THE effect of Roland Reed’s sudden appearance in the courtroom, close upon the doubt expressed as to his existence, was electric. Every head was turned, and every one present looked with eager curiosity at the mysterious stranger. They saw a dark-complexioned, slender, but wiry man, above the middle height, with a pair of keen black eyes scanning, not without sarcastic amusement, the faces turned toward him.
Luke recognized him at once.
“Thank God!” he ejaculated, with a feeling of intense relief. “Now my innocence will be made known.”
Squire Duncan was quite taken aback. His face betrayed his surprise and disappointment.
“I don’t know you,” he said, after a pause.
“Perhaps not, Mr. Duncan,” answered the stranger, in a significant tone, “but I know you.”
“Were you the man who gave this tin box to the defendant?”
“Wouldn’t it be well, since this is a court, to swear me as a witness?” asked Roland Reed, quietly.
“Of course, of course,” said the squire, rather annoyed to be reminded of his duty by this stranger.
This being done, Mr. Beane questioned the witness in the interest of his client.
“Do you know anything about the tin box found in the possession of Luke Larkin?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you commit it to his charge for safe-keeping?”
“I did.”
“Were you previously acquainted with Luke?”
“I was not.”
“Was it not rather a singular proceeding to commit what is presumably of considerable value to an unknown boy?”
“It would generally be considered so, but I do many strange things. I had seen the boy by daylight, though he had never seen me, and I was sure I could trust him.”
“Why, if you desired a place of safe-keeping for your box, did you not select the bank vaults?”
Roland Reed laughed, and glanced at the presiding justice.
“It might have been stolen,” he said.
“Does the box contain documents of value?”
“The contents are valuable to me, at any rate.”
“Mr. Beane,” said Squire Duncan, irritably, “I think you are treating the witness too indulgently. I believe this box to be the one taken from the bank.”
“You heard the remark of the justice,” said the lawyer. “Is this the box taken from the bank?”
“It is not,” answered the witness, contemptuously, “and no one knows this better than Mr. Duncan.”
The justice flushed angrily.
“You are impertinent, witness,” he said. “It is all very well to claim this box as yours, but I shall require you to prove ownership.”
“I am ready to do so,” said Roland Reed, quietly. “Is that the box on the table?”
“It is.”
“Has it been opened?”
“No; the key has disappeared from the bank.”
“The key is in the hands of the owner, where it properly belongs. With the permission of the court, I will open the box.”
“I object,” said Squire Duncan, quickly.
“Permit me to say that your refusal is extraordinary,” said. Mr. Beane, pointedly. “You ask the witness to prove property, and then decline to allow him to do so.”
Squire Duncan, who saw that he had been betrayed into a piece of folly, said sullenly: “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Beane, but I withdraw my objection. The witness may come forward and open the box, if he can.”
Roland Reed bowed slightly, advanced to the table, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and inserting one of the smallest in the lock easily opened the box.
Those who were near enough, including the justice, craned their necks forward to look into the box.
The box contained papers, certificates of stock, apparently, and a couple of bank-books.
“The box missing from the vault contained government bonds, as I understand, Squire Duncan?” said the lawyer.
“Yes,” answered the justice, reluctantly.
“Are there any government bonds in the box, Mr. Reed.”
“You can see for yourself, sir.”
The manner of the witness toward the lawyer was courteous, though in the tone in which he addressed the court there had been a scarcely veiled contempt.
“I submit, then, that my young client has been guilty of no wrong. He accepted the custody of the box from the rightful owner, and this he had a clear right to do.”
“How do you know that the witness is the rightful owner of the box?” demanded the justice, in a cross tone. “He may have stolen it from some other quarter.”
“There is not a shadow of evidence of this,” said the lawyer, in a tone of rebuke.
“I am not sure but that he ought to be held.”
“You will hold me at your peril, Mr. Duncan,” said the witness, in clear, resolute tones. “I have a clear comprehension of my rights, and I do not propose to have them infringed.”
Squire Duncan bit his lips. He had only a smattering of law, but he knew that the witness was right, and that he had been betrayed by temper into making a discreditable exhibition of himself.
“I demand that you treat me with proper respect,” he said angrily.
“I am ready to do that,” answered the witness, in a tone whose meaning more than one understood. It was not an apology calculated to soothe the ruffled pride of the justice.
“I call for the discharge of my young client, Squire Duncan,” said the lawyer. “The case against him, as I hardly need say, has utterly failed.”
“He is discharged,” said the justice, unwillingly.
Instantly Luke’s friends surrounded him and began to shower congratulations upon him. Among them was Roland Reed.
“My young friend,” he said, “I am sincerely sorry that by any act of mine I have brought anxiety and trouble upon you. But I can’t understand how the fact that you had the box in your possession became known.”
This was explained to him.
“I have a proposal to make to you and your mother,” said Roland Reed, “and with your permission I will accompany you home.”
“We shall be glad to have you, sir,” said Mrs. Larkin, cordially.
As they were making their way out of the court-room, Melinda Sprague, the cause of Luke’s trouble, hurried to meet them. She saw by this time that she had made a great mistake, and that her course was likely to make her generally unpopular. She hoped to make it up with the Larkins.
“I am so glad you are acquitted, Luke,” she began effusively. “I hope, Mrs. Larkin, you won’t take offense at what I did. I did what I thought to be my duty, though with a bleeding heart. No one is more rejoiced at dear Luke’s vindication.”
“Miss Sprague,” said she, “if you think you did your duty, let the consciousness of that sustain you. I do not care to receive any visits from you hereafter.”
“How cruel and unfeeling you are, Mrs. Larkin,” said the spinster, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
Mrs. Larkin did not reply.
Miss Sprague found herself so coldly treated in the village that she shortly left Groveton on a prolonged visit to some relatives in a neighboring town. It is to be feared that the consciousness of having done her duty did not wholly console her. What she regretted most, however, was the loss of the reward which she had hoped to receive from the bank.