use of it. A hum of disapproval