AUGUSTUS 
 THOMAS
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 "I'M AWFULLY IN LOVE WITH YOU "
 
 THE 
 WITCHING HOUR 
 
 BY 
 
 AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 % 
 
 ILLUSTRATED FROM f 
 SCENES IN THE PLAY ; 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 1 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 AMrt 
 
 Published by Arrangement with Harper & Brothers
 
 P.S 3 
 
 Copyright, 1908, by AUGUSTUS THOMAS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 Published October, 1908.
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 *fc 
 
 i 
 
 - 
 
 1 
 
 .
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 '"PHE audience that filled Macauley's Theatre was 
 1 one of the most intellectual and fashionable 
 that Louisville had ever seen. The lighter operas 
 were not uncommon, but Wagner was a curiosity if 
 not yet a fad, and both the curious and the devoted 
 were in attendance. The curtain had gone up on the 
 final act. 
 
 Jack Brookfield was leaning against the back wall 
 of the auditorium. He was watching the occupants 
 of the proscenium-box just over the drummer more 
 especially the man and the boy and girl who occupied 
 the three chairs in the back of the box. Besides 
 Brookfield himself these three were perhaps the only 
 persons not intent upon the scene on the stage. 
 
 Brookfield could see, as he watched her through 
 his glasses, that his niece the girl in the box was 
 annoyed. He knew her temperament well enough to 
 interpret accurately the sudden frown, the spasmodic 
 twitching at one corner of the shapely mouth. He 
 also knew well enough the man who was breathing
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 over her shoulder to divine that some offence was 
 being given. 
 
 The boy in the box watched the couple beside him 
 with jealous eyes. 
 
 Presently the man, with a motion that confessed 
 the clandestine character of his speech, oblivious of 
 or indifferent to the boy who watched him, turned 
 with the directness of one positively spoken to and 
 looked across the theatre into Brookfield's glasses. 
 Brookfield shifted his gaze to the stage, but not quick 
 ly enough to avoid the man's detection of the fact 
 that he was being watched. The girl, who sat slight 
 ly in front of him, was in some way, though without 
 communication, aware of his action, and, turning, she 
 also looked at her uncle. But Brookfield was now in 
 tent on the stage, and the man in the box, finding 
 himself no longer watched, continued his addresses. 
 
 "This isn't an opera audience," he said; "it isn't 
 an opera company. Some day you will see the real 
 thing at Co vent Garden or at La Scala." 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Oh yes, you will," he persisted; "I'll take you 
 there." 
 
 The girl spoke to him obliquely behind her fan. 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk to me now I want to 
 listen to the music." 
 
 Hardmuth leaned back in his chair and readjusted 
 his shirt bosom, which was bulging from the waist 
 coat. He turned to the boy, and in rough playful 
 ness put a strong hand on his knee and gripped it 
 viciously. The boy, angrier than before, threw Hard- 
 muth's hand from his knee with an exclamation that
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 caused those near them to breathe a sibilant expostu 
 lation, and the three persons in the front of the box 
 looked back inquiringly. The girl, flushed with em 
 barrassment at the attention they had attracted, 
 and, wishing also to fix that attention upon the 
 proper offender, said: 
 
 "You see, you are disturbing the audience." 
 
 "That shows we're the real thing," Hardmuth an 
 swered, laughing audibly. 
 
 The indignant persons in the parquet shifted un 
 easily in their seats. The girl's mother turned to the 
 couple with a warning finger on her lips, and with an 
 admonitory "Viola" to her daughter and a vexed 
 "Clay" to the boy, the box-party subsided into quiet. 
 But as the incident passed and the others became ab 
 sorbed in the action on the stage, Hardmuth hitched 
 his chair a trifle closer to Viola and resumed his stac 
 cato whisper over her shoulder. 
 
 "You know when I said I'd take you there I didn't 
 mean you'd go as a prima donna and that I should 
 go as an impresario don't make any mistake about 
 that." He touched her suggestively on the elbow 
 and leaned back with a smile of self-satisfaction. 4 
 
 Hardmuth 's experience with the women he had 
 known had taught him that an attempted approach 
 to their favor through compliment and delicate ser 
 vice was good time wasted. He believed that the 
 atmosphere of shyness which surrounds most girls 
 of Viola Campbell's age was assumed that it was 
 a little barrier of hypocrisy before which they kept 
 in waiting the timid applicant while they examined 
 him at leisure. His experience had justified his 
 
 3
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 belief that this insulation could be broken through, 
 perhaps utterly dissipated, by a few diplomatic but 
 no less forceful shocks to their sensibilities. He had 
 also by nature and by cultivation the safe and ten 
 tative method of approach in which the cheap poli 
 tician and corruptionist is skilled. With him insult 
 ing audacity masqueraded as tolerable playfulness. 
 If rebuked, it was gaucherie; if accepted and suc 
 cessful, it was conquest. He leaned slightly to his 
 left, and through the tail of his eye endeavored to 
 ascertain how Viola had taken his sally. Perhaps she 
 had not understood him. He remembered previous 
 occasions when he had been too indirect. He there 
 fore returned to the charge. 
 
 "I'm not going as a Cook's agent don't mean to 
 take the entire seminary class." He paused watch 
 fully. "And I think I could arrange it with mother." 
 
 The sextet on the stage was finishing at that mo 
 ment, and, under cover of the applause that fol 
 lowed, Viola leaned forward in pretended comment 
 to Ellinger, who sat in the front of the box with Viola's 
 mother and Mrs. Whipple. Hardmuth was in doubt. 
 The conductor lifted his baton for an encore, the 
 house recomposed itself. Viola was too inexperienced 
 to proceed courageously with her half -formed inten 
 tion to change seats with Ellinger; moreover, there 
 was another admonitory glance from her mother, so 
 she fell back and kept her place. 
 
 Hardmuth admired the ample arch of her neck, as 
 he would have admired a similar point of excellence in 
 a Kentucky horse. During the half -minute since he 
 had spoken to her there had gathered under the fine 
 
 4
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 outline of her cheek and partly overspread her throat 
 some inter-blending spots of red, like thumb marks. 
 They were unusual but not especially novel trophies 
 to Hardmuth, and they had not yet been danger sig 
 nals ; the girl was certainly not as indifferent to him 
 as she had pretended. Hardmuth was so constituted 
 that in the absence of direct evidence he would never 
 interpret a departure from indifference as a sign of 
 disfavor. Viola's agitation encouraged him. 
 
 "I said I thought I could fix it with mother, and 
 I'm sure I could fix it with your uncle Jack." 
 
 An instant look of relief came over Viola's face at 
 the mention of her uncle. A sense of protection was 
 always present with her whenever she thought of 
 him; there was no danger from this man at her side, 
 nor from any man, while she had Uncle Jack. The 
 expression of relief lilted into half a smile. Hardmuth 
 tapped her approvingly and dominantly on the elbow, 
 and added: 
 
 "And I will fix it!" 
 
 That she drew away her arm, that she turned with a 
 frown above open eyes and with lips parted in a swift 
 impulse of resentment, meant only spirited going to 
 Hardmuth. She had smiled at his proposal to fix it 
 with Uncle Jack, and by the method of Hardmuth 's 
 measure negotiations had been opened. 
 
 Brookfield had moved from his position at the back 
 wall to the newel-post of the balcony stairway which 
 mounted from the broad foyer of the theatre. He 
 was thinking of JFIardmuth's consciousness of the fact 
 that he had bcyc-n watched. The thought recurred to 
 him vaguely that he had read or heard it said some- 
 
 5
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 where that almost any person, if regarded intently, 
 would turn about and look at the gazer. He was won 
 dering whether it was merely superstition or fact, 
 whether it was a power resident in the one who looked 
 or a sensitiveness belonging to the one observed, when 
 without apparent cue or suggestion he felt a tingling 
 at the roots of his hair and a slow creeping through 
 the nerves of his shoulders. He turned with an un 
 wonted sensation of awe and found himself looking 
 into the eyes of an old man who stood in the private 
 doorway that led from the foyer of the theatre to 
 the manager's office. 
 
 Brookfield saw only the eyes. 
 
 He had a misty impression of a forehead surmount 
 ed by white hair. There was also the impression of 
 a smile tolerant and fraternal ; of a figure grace 
 ful and dignified. There was the sense of a second 
 figure at its side, but if Brookfield had been asked to 
 tell what he saw he would have said: "Only a pair of 
 eyes." 
 
 The gaze was but momentary. The old man seemed 
 to defer to his companion, whom Brookfield recog 
 nized as the most distinguished editor in the South; 
 and then he saw the two elderly men go back into the 
 manager's office. 
 
 Brookfield had the habit of excessive candor, es 
 pecially with himself. He had a fair capacity for self- 
 analysis and an absence of conceit that left him with 
 an accurate sense of proportion where his own quali 
 ties were concerned. He found himself at the mo 
 ment disturbed by a distinct sense of inferiority, not 
 to say guilt; he was puzzled to account for it. Was 
 
 6
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 it due to the fact that he had been apparently sur 
 prised in his surveillance of the party in the box? 
 Was it something about himself that he subconscious 
 ly felt the editor might impart to the stranger ? Was 
 it any shade of implied superiority in the tolerant 
 smile of the old man? As he questioned himself he 
 felt that it was none of these. He had been conscious 
 of the feeling at the moment when he first turned and 
 met the stranger's look and before the other considera 
 tions had been evolved. 
 
 Who was the man ? 
 
 Brookfield would know. He handed the borrowed 
 opera-glasses to the usher and tiptoed as quietly as 
 possible from the foyer, through the swing-to doors 
 of baize into the long lobby of the theatre, from which 
 a door opened into the manager's office at right 
 angles to the one in which the two old gentlemen had 
 stood. But his moment of introspection and hesi 
 tancy had cost him the desired information for the 
 nonce, for the two men were just crossing the side 
 walk at the farther end of the lobby. Brookfield fol 
 lowed some forty feet to the main entrance, where he 
 paused and watched them cross Walnut Street di 
 agonally to the left and enter the Pendennis Club. 
 
 The Pendennis Club at half-past ten was practically 
 deserted. One reason for this was the unusual op 
 position of a Wagner opera at Macauley's; another 
 reason was that the club is what the younger set 
 called an old man's club. The editor and his guest 
 peeped into the spacious and home-like library, with 
 its carpet of green and its furniture of mahogany and 
 
 7
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Russia leather, and, as they hesitated a moment at 
 the door of the billiard-room, a colored boy came for 
 ward to take their hats. 
 
 "No," said the editor, "we are going back again. 
 What will you drink, Mr. Justice?" 
 
 "Is that imperative?" asked the older man. 
 
 "It is customary, sir." 
 
 "I think I will watch you." The editor gave his 
 order. "And, boy, bring it up-stairs the little room 
 where the piano is." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The gentlemen mounted the two short flights lead 
 ing to the second floor, and moved forward to the lit 
 tle room which, in the remodelled club, has since been 
 thrown into the dining-hall. 
 
 "Go ahead." The Justice waved his hand easily 
 toward the upright piano standing at the wall. "I'd 
 rather hear you ramble over this key -board than 
 listen to that organized and pompous procession of 
 sound across the street." 
 
 "The dry spells are a little wearisome, but you'll 
 certainly like this." 
 
 Then the plump but agile and almost feminine 
 fingers drifted easily and sympathetically over the 
 keys. 
 
 When the darky boy came in with the carafe and 
 siphon and the clinking ice, the Justice was lean 
 ing back in his easy-chair and the editor was finish 
 ing his sympathetic approximation of the Wagner 
 melody. The music ceased as the boy put his tray 
 on the table. 
 
 "What is that?" asked the Justice. 
 
 8
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "That's bourbon, sir," replied the boy, with celerity. 
 
 "I was speaking to the Colonel." 
 
 "Excuse me." The boy left him. 
 
 "That's the melody of the sextet that you would 
 have heard if you had taken my advice and remained 
 a moment longer." Then, as his thought went back 
 to the theatre, and the subject of their conversation 
 before they left it, the editor said: 
 
 "What do you want to know about Brookfield?" 
 
 "In the first place, I wish to identify him. Is 
 there another Brookfield in the city?" 
 
 "None that I know." Then quickly: "Except his 
 sister, Mrs. Campbell; they are the last members of 
 the family." 
 
 "The Brookfield I mean," said the Justice, "is a 
 man who buys pictures." 
 
 "That's Jack." 
 
 "Does he sell them?" 
 
 "Well, not as a business, but I think he is human. 
 Have you some pictures to sell?" 
 
 The Justice shook his head. "I understand that 
 Mr. Brookfield, of Louisville, bought a picture which 
 I had coveted for several years. I don't know that 
 I could buy it. When I saw it at the dealer's in 
 New York I felt that its price was beyond the purse 
 of a man in my position. Do you know Mr. Brook- 
 field?" 
 
 "Painfully." 
 
 "Why painfully?" 
 
 "Well, I've made some reckless contributions to 
 his bank account. Mr. Brookfield runs a gambling- 
 house."
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Oh! You mean that you would not care to com 
 municate with him personally?" 
 
 "I don't mean that on the contrary, I don't know 
 of anything that would give me greater pleasure than 
 a half -hour or half -day, or, for that matter, a half-year 
 with Jack Brookfield. There isn't a more entertain 
 ing man in the State. Do you wish me to see him for 
 you?" 
 
 "I'd like to know if he has the picture in question, 
 and if he would consider a reasonable offer for it." 
 
 "Why don't you see him yourself, or with me?" 
 
 "I have my reservation on the morning train for 
 Washington." 
 
 "See him to-night," prompted the editor. 
 
 "Is that possible?" 
 
 "We can find out, and I am almost sure it is. He 
 has this box-party with his sister and niece across the 
 street. Most probably he will take them home and 
 then go to his game. At any rate, we can go over 
 and ask him, or we can wait a half -hour and telephone 
 him." 
 
 "I should think telephoning the better plan," said 
 the Justice. "If we spoke to him now the inquiry 
 would have somewhat the color of a request. If his 
 game is open and the gentleman is doing business 
 when we telephone, it would be no particular hard 
 ship to receive a caller for a few minutes." 
 
 "Are you sure, Mr. Justice," the editor asked, with 
 a smile, ' ' that you would be superior to the blandish 
 ments of the fickle goddess if you came within ear-shot 
 of the chips?" 
 
 "I should be interested to see," the old jurist an- 
 10
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 swered. "I haven't made a bet on anything more 
 important than that little game of penny ante that 
 the Secretary used to have at the Shoreham since I 
 have been in Washington. Do you remember that 
 week at Chamberlain's, when Raymond was playing 
 at the National?" 
 
 "Perfectly. Won't you change your mind about 
 this?" indicating the carafe. "I mean to have an 
 other myself." 
 
 The Justice gave a little wave of assent, the editor 
 touched the push-button by the mantel, and -the talk 
 drifted into a field of fellowship with an atmosphere 
 of chance and good living and retrospection. 
 
 Brookfield paced thoughtfully the long lobby of the 
 old theatre. Despite the fact that his figure was what 
 a Louisville darky would have described as "kind 
 o' settled," there was about it certain marks of the 
 athlete. The chest was deep, the head well set on 
 the shoulders. When he reached the end of his beat 
 and started back, the turn and the first step to the 
 rear were propelled from the ball of the foot that had 
 arrested the forward motion there was no halt and 
 turn-tabling on the two feet. As some thought added 
 emphasis to his motion, there was a "boring in" with 
 the left shoulder that is sometimes noticeable in one 
 who has had reasonable practise at sparring. He took 
 a hand from his pocket. It wandered uneasily, but 
 not nervously, over his cheek and chin. The hand 
 was broad and long. There was vitality in the thumb 
 and imagination in the outer ball of the palm. It 
 had latent grip. The fingers tapered, but not un- 
 
 ii
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 pleasantly. Brookfield's face had more stren< .1 than 
 beauty. It might have been thought to Cairy too 
 much flesh if the planes of it had been >< "" 'lied. 
 The protuberances over the eyes were men-,, . ,. The 
 nose was ample in bridge and profile, sligl more 
 than aquiline with that spread of nostrils which 
 some associate with economy. The lips were full and 
 saved from sensuality by the length and firmness of 
 the upper one. The nether lip had an oratorical pout. 
 The eyes were full. At their outer corners the phreno 
 logical bump of calculation overhung and in certain 
 portions hid the upper lid. Below the eyes there was 
 an inclination to puff. The eye itself was the uncer 
 tain color of smoked glass. When Brookfield smiled 
 his eyes were almost blue; when he swore and he 
 swore occasionally they were quite black; but they 
 were always level, fearless, unwavering. The head 
 was round and fairly large. The ears were noticeably 
 low in position, indicating a capacious brain-pan. At 
 the base of the skull behind there was a fulness not 
 altogether pleasing to the sight, but, like all men 
 similarly endowed, its possessor had an occult and 
 reciprocal understanding of all dumb animals. 
 
 As Brookfield paced back and forth he endeavored 
 to get his mind away from the stranger who had so 
 singularly attracted him and the old lobby was po 
 tent with suggestion. Except for an occasional single 
 picture here and there, which he recognized as recent 
 additions, its walls closely and irregularly covered 
 with faded and fading photographs, were as he re 
 membered them to have been for the past twenty 
 years. Favorites of the theatre-going public of the 
 
 12
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 John Owens and the elder Davenport were 
 repi^ented there; Goodwin, juvenile and sleek and 
 s ]i .1- -s Brookfield remembered him in the early 
 da^ 'no'/iis popularity; Joe Emmett, another helpful 
 pat- ,-pf Brookfield's establishment ; John Raymond, 
 with whom, when it had been necessary to leave the 
 table for the theatre, he had repaired to the old 
 actor's dressing-room and continued the contest by 
 matching silver dollars during waits. These and hun 
 dreds of others gazed at him with the well-remem 
 bered looks of early friends. 
 
 There was a patter of metallic taps on the tiles 
 behind him. Brookfield turned to meet a shaggy, 
 rheumatic and over-fed dog, half Irish terrier and half 
 bull. The dog wagged his stumpy tail and turned 
 over on his back, all four paws in the air, at Brook- 
 field's feet. Brookfield understood the request, and 
 as he scratched the shaggy belly with the toe of his 
 pump he said, "Where's your master, Bert where is 
 he?" Bert interpreted the remark to be a request 
 for his opinion upon the character of the massage, so 
 he wriggled electrically and smiled dog fashion. Know 
 ing that the manager of the theatre was not far off 
 when the dog was in the lobby, Brookfield moved back 
 toward the private office. The dog preceded him and 
 stood expectantly at the second door, which was the 
 one leading into the theatre. Brookfield opened it; 
 the dog went into the auditorium, as was his undis 
 puted privilege, and Brookfield followed. Bert pat 
 tered down the side aisle and into the proscenium- 
 box, by which Brookfield knew that the manager was 
 probably on the stage. He desisted, therefore, from 
 
 13
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 his purpose in following the dog, especially as his 
 knowledge of the opera reminded him that it was 
 nearing the final curtain. He stood looking over the 
 audience. 
 
 The distinctive charm of Macauley's Theatre is its 
 somewhat antiquated model : a wide and shallow par 
 quet floor surrounded by a dress-circle, dish-shaped, 
 the rise a little more acute than that favored by 
 modern architecture, but making it possible for every 
 one in the theatre to see everybody else, and giving 
 to it that feeling of intimacy and homelikeness so dear 
 to the Southern heart. Except for a few purchasers 
 who had drifted in from the hotels the small percent 
 age of transient visitors the ground-floor members 
 of the audience of this night were almost a family. 
 
 It was an assemblage melancholy for Brookfield in 
 its suggestion. His business made him the intimate 
 and confidant of many of the men present, who had 
 passed him with slight recognition in the intermis 
 sions. His profession had estranged him from many 
 of the families represented, in whose homes he had 
 been a welcome visitor two-and- twenty years before. 
 His position, as he stood there alone at the rear of 
 the foyer, symbolized his social isolation. 
 
 Brookfield was not made for self-pity, but there 
 came upon him to-night an overwhelming sense of the 
 distress which his perverse course had brought upon 
 those dearest to him. He looked toward the box in 
 which, as he could see by Ellinger's pose, the old 
 sport was scratching the manager's dog, more inter 
 ested in the animal than in the opera. He felt a keen 
 remorse that, aside from the boy, whose record was 
 
 14
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 yet to be made, the only escorts he had been able to 
 provide for his sister and his niece had been this old 
 card-player, Lew Ellinger, and Hardmuth, the sinister 
 attorney, whose attentions to Viola had evidently 
 been distasteful. He felt an equally keen regret when 
 he considered the boy, a talented and promising young 
 architect just turned twenty, and reflected that but 
 for the blighting profession to which he had himself 
 been so devoted, he might now be the father of such 
 a boy and the husband of the woman, serene and 
 stately, whom the boy called mother. 
 
 The finale of the opera rang out in vocal volume 
 and flared through brass and reed, stirring in Brook- 
 field a little of that militant resolve which sometimes 
 rises Phcenixlike from the flame of remorse. There 
 was the agitato of the conductor's baton, the sudden 
 roll of the timbrels, the long note of principals and 
 chorus, and the drop-curtain fell, displaying its wood 
 ed scene of grazing sheep and watching shepherd, 
 lake and distant hills. The great sunburst in the 
 dome shone out, the audience fluttered to its feet. 
 Brookfield, undecided and irresolute, passed through 
 the lobby, with its faded photographs, to the side 
 walk, and signalled for his automobile.
 
 II 
 
 THE dining-room at Jack Brookfield's was nearly 
 square in form, and larger than most city din 
 ing-rooms even in a land of generous domestic archi 
 tecture. 
 
 One side of the room was half filled by a stately 
 mantel -piece, not too floridly carved, of old marble 
 brought from an Italian palace. A man of Brook- 
 field's height, by stooping, could walk into the fire 
 place ; the average girl, like Viola, for instance, might 
 stand erect in it. Over the mantel and reaching to 
 the ceiling there was the picture of a moonlit sea 
 built into the trim. Near this a dependent cross- 
 timber of the ceiling hid the electric lamps, whose 
 rays fell upon painted sky and water with luminous 
 brilliance and by their reflection gave to the room the 
 mellowed light which was its only illumination. 
 
 Brookfield had left orders for the supper, and when 
 the party arrived from the theatre the plates were laid 
 for the expected guests; each plate, with its flanking 
 outriders of silver and ivory and glass, picked out 
 from the dull mahogany with its individual square of 
 Belgium lace. On the rich centrepiece of the same 
 material lay a modest bank of red roses. 
 
 In any department of taste Brookfield was either 
 too sensitive or too well informed to offend by any 
 
 16
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 sign of ostentation. The flowers were just enough; 
 the glassware promised only Apollinaris and cham 
 pagne; the forks prophesied a simple and digestible 
 supply. Old Harvey, Brookfield's colored pantry 
 man and nocturnal chef, stood by, a smiling guarantor 
 of culinary excellence. 
 
 As the four men waited the arrival of the ladies in 
 the library during that moment of unavoidable delay 
 which always occurs on such occasions, Lew Ellinger 
 found time to leave them and join Harvey in the din 
 ing-room. A stranger uninformed of the unblendable 
 property of the color-line South of the Ohio might have 
 fallen into the error of supposing that Ellinger and Har 
 vey belonged to the same brotherhood. No word was 
 spoken, but as the old bon vivant lifted his left hand, 
 with the first two ringers slightly crooked and the 
 thumb at a sufficient elevation, Harvey said, "Yes, 
 suh; yes, suh," twice, and then again in mystic and 
 lulling repetition as he handed Lew a Liliputian 
 tumbler and a decanter without the stopper. As 
 Ellinger poured the dark, red fluid into the glass 
 with the measured accuracy of a practised pharmacian 
 watching his graduate, he said: 
 
 "You may put this bottle right in front of me at 
 the supper-table, Harvey." 
 
 "Yes, suh." 
 
 "I've quit flirting with that giddy stuff years ago." 
 
 "Yes, suh." 
 
 Whether it was the recollection of this permanent 
 and enforced separation or his failure to take the glass 
 of water which Harvey handed him, there came into 
 Ellinger's eyes a gentle moisture. He removed it 
 
 17
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 with a needlessly sheer handkerchief which he 
 found in his left cuff after a fluttering search else 
 where. 
 
 Ellinger heard himself inquired for in the next 
 room. There was the hum of women's voices min 
 gling with the deeper tones of the men, and he had 
 just time to meet the party at the doorway. With 
 a facile mendacity that deceived nobody, Lew 
 said: 
 
 "I've inspected everything, Jack, and it's perfect. 
 Ladies, we are to be congratulated." 
 
 "What a beautiful room!" Helen exclaimed, as they 
 entered the dining-room. 
 
 Brookfield deferred the compliment to her son. 
 
 ' ' Yours ? ' ' Mrs. Whipple exclaimed, afresh . ' ' Why, 
 Clay, dear!" 
 
 "There's one somewhat like it in a chateau in 
 Tours," the boy confessed; "it's pretty hard, mother, 
 to be entirely original." Then Jack came to his as 
 sistance. 
 
 "Clay's problem here was to follow his Touraine 
 model, without the height of the original, and not 
 have the room seem squat. I think he answered it 
 by the refinement and number of the cross-beams; 
 but however he did it he answered it satisfactorily, 
 and that's sufficient success for a broiler." 
 
 Hardmuth's laugh, which he offered as a recognition 
 of Jack's pleasantry, was a too rasping enforcement 
 of it, and turned an intended compliment into seem 
 ing criticism. Clay frowned petulantly, but Brook- 
 field, with a counterpointing tact which was a marked 
 possession of his, continued : 
 
 18
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "And I'm going to put the distinguished architect 
 on my right." 
 
 "Not Helen?" his sister inquired. 
 
 "I want Helen where I can look at her." And 
 Brookfield cast an explanatory glance toward the 
 boy that would have revealed the situation to a 
 mother much less intuitive than Helen Whipple, who 
 already divined the rivalry between Hardmuth and 
 her son and was grateful for Jack's sympathy. 
 
 "We're seven, aren't we?" Jack hurried on. 
 
 "We are seven," Lew recited, in labored repeti 
 tion, with mildly literary enjoyment of possible quo 
 tation. 
 
 "And seven into sixty goes eight times and a half," 
 Brookfield said, indicating the outline of the round 
 table as he drew out his watch. 
 
 "Into sixty?" Mrs. Campbell asked. She always 
 needed a guidebook when conversing with her brother, 
 who was wont to tease her. Ignoring her question, he 
 fixed his look on the dial over which his thumb picked 
 out the points. 
 
 "Assume that I'm standing at twelve o'clock, Clay 
 will sit eight minutes to my right, you will be two 
 minutes of two, dear Alice, and Mr. Ellinger will be 
 three - three. Helen, will you take that chair near 
 five o'clock? Mr. Hardmuth will sit at seven, and 
 that leaves Viola between Mr. Hardmuth and Clay, 
 at about two minutes of nine." 
 
 ' ' Well, what do you think of that ?" Ellinger beamed, 
 in mediocre admiration, as he found his chair between 
 the two older women. "Isn't that just like him?" 
 
 Helen remembered that it was. 
 
 19
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "As like him as two peas," Ellinger rambled on, 
 inconsequently. "Jack turns everything into a dia 
 gram. I saw him draw an after-dinner speech once 
 on a table-cloth. Yes, sir draw it, and it was a 
 blamed good speech but to look at it reminded me 
 of a dog's pedigree exactly." 
 
 Helen would have understood the diagram quite 
 as clearly as she understood Lew's similes, but she 
 recalled without assistance that sculptor-like quality 
 in Jack of mentally seeing all things, tangible or in 
 tangible, in geometric plan. 
 
 "This affectation of density concerning the place 
 of honor doesn't deceive you and me, Miss Viola, does 
 it?" Hardmuth asked, as they sat down. "We know 
 it's to the right of the lady." 
 
 "Uncle Jack selected Mrs. Whipple as the lady to 
 sit opposite him, and Mr. Ellinger's at her right," she 
 replied. 
 
 "There's no lady opposite me, Viola," her uncle 
 corrected; "our disposition of seven leaves that a 
 vacant spot, as you see. It symbolizes the tragedy 
 of a bachelor's life." 
 
 "He means one of the tragedies," Ellinger stage- 
 whispered to Helen, in mock consolation. 
 
 "Exactly," added Hardmuth, from her left. "That 
 tragedy pose of Mr. Brookfield's is what men in my 
 business call an 'alibi.'" 
 
 "And may I ask, Mr. Hardmuth, what men in 
 your business do?" 
 
 "Men in his business are the awful prosecuting at 
 torneys of this country," Ellinger answered, warn- 
 ingly. 
 
 20
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 'You see the beauty of my method, Mrs. Whipple," 
 Jack remarked, sagely. "Seating you between Mr. 
 Hardmuth and a questionable person like Mr. Ellinger 
 is what I call ' tempering justice w r ith mercy. ' ' 
 
 "Do you understand what they're talking about?" 
 Viola's mother asked, helplessly. 
 
 "I try not to," Helen answered, smiling at Jack's 
 metaphor. 
 
 "Here's something, my dear sister, really addressed 
 to your comprehension." And Brookfield indicated 
 the cup Harvey had just put on Mrs. Campbell's 
 plate. 
 
 "I think it's gumbo," Ellinger whispered to Helen 
 "chicken gumbo strained this old darky beats the 
 world at it just enough of everything taste it 
 see ? Notice how you get the chicken and the celery 
 and the pepper and the gumbo and the salt and the 
 consomme^ each one answerin' like a roll-call in a 
 bible-class ain't it perfect?" 
 
 Ellinger's voice seemed to fit in with the half-light 
 of the room, the old finish of the furniture, and the 
 ivory tint of the doilies. It was the voice of a vin 
 tage a voice that could have issued only from that 
 genial, ruddy face whose permeating good-nature was 
 the compensation, and perhaps the product, of its 
 dulness. Helen remembered Lew Ellinger in his 
 early forties, more than twenty years before, when 
 the hair, now white, carried only a tinge of gray at 
 the temples and the short mustache was black. She 
 remembered his clothes. That had been an epoch of 
 wide braid and silk facings in men's wardrobes. She 
 remembered being told that it was a point of pride 
 
 21
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 with Lew never to be seen without a fresh pink in his 
 button-hole. He was wearing a pink to-night. The 
 voice had been mellow in those days. It was now al 
 most demoralizing in its suggestion of creature com 
 forts, in its muffled, oily, and smoky familiarity. 
 Helen recalled Ellinger's reputation of that olden 
 time "a perfect gentleman, reliably punctilious in 
 all circumstances as long as a lady did not forget 
 herself" despite which reassurement from the pass 
 ing biographer grandma had not permitted mother 
 to go driving with Mr. Ellinger. And here he was to 
 night, smiling to Helen herself in quite disappointing 
 harmlessness, his glowing face with its keen little 
 eyes of blue presenting all the colors of an American 
 flag. 
 
 Through the mist of her "wandering attention Helen 
 retrieved his voice and laid hold again of its message. 
 
 " And then he varnishes the inside of the tomato 
 with hot paraffin, lets it cool, and puts the ice-cream 
 and the muskmelon inside of it," Ellinger was saying. 
 
 Was he still talking of Harvey ? 
 
 "And how long have you known him, Mr. Ellinger ?" 
 Helen reconnoitred. 
 
 "Why, he cooked for Jack's father." 
 
 Harvey, of course. 
 
 "Doesn't it seem good to you, Mrs. Whipple, to 
 get back to Kentucky and some real cooking?" 
 
 "It's wonderfully restful to be in the old home 
 again." 
 
 "But the cooking?" Ellinger pleaded. 
 
 "Philadelphia has some pride in that field." 
 
 "I know it," Ellinger admitted. "I remember eat- 
 
 22
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ing my first oyster-crabs Newburg in a little red-brick 
 hotel the old Belleville." 
 
 "Bellevue," Helen corrected. 
 
 "I meant Bellevue." And once more Lew's mem 
 ory led him to revel in the description of a menu, 
 this time the one that had framed the hallowed baby 
 crabs. 
 
 A term of special succulent stress caught the ear of 
 Mrs. Campbell, Lew's other neighbor, and drew from 
 her an inquiry. Mrs. Campbell's sympathy with the 
 gastronomic tastes of the old sport was less feigned 
 than Helen's, and Lew lived again the joy of the con 
 noisseur over the phantom banquet he spread for 
 her imagination in the vanished room of the famous 
 old hostelry. 
 
 Through the courses of terrapin and plover, as 
 Harvey served them, Ellinger talked with the fluency 
 of the amateur, sometimes to one, more frequently 
 to six, his throaty tones caressingly lubricating his 
 theme, and convincing almost the least sanguinary 
 that the bonne bouche of this repast was the brain of 
 the plover. This was secured, Lew explained, by 
 holding the plover's severed head by its bill and nip 
 ping one's front teeth through the paper-shell skull. 
 His illustration of this incisive process, and the 
 luscious though scarcely audible inhalation that was 
 an unavoidable part of it, sent little shivers over 
 Viola's shoulders. Ellinger, temporarily estopped of 
 speech, pointed to the girl's face, tensely awry in 
 mimetic contemplation of his own, and the general 
 laugh released her from her auto-hypnosis. 
 
 Aside from their occasional attention to such com- 
 
 23
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 pelling demonstrations as this, Helen found her 
 thoughts rambling leisurely. Hardmuth was notice 
 ably engrossed in Viola, and his perfunctory asides 
 to herself marked only the moments of general com 
 ment. 
 
 How unlike this table-talk had been that which 
 Helen Whipple had known during the past twenty 
 years! There came into her mental vision in easy 
 and blending succession pictures of the breakfast 
 and dinner table, of the little dining-room in the 
 red-brick, rectangular dwelling at Germantown, in 
 which she and Dr. Whipple had lived during the 
 early years of their marriage; of her lonely vigils 
 there as the doctor's increasing practice in the city 
 called him from the pleasant suburb; Clay's nur 
 sery years, when the breakfast had been devoted 
 to the doctor's morning paper and to her care of 
 the china within reach of the infant missiles; then 
 the staid and formal house in Philadelphia into 
 which came the reflected anxiety of the busy physi 
 cian, the domestic communion unhappily abridged by 
 his professional programme and interrupted by calls 
 telephonic and personal. Only the sober, the serious, 
 the dutiful side of living a long, prosaic period of 
 unmitigated strain and stress. 
 
 Looking across the table at Jack, what a contrast 
 she found in his amiable and expressive countenance 
 to the tense and severe visage of her late husband! 
 Brookfield's face was very different from the same 
 face, as she remembered it, in its early manhood, and 
 yet the difference was one for which she had been 
 not unprepared. As she realized how often in the in- 
 
 24
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 tervening time she had permitted her mind to dwell 
 upon this earlier suitor she felt a self-accusing sense 
 of disloyalty to the father of the boy now sitting at 
 his right. She was startled to find that her feeling of 
 ease and relaxation in her present situation was due 
 not entirely to either the absence of domestic care or 
 the regained associations of her girlhood. Much of 
 the purring comfort of her position was caused by the 
 proximity of this powerful man, who had somehow 
 and without communication never been quite absent 
 from the penumbra of her thought. What compan 
 ionship there was now in his very glance! 
 
 Brookfield himself, almost silent between his sister, 
 who was analyzing recipes with Ellinger on one side, 
 and Helen's boy, who was hovering a youthful pro 
 tectorate over Viola on the other side, found amuse 
 ment in telegraphing to Helen a mental comment 
 upon it all. Under that heavy and apparently phleg 
 matic mask Helen could see the play of his thoughts 
 like summer lightning behind an evening cloud-bank 
 the veriest ghost of a smile from one corner of the 
 mouth, the slightest drooping of an eyelid at some 
 banality, a suggestive uplift of eyebrow doing service 
 for inquiry, an indescribable accent of glance that 
 conveyed assent. 
 
 Helen's quiet enjoyment of the implicit communica 
 tion was interrupted by her sudden recognition of and 
 astonishment at the fact that Brookfield's facial play 
 was a running commentary upon her own inmost 
 thought, and then, as she felt herself flushing beneath 
 this consciousness, there was just a noticeable com 
 pression of Brookfield's lips in the reassuring audacity 
 
 25
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 of a phantom caress, after which, in more overt com 
 munication, he lifted his glass and smilingly, though 
 silently, drank to her. 
 
 This last act caught the attention of Ellinger, ever 
 watchful for any legitimate excuse, and he roughly 
 led the chorus which voiced less intimately Brook- 
 field's sentiment: 
 
 "To our fair and honored guest." 
 
 Shortly afterward, when the party had again scat 
 tered its attention, Helen found Jack's eyes saying: 
 "Wouldn't this have been much better, after all 
 this cosiness, this intimacy, tranquillity, and warmth ? 
 Wasn't it all a vanity, a vexation of spirit : the years 
 of strident effort in the aggressive charities, the so 
 cieties for civic betterment, and all the altruistic, 
 self-appointed turmoil since we parted?" Again 
 Brookfield lifted his glass as Helen's look of waver 
 ing indecision seemed to him confession. 
 
 There was a second observation by Ellinger and a 
 general laugh following some pleasantry of his at 
 Brookfield's expense. 
 
 Jo, the colored hall-boy in Brookfield's establish 
 ment, appeared in the doorway leading from the li 
 brary. 
 
 "Yes?" inquired Brookfield. 
 
 "Mr. Denning, suh," said Jo. 
 
 Brookfield begged the company to excuse him a 
 moment, then rose from the table and followed Jo.
 
 Ill 
 
 WELL, Jo ?" Brookfield looked at the negro boy 
 a bit impatiently. On those rare occasions 
 when the house was dark, Jo was endowed with suf 
 ficient vicarious discretion to turn most any applicant 
 away. 
 
 "Mr. Denning, suh," Jo repeated, with slightly jus 
 tifying emphasis. 
 
 Brookfield hesitated, and then: "Ask Mr. Denning 
 to come up," he said. 
 
 "Yes, suh." The boy left on his errand. 
 
 Brookfield moved a few steps after the boy, as if 
 with the intent to revoke his order; and then as a 
 more definite plan occurred to him he called to the 
 group about the supper-table: 
 
 "Lew I say, Lew! Won't you ladies excuse Mr. 
 Ellinger a moment?" 
 
 A chorus of assent, not necessarily uncompliment 
 ary, came in reply, and Ellinger joined Brookfield. 
 
 "Want to see me?" 
 
 Brookfield took Lew by the elbow and led him a 
 few steps from the doorway and beyond the line of 
 vision of his guests. 
 
 "Tom Denning's here he expects a game. My 
 sister and Mrs. Whipple object to the pasteboards, 
 so don't mention it before them." 
 
 3 27
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Not a word," answered the discreet old sport; 
 "but Tom" he nodded toward the hall door 
 "what of him?" 
 
 "I'll attend to Tom," said Brookfield; "you re 
 join the ladies." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 As Lew regained the doorway of the dining-room 
 Denning entered from the hallway. 
 
 "Hello, Lew!" called the new-comer. 
 
 Ellinger paused in helpless embarrassment between 
 his duty and this convivial interruption. 
 
 "Go on," said Brookfield, imperatively, and Lew 
 obeyed. 
 
 Denning, astonished at the sight of Ellinger in 
 evening attire and by the formal front of the pro 
 prietor, said: 
 
 "What have you got to-night young Rockefeller?" 
 
 "Some ladies " Brookfield started to explain, 
 and paused, frowning, interrupted by the leer on Den- 
 ning's face. And then he added, "My sister and her 
 daughter and a lady friend of hers." There was a 
 rebuke in the measured authority of the utterance. 
 
 "No game?" Denning asked, disappointedly. 
 
 "Not until they go." 
 
 The young man, who had changed his position so 
 as to catch a glimpse of the group in the next room, 
 exclaimed with that sudden alteration of mood char 
 acteristic of the immature mind in the presence of 
 new toys: 
 
 "Oh, chafing-dish!" 
 
 "They've been to the opera, and I had Harvey 
 brew them some terrapin." 
 
 28
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "My luck," Denning complained. 
 
 "No, I think there's some left," Brookfield con 
 soled; and as an expression of relief passed over 
 Denning's countenance, Jack felt a sense of shame 
 that his victims held among their number one so 
 simple as the man before him. Denning was an ex 
 ample of a type numerically increasing that waste 
 ful intermediate generation between shirt-sleeves and 
 shirt-sleeves; the pampered son of a father apochry- 
 phally opulent. The class to which he belonged had 
 not yet arrived at the distinction of imperial denuncia 
 tion, and Tom was an only child ; but had there been 
 a sister the family could have been reconciled to seeing 
 her a foreign princess. 
 
 As Brookfield regarded his guest there passed vague 
 ly before his mind a picture of the scheme of things so 
 fashioned that by a law of nature it seemed one 
 species should feed upon and devour another. Then, 
 in quick realization of his own inability to revise that 
 law in the time now at his disposal, he added, in an 
 easy, patronizing protection: 
 
 "I'm going to take a long chance, Tom, and intro 
 duce you to these ladies, only I want you not to say 
 anything before them about poker or any other 
 game." 
 
 Denning protested. "Why, I thought you said 
 your sister " 
 
 "I did," Brookfield replied, his tone slightly hostile. 
 
 "Well, she's on, isn't she?" 
 
 Brookfield nodded. "But she doesn't like it, and 
 my niece my niece doesn't like it." 
 
 There was something in Brookfield's repetition of 
 
 29
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "my niece" that caused Denning to stand at atten 
 tion. If his early schooling had been received in a 
 military academy he would have saluted. During the 
 pause that followed old Harvey entered. 
 
 "I'se made some coffee, Marse Jack; will you have 
 it in the dining-room or here, suh?" 
 
 "Ill ask the ladies." 
 
 "How are you, Harvey?" Denning grinned at the 
 old servant. 
 
 "Marse Denning." 
 
 "You've got some terrapin left for Mr. Denning, 
 Harvey?" Brookfield asked, as he passed from the 
 room. 
 
 "Yes, suh," Harvey answered; then again, to Den 
 ning, "Yes, suh." 
 
 "They left some of the rum, I hope ?" said Denning. 
 
 The old darky laughed. 
 
 "Couldn't empty my ice-box in one evening, Marse 
 Denning." And then, with a sudden change of man 
 ner, as he looked toward the dining-room, he added, 
 deferentially, "The ladies gettin' up, suh." 
 
 Brookfield returned. 
 
 "Harvey." 
 
 "Yes, suh." 
 
 "The ladies will have their coffee in here." 
 
 "Yes, suh." 
 
 As the ladies were already following, Brookfield 
 crossed, warningly, to Denning and introduced him. 
 
 "Alice, this is my friend Mr. Denning my sister 
 Mrs. Campbell." 
 
 Alice nodded to the young man now awkwardly 
 conscious of his tweeds. 
 
 3
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Helen was saying to Viola, about whom she had 
 put her arm, "I never take coffee even after dinner, 
 and at this hour never." 
 
 Jack finished his introduction of Denning, and, re 
 solved that there should be no misleading opportunity 
 for impolitic commonplace, he took the young man 
 by the arm and led him toward the dining-room, say 
 ing as they went: 
 
 "Mr. Denning 's just left the foundry, and he is very 
 hungry." 
 
 "And thirsty," Denning added, with prompt seiz 
 ure of the chance. 
 
 "Yes, and thirsty," Jack courageously accepted. 
 "Uncle Harvey is going to save his life." And with 
 dissembling heartiness he pushed Denning from the 
 room. 
 
 "The foundry?" Alice inquired, with characteristic 
 naivete 1 . 
 
 "Never did a day's work in his life," Jack smiled. 
 "Why, that's Tom Denning." 
 
 "Tom Denning is the name of the big race-horse," 
 Viola volunteered, from one of her fields of special 
 information. 
 
 "Yes," answered Jack, "this fellow is named after 
 the race-horse." 
 
 "What does he do?" asked Helen. 
 
 "His father." Brookfield explained: "Father's in 
 the packing business in Kansas City this fellow has 
 four men shovelling money away from him so he can 
 breathe." 
 
 "Oh, Jack!" Alice exclaimed, in amused protest. 
 
 "Yes," insisted Jack, "I'm one of them." Then, 
 
 31
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 in quick recovery from this inadvertent admission of 
 his trade, he added, as he paused on the threshold, 
 "You'll find cigarettes in that box." 
 
 "Jack!" Mrs. Campbell rose from her chair with 
 that extravagance of self-defence sometimes so peril 
 ously near confession. 
 
 "Not you, Alice dear," said Jack, with apologetic 
 stress almost equally disclosing. 
 
 "Well, certainly not for me, Uncle Jack," Viola 
 answered, honestly, as he looked toward her and Helen. 
 
 "Of course, not you, dear." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Brookfield," Helen deduced, in a 
 fraternal pleasantness which Jack remembered so well. 
 
 Mrs. Campbell, as usual, one step behind the mental 
 procession whenever it departed from the heaviest 
 marching order, came to the defence of their guest. 
 
 "My dear brother, you confuse the Kentucky ladies 
 with some of your Eastern friends." 
 
 "Careful, Alice, careful. Helen lived in the East 
 twenty years, remember." 
 
 "But even my husband didn't smoke." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "Never in his life." 
 
 "In his life," Jack repeated, with malicious an 
 alysis. "Why make such a pessimistic distinction?" 
 
 "Jack!" his sister gasped again, in fluttering ex 
 postulation; and then, as she came to him, murmured 
 plaintively in an audible undertone, "How can you 
 say a thing like that?" 
 
 "She's the man's widow," Brookfield offered, in 
 sympathetic opacity to Alice. "I've got to say it if 
 any one does."
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Harvey turned the trend of conversation by his ap 
 pearance with the tray of coffee. 
 
 "Mr. Denning got his tortoise, has he, Uncle Har 
 vey?" 
 
 "He's got the same as we all had, Marse Jack; yes, 
 suh." The old darky chuckled. 
 
 "I'll take it, Uncle Harvey." Jack referred to the 
 cup that Helen had declined. "I think three or four 
 of them might help this head of mine." 
 
 Brookfield had confessed once or twice earlier in 
 the evening to a headache, and his sister now said 
 to him, with an inflection that indicated a repeated 
 offer: 
 
 "Why don't you let Viola cure vour head 
 ache?" " 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Jack, do." Viola put down her cup 
 as she spoke. 
 
 "No, the coffee will fix it, I'm sure." 
 
 "Sit here while you drink it." Viola pushed an 
 easy-chair from the end of the table. 
 
 "No, no, Viola; it isn't bad enough for that. I'll 
 conserve your mesmeric endowment for a real occa 
 sion." 
 
 Brookfield took the contents of the demi-tasse at a 
 swallow. 
 
 "Just to please me," his niece persisted. 
 
 Jack touched her caressingly under the chin, and, 
 shaking his finger in concentrated accusation, lost 
 upon all his hearers excepting Helen, said, "I don't 
 want to spoil your awful stories." 
 
 Brookfield rejoined the gentlemen in the dining- 
 room, where Harvey was passing the cigars. 
 
 33
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Left to themselves, the ladies began to evince that 
 personal disposition toward ease which marks the 
 absence of self-consciousness, even self-consciousness 
 so slight as that invited by the presence of the most 
 intimate male relative. 
 
 Viola curled into one corner of the old colonial 
 sofa that raked diagonally from the fireplace. She 
 had taken from the table an uncut magazine and a 
 huge tusk of ivory, shaped at its broader end into a 
 spatulate paper-cutter. Her mother sought an easy- 
 chair, regretfully expostulating that she had read 
 somewhere that it was wise to stay on one's feet for 
 twenty minutes after each meal. Helen leaned on 
 the back of another chair in restful contemplation of 
 the room which she had seen but hurriedly in her 
 first passage through it before the supper. She was 
 as yet unable to decide which object or group of ob 
 jects gave it that quality of witchery of which she 
 was becoming conscious. Perhaps it was not the 
 room itself; rather it might be the room in combina 
 tion with the owner, of whose uncanny power and in 
 definite quality she was singularly aware. In the 
 moment her mind had moved on its circle about this 
 central idea, and by a double association the question 
 seemed to utter itself: 
 
 "Is Viola a magnetic healer, too?" 
 
 "Oh no," Viola said, quickly, although the ques 
 tion had been put to her mother. 
 
 "Yes a remarkable one," the mother replied. 
 
 "Only headaches, Mrs. Whipple," the girl ex 
 plained, "and those I crush out of my victims." 
 
 "I remember Jack used to have a wonderful 
 34
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ability in that way as a young man," Helen 
 said. 
 
 Viola smiled in pretty insinuation. "Uncle Jack 
 says only with girls." 
 
 "We know better, don't we?" Alice remarked, 
 stolidly, to Helen. Their guest nodded, and Viola 
 resumed : 
 
 "Well, for myself, I'd rather have Uncle Jack sit 
 by me than any regular physician I ever saw." 
 
 "You mean if you were ill?" said Helen. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "You must be very clear with Mrs. Whipple on 
 that point, Viola," said Mrs. Campbell, whose mental 
 baggage- train was beginning to arrive, "because she 
 used to prefer your uncle Jack to sit by her even 
 when she wasn't ill." And the lady smiled, blandly 
 unconscious that Viola had implied as much some 
 minutes earlier. 
 
 "But especially when ill, my dear," Helen ad 
 mitted; and then, inquiringly, to his sister, "Has 
 Jack quit it?" 
 
 "Yes; you know Jack went into politics for a 
 while." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 "Yes local politics something about the police 
 didn't please him then he quit all curative work." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, in politics I believe there is something un 
 pleasant about the word 'healer.' ' This unpleasant 
 condition had never been quite clear to Mrs. Campbell. 
 
 "Entirely different spelling," Viola suggested. 
 
 Mrs. Campbell continued : "The papers joked about 
 
 35
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 his magnetic touch. It seems that the word 'touch' 
 is also used offensively, so Jack dropped the whole 
 business." 
 
 "And Viola inherits this magnetic power?" said 
 Helen. 
 
 "If one can inherit power from an uncle," Mrs. 
 Campbell answered. On these matters of genealogy 
 she was particularly lucid. Besides, Kentucky had 
 given more than proportionate attention to the in 
 tricate questions of breeding. 
 
 "Let us say from a family," enlarged Helen. 
 
 "That is even more generous," Mrs. Campbell an 
 swered, more wisely than she knew. "But Viola is 
 like her uncle Jack in svery way that a girl may re 
 semble a man horses and boats and every kind of 
 personal risk." 
 
 "I'm proud of it," Viola boasted, parenthetically. 
 
 "And Jack spoils her." 
 
 "Am I spoiled?" Viola appealed to Mrs. Whipple. 
 
 Helen's smile was more comforting than the spoken 
 word of most women. 
 
 "But I will say he couldn't love her more if he 
 were her own father," Alice added. 
 
 Helen found this report of the paternal quality in 
 Jack strangely grateful. She pressed against her 
 cheek the hand that Viola had given her. That Jack 
 loved the girl in such degree doubled the growing 
 affection for her which Clay's interest and the girl's 
 own attractiveness had planted in Helen's heart, so 
 sensitively maternal. 
 
 Despite the fact that Viola in every feature was 
 noticeably unlike her uncle, there was, nevertheless, 
 
 36
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 in the general relation of the features that evanescent 
 something which we call family resemblance. Under 
 the smooth contour of her decidedly classical face 
 there was manifestly the same modelling that under 
 lay Jack's grim mask. That family trick of level 
 glance which was domination in the uncle was sim 
 ple sincerity in the girl. The vibrant arch of nostril 
 and the fulness of the lip, so dangerously suggestive 
 of the sensual in the man, spelled only poetry and 
 affection in the finer feminine face. Viola was typi 
 cally and beautifully blond not of the anaemic and 
 bloodless type, but of that Olympian variety which 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes described as "shot through 
 and through with amber light." 
 
 As Helen pressed the girl's hand she noticed in its 
 palm a vital prehension eminently kindred to Jack's 
 touch. Observing persons had frequently remarked 
 this quality in Brookfield's hand. Independent of the 
 grip of muscle, the palm itself seemed to have some 
 moist and individual power of cohesion a quality of 
 friendliness and health and magnetism. Helen was 
 no student of character, but the feminine sense of in 
 tuition was hers in a marked degree, and it did not 
 fail her now. She knew indubitably that the girl be 
 side her was gifted with the rare capacity of abiding 
 loyalty. She apprehended in some inexplicable way 
 that the girl was to be for her an ally in her protective 
 interest in Clay, who, seizing the first chance to quit 
 the men in the other room, had just joined the ladies. 
 
 "Isn't this a jolly room, mother?" said the young 
 architect, indicating by a sweep of his hand the hos 
 pitable walls of the library. 
 
 37
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Beautiful!" 
 
 "Sleeping -apartments are what I take pride in, 
 though," Clay continued, as he nodded upward; "a 
 private bath to every bedroom, reading-lamps just 
 over the pillows, individual telephones to the kitchen." 
 
 "Haven't you seen the house, Mrs. Whipple ?" Viola 
 interrupted. 
 
 "Not above this floor." 
 
 "Would it interest you?" Mrs. Campbell asked, 
 mildly, and then recollecting, she added, apologeti 
 cally, "Why, what a foolish question as though any 
 thing your boy had done could fail to interest you!" 
 
 Mrs. Campbell crossed to the dining-room and called 
 her brother. As Jack responded she turned to Helen, 
 and in a manner that implied an opportunity for 
 choice said, "Will I do as your guide?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Mrs. Whipple. 
 
 "Well?" said Brookfield. 
 
 "I want to show Helen over the house," his sister 
 explained. 
 
 "Very well, do it." 
 
 "The rooms are empty?" 
 
 "Empty? Of course," Jack replied, in mock re 
 sentment. 
 
 "Don't be too indignant, my dear brother; they 
 are not always empty." And then as she turned to 
 Helen she explained, "In Jack's house one is liable to 
 find a belated pilgrim in any room." 
 
 Helen, conscious of the playfulness which the sister 
 missed beneath Jack's look, ventured, with contrib 
 uting banter, "And a lady walking in unannounced 
 would be something of a surprise, wouldn't she?" 
 
 38
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Well," answered Jack, in grave deliberation, "two 
 ladies would certainly, and 
 
 "Jack!" interrupted Alice. 
 
 "My dear sister, they would," Brookfield protested, 
 in injured innocence; and then, appealing to Helen, 
 "Hard lines when the reputation of a man's house 
 isn't respected by his own sister huh!" He stormed 
 back to the dining-room, leaving his sister in a haze 
 of perturbation. 
 
 "The same Jack," said Helen, singularly unhor- 
 rified. 
 
 "The same," Alice assented, "only sometimes I 
 think confirmed in his peculiarities." 
 
 Viola declined her mother's invitation to accom 
 pany them over the upper part of the house, and the 
 two older ladies departed, leaving Clay and her to 
 gether.
 
 IV 
 
 MRS. WHIPPLE'S anxiety concerning her boy was 
 not without foundation. There were certain 
 weaknesses in his character that justified her desire for 
 sympathy and assistance in her necessarily waning 
 care of him. She believed that his artistic tempera 
 ment, and many of the weaknesses supposed to ac 
 company such a temperament, he had inherited from 
 herself. There was a noticeable strain of his father, 
 however, which she detected in the boy's ready and 
 almost fanatical advocacy of any hopeless cause that 
 made its appeal to the humanities. He was emo 
 tional; unquestionably much of Clay's decorative 
 talent could be attributed to this fact, but his 
 greatest danger also lay there. All his life he had 
 been subject to a kind of intellectual vertigo, at 
 times approaching perilously to irresponsibility. 
 
 As a boy of ten he had leaped into the Schuylkill 
 to save a playmate from drowning. Unable himself 
 to swim a stroke, he had only doubled the task of the 
 competent rescuers. At twelve, when an itinerant ex- 
 horter was calling the guilty to repentance, and be 
 moaning the fact that in all his audience of sinners 
 none had the courage to lead the penitent to the 
 altar, Clay had unhesitatingly accepted the call and 
 been the first to the bench. At sixteen, after a baf- 
 
 40
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 fling absence of four days, he was discovered in Tampa, 
 whither he had fled with a regiment of Pennsylvania 
 volunteers in an almost inflexible resolution to avenge 
 the destruction of the Maine. 
 
 He was peculiarly amenable to suggestion, to ap 
 proval, to rebuke. These qualities, while they caused 
 the boy uncountable suffering, also won for him many 
 friends. The firm of distinguished architects with 
 which Brookfield's invited influence had been able to 
 place him was already finding his temperament a 
 considerable asset in its professional relations with 
 women clients. Clay had an almost feminine inter 
 est in the detail of decoration he had an eye for form 
 and color. That he should fall in love with the beau 
 tiful niece- of Brookfield was an inevitable conse 
 quence of his association with her. 
 
 Left alone with Viola, Clay turned to her with char 
 acteristic impulsiveness and said: 
 
 "What was Frank Hardmuth saying to you?" 
 "When?" asked the girl, with that Fabian evasion 
 which is the heritage of the sex. 
 
 "At supper and in the box at the theatre, too." 
 "Oh, Frank Hardmuth," she pouted, playfully; 
 "nobody pays any attention to him." 
 
 "I thought you paid a good deal of attention to 
 what he was saying." 
 
 "In the same theatre-party a girl's got to listen or 
 leave the box." 
 
 "Some persons listen to the opera." 
 "I told him that was what I wanted to do." 
 "Was he making love to you, Viola?" 
 "I shouldn't call it that." 
 41
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Would anybody else have called it that if they 
 had overheard it?" Clay persisted. 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "Won't you tell me what it was about?" 
 
 Viola waited. There is something so personal in 
 every declaration of love, implied or direct, compli 
 mentary or questionable, that a woman instinctively 
 guards it, not necessarily as sacred, but with an in 
 herent sentimental economy. 
 
 Viola was unpractised but not unequipped. 
 
 "I don't see why you ask?" she ventured, diplo 
 matically, beginning to feel the strain of Clay's si 
 lence. 
 
 "I ask," the boy said, promptly, "because he seem 
 ed so much in earnest, and because you seemed so 
 much in earnest." 
 
 "Well?" questioned Viola, still non-committal. 
 
 "Frank Hardmuth's a fellow that will stand watch 
 ing." Clay glared into the dining-room where the ob 
 ject of his jealousy was seated. 
 
 "He stood a good deal to-night," Viola laughed, 
 with a wish to introduce a playfulness into the col 
 loquy. 
 
 "I mean," Clay continued, still serious, "that he 
 is a clever lawyer, and would succeed in making a 
 girl commit herself in some way to him before she 
 knew it." 
 
 "I think that depends more on the way the girl 
 feels." Viola rose and crossed the room with an in 
 stinct of drawing the boy's attention from Hardmuth. 
 There was an implied assurance in the speech as Clay 
 interpreted it, and, somewiiat mollified, he followed her. 
 
 42
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Well, I don't want you to listen to Frank Hard- 
 muth under the impression that he's the only chance 
 in Kentucky." 
 
 "Why, Clay Whipple!" Viola's severity was a re 
 sentment of the implication that she had regarded 
 Hardmuth as a chance at all, and was not an at 
 tempted discouragement of the impending declara 
 tion. 
 
 "You know very well I've been courting you my 
 self, Viola, don't you?" 
 
 "You haven't," the girl replied, smiling in frank 
 admiration of his directness; "you've just been com 
 ing around like a big boy." 
 
 "Have I gone with any other girl anywhere?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "And I've spoken to your uncle Jack about it," 
 Clay continued. 
 
 "To Uncle Jack?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Nobody told you to speak to Uncle Jack." 
 
 "Mother did." 
 
 4 ' Your mother ? ' ' Viola asked . The increasing num 
 ber of Clay's advisers gave the question a disturbing 
 importance. 
 
 "Yes," answered the young suitor; "mother's got 
 regular old-fashioned ideas about boys and young 
 ladies, and she says, ' If you think Viola likes you, the 
 honorable thing is to speak to her guardian." 
 
 "Oh, you thought that, did you?" Viola was as 
 piqued by the secure assumption as she was compli 
 mented by its persistency. But her tone only gave 
 determination to the boy. 
 
 43
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "I certainly did," he answered. 
 
 "I can't imagine why." 
 
 "I thought that because you're Jack Brookfield's 
 niece, and nobody of his blood would play a game 
 that isn't fair." 
 
 No phrase could have been more unfortunately 
 chosen. Clay had meant to apply only the college 
 boy's standard of fair play in athletics, a department 
 in which Viola was not uninformed. But Brookfield's 
 profession had made the family hectic upon all al 
 lusions to it. The blood tingled in Viola's cheek. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't always throw that up to me; 
 it isn't our fault that Uncle Jack's a sporting man." 
 
 "Why, Viola I was praising him," Clay said, im 
 pulsively, sighting the forbidden ground on which he 
 had inadvertently trod; and with that sure fatality 
 that makes blunder multiply, he added, "I think 
 your uncle Jack's the gamest man in Kentucky." 
 
 "Nor that, either," Viola said, forbiddingly; and 
 then, with a surge of loyalty to the uncle whom she 
 could see from where she stood, "I don't criticise my 
 uncle Jack, but he's a lot better man than just a 
 fighter or a card-player I love him for his big 
 heart." 
 
 " So do I. If I'd 'a' thought you cared, I'd have said 
 you were too much like him at heart to let a fellow 
 come a-courting you if you meant to refuse him I'd 
 have said that and that was all that was in my mind 
 when I asked about Prank Hardmuth." In consoling 
 abandonment of the issue, he continued, "I don't 
 care what Frank Hardmuth said, either, if it wasn't 
 personal that way." 
 
 44
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Frank Hardmuth's nothing to me." The girl's 
 annoyance was reassuring. 
 
 "And he won't be, will he?" Clay pleaded, boyishly, 
 seating himself beside her on the sofa and peering into 
 her half-averted face. "Say that, because I'm aw 
 fully in love with you." 
 
 "Are you?" she asked, in evident hospitality for 
 the subject. 
 
 "You bet I am," the boy responded, vibrantly 
 "just tomfool heels over head in love with you." 
 
 "You never said so." 
 
 "I never said so because mother told me that a 
 boy in an architect's office had better wait until he 
 was a partner. But I can't wait, Viola, if other fel 
 lows are pushing me too hard." 
 
 Viola apparently approved of the boy's initiative, 
 for she answered : 
 
 "Uncle Jack says you're a regular architect, if 
 there ever was one." 
 
 "It's what you think that makes a difference to me." 
 
 "Well, I think Uncle Jack certainly knows." 
 
 "And an architect's just as good as a lawyer," Clay 
 urged, with his rival still in mind. 
 
 "Every bit," his sweetheart acquiesced. 
 
 It is possible that if either or both of the parties 
 had been represented by attorney their understand 
 ing might have been regarded as falling somewhat 
 short of a betrothal. In the absence of competent 
 advisers, however, and perhaps of sufficiently guiding 
 experience or research, the young people by an un 
 spoken assent, none the less satisfactory because it 
 was tacit, met in an embrace. 
 
 45
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Viola!" the boy said, in trembling undertone, as 
 her head rested on his shoulder. 
 
 There are other ways of becoming engaged. The 
 process is one so volatile that almost every ingredient 
 or contribution,, whether of time or place or circum 
 stance, alters its chemistry. In fact, much of the 
 charm that hallows that entire period known as ' ' the 
 engagement" is due to the same unfailing answer to 
 all the experimental tests that may be made by the 
 manifold reagents in love's laboratory. 
 
 In promising exploration of at least one other 
 route, Viola began : 
 
 "I don't mind telling you now he was speaking for 
 himself Frank Hardmuth." 
 
 "By Jove!" Clay exclaimed, mistaking consequence 
 for coincidence. "On this very night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It seems like the hand of Providence that I was 
 here." 
 
 One sure indication of true love is that the element 
 of fate is so plainly, so early, discernible. 
 
 "Let's sit down." 
 
 Holding both her hands, Clay led the girl to the 
 sofa. 
 
 "You've got confidence in me, haven't you?" 
 
 "Yes; I've always said to mother, 'Clay Whipple 
 will make his mark some day.' I should say I have 
 confidence in you." 
 
 The boy laughed joyously. There was a framed 
 sheepskin from the University of Pennsylvania hang 
 ing in his mother's bedroom, and several letters of 
 approval from the firm of architects with which he 
 
 46
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 was associated, but Viola's last remark was his real 
 diploma. He went on in rapid explanation, taking 
 her into almost conjugal confidence as to his pros 
 pects. 
 
 "Of course, the big jobs pay things like insurance 
 buildings; but my heart's in domestic architecture, 
 and if you don't laugh at me I'll tell you some 
 thing." 
 
 "Laugh at you about your work and your ambi 
 tions! Why, Clay!" 
 
 "I do some work on most of the domestic interiors 
 for the firm already, and whenever I plan a second 
 floor or staircase I can see you plain as day walking 
 through the rooms or saying good-night over the 
 balusters." 
 
 "Really? You mean in your mind." 
 
 "No, with my eyes. Domestic architecture is the 
 most poetic work a man can get into outside of down 
 right poetry itself." 
 
 "it must be if you can see it all that way," Viola 
 assented, not without some bewilderment. 
 
 "Every room," Clay continued to explain. "I can 
 see your short sleeves as you put your hands over the 
 balusters and sometimes you push up your front 
 hair with the back of your hand so." 
 
 "Oh, this ?" The girl laughed, dramatizing his sug 
 gestion, and smoothing her pompadour into obedience. 
 "All girls do that." 
 
 "But not just the same as you do it," Clay pro 
 tested, tenderly. "Yes, I can see every little motion 
 you make." 
 
 "Whenever you care to think about me?" 
 47
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Bless you, no that's the trouble." There was a 
 haunted flutter in his expression. 
 
 "What trouble?" 
 
 "The pictures of you don't come just when I want 
 them to come, especially in the dark." 
 
 "Why, how funny!" 
 
 "In the dark sometimes they form like the views 
 from a magic lantern. They glow strong and vivid, 
 and then fade into the black, and then when I lie 
 down at night that effect sometimes repeats and re 
 peats until I've had to light the gas in order to go 
 to sleep." 
 
 "Pictures of me?" 
 
 "Pictures of my work or anything that's been in 
 my mind a good deal during the day, and sometimes 
 pictures of things that I can't remember having seen 
 before." 
 
 "Why, I never heard of anything like that." 
 
 "Well, it happens to me often." The boy was si 
 lent for a moment, as though searching his memory 
 for an example; and then, as his eye caught the 
 draped hangings of the room, he said, "Now, I de 
 signed this room for your uncle Jack, but before I'd 
 put a brush in my color-box I saw this very Genoese 
 velvet." He waved his hand, indicating the walls. 
 "And I saw the picture-frames in their places that 
 Corot right there. I've got kind of a superstition 
 about that picture." Again there crept into his eyes 
 that almost haunted look that had arrested Viola's 
 attention earlier in their talk. 
 
 "A superstition!" exclaimed the girl, looking from 
 his face to the picture indicated. 
 
 48
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Yes. I said to Jack, 'Have anything else you 
 want on the other walls, but right there I wish you'd 
 put a Corot that I've seen at a dealer's in New York* 
 and he did it." 
 
 "Uncle Jack generally has his own way about pict 
 ures." 
 
 "I only mean," said Clay, hastily disclaiming any 
 pretence of mastery "I only mean that your uncle 
 Jack approved of my taste in the matter. But my 
 idea of this house really started with and grew 
 around that canvas of Corot's." 
 
 "Then it isn't always me that you see?" 
 
 "Always you when I think about a real house, you 
 bet a house for me. And you'll be there, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "Will I?" Viola tempted him with the feminine 
 instinct which however frequently its possessor may 
 be half wooer always is on guard against the re 
 corded fact. 
 
 "Yes," Clay pleaded, "say T will.'" 
 
 "I will." And once more the happy suitor folded 
 her in his arms. 
 
 Perhaps for the progress of their understanding it 
 was as well that both the mothers, having finished 
 their examination of the dwelling, should have re- 
 entered the room at that moment. 
 
 Helen regarded the young couple with scarcely a 
 flutter of astonishment; but Mrs. Campbell, doubly 
 on the defensive both as the mother of the weaker 
 vessel and as the quasi-hostess, exclaimed, in com 
 mingling astonishment, warning, and rebuke: 
 
 "Why, Viola!" 
 
 49
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "I've asked her," Clay said, addressing his mother 
 and still retaining hold of Viola's hand. 
 
 Mrs. Campbell turned accusingly to her guest. 
 "Helen, you knew?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mrs. Campbell looked back to the young couple for 
 further explanation, and in response to her gaze Clay 
 said: 
 
 "And I've asked Jack, too." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "We're engaged if you say it's all right." 
 
 "And you, Viola?" 
 
 "Yes," the girl nodded. 
 
 "Well, if Jack's been consulted, and you all know 
 of it," said Alice, making a blanket distribution of 
 the blame, "I should be a very hopeless minority." 
 
 "Why any minority?" Clay asked. 
 
 "Only the necessary considerations" then turn 
 ing to the boy's mother ' ' Clay's prospects, his youth." 
 
 "Why, he designs most of the work for his firm 
 now," Viola urged, in a wish to eliminate what she 
 apprehended as the principal objection attaching to 
 his youth. 
 
 "That is, dwellings," Clay modestly amended. 
 
 "I should advise waiting myself until Clay is in the 
 firm," Helen said, consolingly addressing her speech 
 more to the boy than to the others; "and I did advise 
 delay in speaking to Viola." 
 
 "I'd 'a' waited, mother, only Frank Hardmuth pro 
 posed to Viola to-night." 
 
 "To-night!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, for whom 
 surprises were coming rapidly. 
 
 50
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "At the opera," Viola answered. 
 
 "At the opera?" her mother repeated, and then in 
 panic helplessness to Helen she complained, "One 
 isn't safe anywhere." 
 
 Clay, pursuing this seeming advantage, asked: 
 
 "And you wouldn't want him. So you do con 
 sent, don't you?" 
 
 "I think your mother and I should talk it over." 
 
 "Well, it's a thing a fellow doesn't usually ask his 
 mother to arrange, but " 
 
 "You mean privately?" Viola asked. 
 
 "Yes," said her mother. 
 
 The young couple hesitated, doubting the policy of 
 being unrepresented in the conference; but as the 
 mothers seemed agreed upon this condition, and as 
 the habit of filial obedience was still strong, Clay 
 said to his sweetheart: 
 
 "We can go to the billiard-room, I suppose?" 
 
 "Come on," Viola assented, moving to the door. 
 
 "You know, mother, how I feel about it," Clay 
 
 said. 
 
 Helen nodded in reassuring sympathy. The boy 
 and girl left their mothers together. 
 
 "I supposed you had guessed it," Helen said to 
 Alice, who was still maintaining her injured pose. 
 The latter made one or two ineffectual gasps at re 
 sponse, and, finding that her delay was adding to the 
 uncertainty of the things she had in mind to say, 
 she made a virtue of surrender to complete frank 
 ness. 
 
 "I had, but when the moment arrives, after all, it's 
 such a surprise that a mother can't act naturally."
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Clay is really very trustworthy for his age," said 
 Helen. 
 
 "There's only one thing to discuss. I haven't men 
 tioned it because well, because I've seen so little 
 of you since it began, my dear Helen, and because 
 the fault is in my own family." 
 
 "Fault?" 
 
 "Yes, Jack's fault." Mrs. Campbell debated a 
 moment the propriety of proceeding, and then, with 
 an influx of resolution, she looked straight at Helen 
 and announced, "Clay is playing." 
 
 "Clay?" 
 
 "Here with Jack's friends." 
 
 "Clay," Helen repeated, unwilling to realize that 
 the blight which had fallen upon her own romance was 
 possibly settling upon the life of her boy, "gambling ?" 
 
 "I don't quite get used to the word" Mrs. Camp 
 bell winced "though we've had a lifetime of it 
 gambling." 
 
 "I shouldn't have thought Jack would do that with 
 my boy." 
 
 "Jack hasn't our feminine point of view and be 
 sides, Jack is calloused to it." 
 
 "You should have talked to Jack yourself." 
 
 "Talked to him? I did much more that is, as 
 I much more as a sister depending on a brother for 
 support could do." Mrs. Campbell paused as she 
 passed in reminiscence various interviews with her 
 brother; then resolutely going back to the beginning 
 of the trouble, she continued, " You know, Jack really 
 built this place for me and Viola." 
 
 " I'd thought so yes." 
 
 52
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Viola is the very core of Jack's heart. Well, we 
 both left the house and went into our little apartment, 
 and are there now. A woman can't do much more 
 than that and still take her living from a man, can 
 she?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And it hurt him hurt him past any idea." 
 
 "You did that because my Clay was playing 
 here?" 
 
 ' ' Not entirely Clay everybody. ' ' And then in jus 
 tification of her treatment of the brother, between 
 whom and herself there was genuine affection, Mrs. 
 Campbell explained: 
 
 "There isn't a better-hearted man nor an abler one 
 in the State than Jack Brookfield, but I had my 
 daughter to consider. There were two nights under 
 our last city government when nothing but the in 
 fluence of this Frank Hardmuth " at the mention 
 of the name she dropped her voice and glanced cau 
 tiously toward the dining-room, whence Hardmuth's 
 harsh laughter could be heard issuing "nothing but 
 his influence kept the police from coming into this 
 house and arresting everybody think of it!" 
 
 "Dreadful!" 
 
 "Now, that's something, Helen, that I wouldn't 
 tell a soul but you Viola doesn't know it; but Jack's 
 card-playing came between you and him years ago, 
 and so you may know it you may even have some 
 influence with Jack." 
 
 " I ? " Helen sighed and smiled pathetically. ' ' Oh 
 no." 
 
 "Yes," Alice answered, firmly, "this supper to-night 
 53
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 was Jack's idea for you the box at the opera for 
 you." 
 
 "Why, he didn't even sit with us." 
 
 "Also for you. Jack Brookfield is a more notable 
 character in Louisville to-day than he was twenty- 
 two years ago. His company would have made you 
 the subject of unpleasant comment. That's why he 
 left us alone in the box." 
 
 "Isn't it a pity a terrible pity," Helen mused, 
 slowly. 
 
 "A terrible pity," Mrs. Campbell echoed. 
 
 Further confidences between them were prevented 
 by the entrance of the men from the dining-room. 
 
 "I tell the gentlemen we've left the ladies to them 
 selves long enough, Mrs. Campbell," Hardmuth said, 
 in a prosecutor's rasping voice slightly stimulated. 
 
 "Quite long enough, Mr. Hardmuth." 
 
 "Where's the young lady Jack's niece?" inquired 
 Denning, frankly, looking about for the more at 
 tractive metal. 
 
 "In the billiard-room I believe," Helen answered. 
 
 "Oh," said Denning, in undisguised disappointment, 
 "Jack's been telling us what a great girl she is." 
 
 "Some of us knew that without being told," Hard 
 muth boasted, from a group near the fireplace. 
 
 "And she's wonderfully like you," Denning con 
 tinued, laboriously, resolved to bring up his average 
 by a compliment well turned "wonderfully like you. " 
 
 "You compliment me," Helen said, smiling. 
 
 "Are you under the impression you're speaking to 
 Viola's mother?" said Jack, taking Denning by the 
 arm. 
 
 54
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Ain't I?" 
 
 "This lady is Mrs. Whipple." And Jack, leaving 
 the young millionaire in his embarrassment, turned 
 to Hardmuth and Ellinger. 
 
 "Oh, Clay's mother?" Denning inquired, cau 
 tiously. Helen nodded. "Well, your boy," he per 
 sisted, determined upon some appropriate recogni 
 tion of the relationship "your boy, Mrs. Whipple, 
 plays in the hardest luck of all the people I ever sat 
 next to." 
 
 Jack checked any further disclosure by quickly re 
 turning to Denning. 
 
 "You depreciate yourself, Tom; there's no hard 
 kick in merely sitting next to you." 
 
 Helen heard Jack growling in an undertone of re 
 buke to Denning. 
 
 "I meant unlucky at billiards," Denning defended 
 himself, in hopeless audibility. "They're all right, 
 ain't they?" 
 
 As he left Jack and moved toward the ladies in ex 
 onerated self-satisfaction, he said to Mrs. Campbell : 
 
 "I can see now that your daughter resembles 
 you." 
 
 "I think Clay and I should be going," Helen sug 
 gested to Mrs. Campbell. 
 
 The surroundings, so agreeable a few moments 
 before, had grown suddenly distasteful. Denning's 
 dulness and Hardmuth's aggressive coarseness were 
 doubly offensive when she regarded them as associ 
 ate factors in her boy's degradation. She caught a 
 reflection of her own thought in Mrs. Campbell's 
 troubled countenance, and a quick pity for the woman 
 
 55
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 so unfortunately situated tempered the severity of 
 her tone and attitude. 
 
 Jack had drawn his watch and was expostulating: 
 "It's only a little after twelve, and no one ever goes 
 to sleep in this house before two." 
 
 Helen caught his glance, and again in its telegraphy 
 she read his understanding of the contretemps and 
 his assurance that the real Brookfield was far above 
 the mental squalor of the association. Mrs. Camp 
 bell took Helen's hand in silent furtherance of Jack's 
 invitation. 
 
 "Shall we join them?" Jack said to Helen, referring 
 to the couple in the billiard-room. 
 
 "I'd like it." 
 
 The party moved to the door with the exception of 
 Hardmuth, who bit the end of a fresh cigar and 
 said: 
 
 "Jack! just a minute." 
 
 Brookfield excused himself ; Ellinger took his place 
 at Helen's side, and the party passed into the hall 
 way, from which Denning's voice drawled in diminu 
 endo: 
 
 "No, Kansas City is my home, but I don't live 
 there."
 
 V 
 
 OROOKFIELD was not altogether unprepared 
 D for the interview Hardmuth demanded of him, 
 though uncertain as to the extent of its disclosure. 
 Hardmuth's attentions to Viola, both in the box at the 
 theatre when Jack had watched them through the 
 opera-glasses, and again at the supper-table, had fore 
 warned Viola's uncle. Hardmuth flattered himself 
 that he too had a fair understanding of Brookfield's 
 attitude; this he attributed to what he was pleased 
 to call his knowledge of human nature. Hardmuth's 
 profession, aside from a natural shrewdness, had made 
 him quick to measure any degree of friendliness or 
 hostility on the part of another man. In addition 
 to this there was between himself and Brookfield an 
 intimacy of many years. To go no deeper into the 
 intuitive sense of either man, the long study each 
 had made of the other across the card -table had 
 equipped them individually with a special prevision. 
 
 Left together, Hardmuth began what promised to 
 be a serious colloquy by the nonchalant confession: 
 
 "Took advantage of your hospitality, old man, to 
 night." 
 
 "Advantage?" queried Brookfield. 
 
 "Yes; I've been talking to your niece." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 57
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Proposed to her." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Yes," repeated Hardmuth. 
 
 Brookfield's face took on that inscrutable look with 
 which he was accustomed to regard his hand just 
 after the deal or draw. The slight pause was broken 
 by the entrance of the young darky. 
 
 "A gentleman called you on the telephone, suh." 
 
 ' ' Who ?" Brookfield consulted his watch. 
 
 "Judge De Brennus name sounds like," Jo an 
 swered; "holdin' the wire, suh." 
 
 "I don't know any Judge De Brennus." 
 
 "Says you don't know him, suh; but he's got to 
 leave town in the mornin', and he'd be very much 
 obliged if you'd see him to-night." 
 
 "Did you tell him we were dark to-night?" 
 
 "He don't want no game. It's about a picture a 
 picture you've got." 
 
 "A picture?" 
 
 "He wants to look at it." 
 
 Brookfield turned interrogatively to Hardmuth, and 
 that gentleman, anxious to defer any interruption of 
 the business in hand, said: 
 
 "It's a blind." 
 
 By this phrase from the criminal vocabulary Hard 
 muth conveyed that the caller, under the pretence of 
 examining a picture, was really seeking incriminating 
 evidence against the proprietor of the establishment. 
 Brookfield smiled as he thought of the character of 
 the party at present within his walls and the conse 
 quent disappointment of any investigator. 
 
 "Well, this is a good night to work a blind 
 58
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 on me; tell the gentleman I'll be up for half an 
 hour." 
 
 Jo disappeared. 
 
 "So you proposed to Viola?" said Brookfield, tak 
 ing up the conference at the point of interruption. 
 
 "Yes; how do you feel about that?" 
 
 Brookfield hesitated. To have answered truthfully 
 would have introduced an uncalled-for bitterness. 
 
 "Well, you know the story of the barkeeper asking 
 the owner, 'Is Grady good for a drink?' 'Has he had 
 it?' 'He has.' 'He is.'" 
 
 "Just that way, eh?" Hardmuth plainly was not 
 complimented. 
 
 Jack smiled and nodded. 
 
 "Well," said Hardmuth, applying the illustration, 
 "she hasn't answered me." 
 
 Brookfield grunted tentatively. Hardmuth con 
 tinued : 
 
 "And under those conditions, how's Grady 's credit 
 with you?" 
 
 "Well, Frank, on any ordinary proposition you're 
 aces with me you know that." 
 
 "But for the girl?" 
 
 "It's different." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "She's only nineteen, you know." 
 
 "My sister married at eighteen." 
 
 "I mean you're thirty-five." Brookfield made a 
 show of deliberation. 
 
 "That's not an unusual difference." 
 
 "Not an impossible difference, but I think unusual 
 and rather unadvisable." 
 s 59
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "That's what you think ?" The resistance in Hard- 
 muth's tone was provokingly near aggression. 
 
 "Yes that's what I think," Brookfield said, with 
 equal positiveness. 
 
 "But suppose the lady is willing to give that han 
 dicap what then?" 
 
 Brookfield shrugged his shoulders. "Let's cross 
 that bridge when we come to it." 
 
 "You mean you'd still drag a little?" 
 
 "Do you think Viola likes you well enough to say 
 yes?" Jack asked, still unwilling to speak finally. 
 
 "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it." 
 
 "We have come to that one, Frank; there's another 
 man in the running, and I think she. likes him." 
 
 "You mean young Whipple ? Well, he took second 
 money in the box-party to-night, and at the supper- 
 table, too. I'll agree to take care of him if you're 
 with me." 
 
 "I think he's your biggest opposition," Brookfield 
 answered, divertingly. 
 
 "But you," persisted Hardmuth "can I count on 
 you in the show-down?" 
 
 Brookfield paused, searching his mind for some 
 phrase that would still evade the issue. 
 
 "If Viola doesn't care enough for you, Frank, to 
 accept you in spite of anything or everything, I 
 shouldn't try to influence her in your favor." 
 
 Hardmuth's brow knitted, intent upon his purpose. 
 His question, however, was interrupted by the return 
 of Ellinger, who sauntered in with an exaggerated 
 expression of weariness, complaining: 
 
 "I think a bum game of billiards is about as thin 
 60
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 an entertainment for the outsiders as 'Who's got the 
 button?'" 
 
 Brookfield smiled in welcome. He hoped that the 
 interview with Hardmuth might be checked and 
 further conference postponed until he had an oppor 
 tunity of talking the matter over with his niece. But 
 Hardmuth's mood was not so complacent. He took 
 the old sport by the elbow with an air of authority 
 and led him toward the dining-room. 
 
 "I've got a little business, Lew, with Jack for a 
 minute." 
 
 The direction in which the exile was propelled had 
 as much to do with Ellinger's tractability as had its 
 declared purpose or authority. He answered, amiably : 
 
 "Well, I can sit in by the bottle, can't I ?" 
 
 Assuming Brookfield 's consent to that agreeable pas 
 time, Lew left them, still railing at the mild form of 
 the entertainment he had just abandoned. 
 
 "Such awful stage waits while they chalk their 
 cues!" 
 
 Hardmuth turned to Brookfield, persisting: "But 
 you wouldn't try to influence her against me?" 
 
 Once more Jack spoke slowly, looking for the 
 easiest way to say a disagreeable thing if it might not 
 be completely avoided. 
 
 "She's about the closest thing to me there is 
 that niece of mine." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I'd protect her happiness to the limit of my 
 ability." 
 
 "But if she likes me, or should come to like me 
 enough, her happiness would be with me, wouldn't it ?" 
 
 61
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "She might think so." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "But she'd be mistaken; it would be a mistake, 
 old chap." 
 
 "I know twenty men twelve to fifteen years older 
 than their wives all happy wives happy, too." 
 
 "It isn't just that." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "She's a fine girl that niece of mine not a blem 
 ish. I want to see her get the best the very best 
 in family, position, character." 
 
 "Anything against the Hardmuths?" the attorney 
 demanded, taking the first feature in Brookfield's 
 enumeration. Brookfield shook his head. 
 
 "I'm assistant district attorney here," Hardmuth 
 continued, addressing his mind to the question of 
 position, "and next trip I'll be the district attorney." 
 
 "I said character." 
 
 "Character?" echoed Hardmuth, not quite so 
 stoutly as he had made his other assertions. 
 
 "Yes," Jack answered. 
 
 "You mean there's anything against my reputa 
 tion?" 
 
 "No; I mean character pure and simple I mean 
 the moral side of you." 
 
 "Well, by God!" exclaimed Hardmuth, in a whis 
 per of feigned astonishment. 
 
 "You see, I'm keeping the girl in mind all the time." 
 
 "My morals!" 
 
 "Let's say your moral fibre." 
 
 "Well, for richness this beats anything I've struck. 
 Jack Brookfield talking to me about my moral fibre!" 
 
 62
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 This was the method of the attorney who endeav 
 ors to weaken testimony by attack. A shrewder man 
 might have seen the menace in the eye of Brookfield 
 despite the quiet tone with which he responded: 
 
 "You asked for it." 
 
 "Yes I did, and now I'm going to ask for the show 
 down. What do you mean by it?" 
 
 The desire as well as the latitude for finesse had 
 passed for Brookfield. 
 
 "I mean, as long as you've called attention to the 
 richness of Jack Brookfield talking to you on the 
 subject, that Jack Brookfield is a professional gam 
 bler people get from Jack Brookfield just what he 
 promises a square deal. Do you admit that?" 
 
 "I admit that. Go on." 
 
 "You're the assistant prosecuting attorney of the 
 city of Louisville. The people don't get from you 
 just what you promised, not by a jugful." 
 
 "I'm the assistant prosecuting attorney, remember 
 I promised to assist in prosecution, not to institute 
 it." 
 
 "I expect technical defence, old man, but this was 
 to be a show-down." 
 
 "Let's have it; I ask for particulars." 
 
 "Here's one. You play here in my house, and you 
 know it's against the law that you've sworn to sup 
 port." 
 
 "I'll support the law whenever it's invoked. In 
 dict me and I'll plead guilty." 
 
 "This evasion is what I mean by lack of moral 
 fibre." 
 
 Hardmuth was a sufficiently keen observer to see 
 
 63
 
 the justice of Brookfield's remark. That it was 
 merited only made it rankle the more. He was vain 
 enough also to imagine himself Brookfield's superior 
 in intellect, and he found it impossible to refrain from 
 allusion to that belief. 
 
 "Perhaps we're a little shy somewhere on mental 
 fibre," he insinuated. 
 
 "You make me say it, do you, Frank? Your duty 
 is at least to keep secret the information of your office ; 
 contrary to that duty, you've betrayed the secrets 
 of your office to warn me and other men of this city 
 when their game was in danger from the police." 
 
 "You throw that up to me?" 
 
 "Throw nothing you asked for it." 
 
 "I stand by my friends." 
 
 There was criticism as well as defiance in Hard- 
 muth's answer. 
 
 "Exactly," Brookfield responded, "and you've 
 taken an oath to stand by the people." 
 
 "Do you know any sure politician that doesn't 
 stand by his friends?" 
 
 "Not one." 
 
 "Well, there." And again Hardmuth felt himself 
 vindicated. 
 
 "But I don't know any sure politician that I'd tell 
 my niece to marry." 
 
 "That's a little too fine-haired for me," the attorney 
 sneered. 
 
 "I think it is." 
 
 Brookfield's expression of his opinion had given it 
 value to his own ear, and he felt a composure in it 
 that completely relieved him of his anger of the mo- 
 
 64
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ment before. This repose was, if possible, more gall 
 ing to Hardmuth than the criticism had been. Argu 
 ment exhausted, he resorted to the final test accord 
 ing to his experience. 
 
 "I'll bet you a thousand dollars I'm the next prose 
 cuting attorney for this city." 
 
 "I'll take half of that if you can place it," Brook- 
 field answered, readily adopting Hardmuth 's point of 
 view. "I'll bet even money you're anything in poli 
 tics that you go after for the next ten years; but 
 I'll give odds that the time will come when you're 
 'way up there, full of honor and reputation and 
 pride, and somebody will drop to you, Frank; then 
 flosh!" Brookfield turned his hand, graphically 
 dramatizing the flop of a landed fish on a dock 
 "you for the down-and-outs." 
 
 "Rot!" 
 
 "It's the same in every game in the world the 
 crook either gets too gay or gets too slow, or both, 
 and the 'come on' sees him make the pass. I've 
 been pall-bearer for three of the slickest men that 
 ever shuffled a deck in Kentucky just a little too 
 slick, that's all and they've always got it when it 
 was hardest for the family." 
 
 "So that will be my finish, will it?" 
 
 "Sure!" 
 
 Hardmuth puffed his cigar a moment, mentally 
 contemplating the prospect, and then as his mind 
 came back to the proposition in hand, and to the con 
 siderations against him, he asked, angrily: 
 
 "You like the moral fibre of this young Whipple 
 kid?" 
 
 65
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Weak as dish-water." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "I'll do him at any game you name." 
 
 "He's only a boy you should." 
 
 "I'll do him at this game," Hardmuth persisted. 
 
 "What game?" 
 
 "The girl. I thought I could count on you because 
 well, for the very tips that you hold against me; 
 but you're only her uncle, old man, after all." 
 
 "That's all," Brookfield said, smiling; but there 
 was more threat than admission in tone and eye. 
 
 "And if she says yes " 
 
 "Frank!" Jack's temper was plainly rising; he 
 paused in an evident effort to control it. When he 
 spoke again Hardmuth noticed that there was more 
 menace in his manner. "Some day the truth will 
 come out as to who murdered a governor-elect of 
 this State." 
 
 "Is there any doubt about that ?" Hardmuth non 
 chalantly shook the ashes from his cigar. 
 
 "Isn't there?" came in that deadly monotone of 
 Brookfield's. 
 
 "The man that fired the shot is in jail." Hard- 
 muth's tone carried more fervor than a simple reply 
 would seem to have demanded. 
 
 Brookfield's voice kept on its even, threatening 
 level, as though the pause had been for effect rather 
 than for Hardmuth's answer. 
 
 "I don't want my niece mixed up in it." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 Hardmuth was now facing the gambler, livid and 
 66
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 trembling, his eyes narrowed to little gleaming slits. 
 There was no weakness or wavering in the man who 
 faced him. Brookfield had said the thing that he had 
 promised himself a hundred times he would never 
 say, the thing that, even now reluctantly said to pro 
 tect his niece, it would never, he felt, be necessary to 
 repeat. The situation was in Hardmuth's parlance 
 a veritable show-down. One question more, one 
 more answer, and there would be blows or a cring 
 ing criminal and his master. 
 
 Helen entered the room. The visual duel between 
 the men was broken. Hardmuth turned to Helen 
 with an inquiry concerning the young people, and 
 when informed that they were still at the billiard- 
 table, mumbled something about "looking them 
 over," and left the room. 
 
 "Won't you come, too?" Helen asked Jack, with a 
 seriousness that showed her coming into the room, 
 had not been casual. 
 
 "I'd rather stay here with you." 
 
 "That gentleman that called after supper " 
 
 "Mr. Denning?" Jack prompted. 
 
 "Yes. He seems to take pleasure in annoying 
 Clay." 
 
 "Yes; I know that side of Denning." 
 
 Brookfield turned toward the dining-room and 
 called Ellinger. When he entered, Jack asked him to 
 go into the billiard-room and look after Denning. 
 
 "What's he doing?" Lew inquired of Helen. 
 
 "Commenting humorously, and hiding the chalk, 
 and so on," she replied. 
 
 "Lit up a little, I suppose," Lew suggested to Jack. 
 67
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Jack nodded, and, motioning Ellinger on his way, 
 said, "Just ride herd on him." 
 
 Helen wavered in her impulse to follow Ellinger to 
 the billiard-room, and finally yielded to Jack as he 
 indicated a chair. 
 
 "He doesn't seem much of a gentleman this Mr. 
 Denning," she said. 
 
 "He wasn't expected to-night." 
 
 "Is he one of your clients?" There was more 
 sarcasm than consideration in Helen's choice of the 
 word. Jack acknowledged it with a smile. 
 
 "One of my clients." 
 
 "Clay meets him here?" 
 
 "Yes has met him here." 
 
 "I didn't think you'd do that, Jack, with my boy." 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 "Gamble." 
 
 "It's no gamble with your boy, Helen," Jack said, 
 lightly, "it's a sure thing; he hasn't won a dollar." 
 
 "I'm glad you're able to smile over it." 
 
 "Perhaps it would seem more humorous to you if 
 he'd won?" 
 
 "If he plays I'd rather see him win, of course." 
 
 "That put me in the business winning," Jack 
 said, seriously. "The thing that makes every gam 
 bler stick to it is winning occasionally. I've never 
 let your boy get up from the table a dollar to the 
 good, and because he was your boy." 
 
 "Why let him play at all?" 
 
 "He'll play somewhere until he gets sick of it or 
 marries," Jack answered, wearily. 
 
 "Will marriage cure it?" 
 68
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It would have cured me, but you didn't see it 
 that way." 
 
 "You made your choice." 
 
 "I asked you to trust me; you wanted some iron 
 clad pledge well, my dear Helen, that wasn't the 
 best way to handle a fellow of spirit." 
 
 "So you chose the better way?" 
 
 "No choice I stood pat, that's all." 
 
 "And wasted your life." 
 
 "That depends on how you look at it. You mar 
 ried a doctor who wore himself out in the Philadel 
 phia hospitals. I've had three meals a day, and this 
 place and a pretty fat farm and a stable with some 
 good blood in it." 
 
 "And every one of them, Jack, is a monument to 
 the worst side of you," Helen interrupted. The 
 criticism was robbed of its implied severity by her 
 manner, as she walked toward him more in pity than 
 in rebuke. Jack took both her hands in his as he 
 answered : 
 
 "Prejudice, my dear Helen, prejudice. You might 
 say that if I'd earned these things in some respectable 
 combination that starved out all its little competi 
 tors." Brookfield held the prevalent political disap 
 proval of monopolies. "But I've simply furnished 
 a fairly expensive entertainment to eminent citizens 
 looking for rest." 
 
 Helen shook her head at Jack's indulgent descrip 
 tion of his business. 
 
 "I know all the arguments of your profession 
 Jack, and I don't pretend to answer them any more 
 than I answer the arguments of reckless women, who 
 
 69
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 claim that they are more commendable than their 
 sisters who make loveless marriages." 
 
 "I'm not flattered by the implied comparison 
 still" 
 
 "I only feel sure," Helen went on, "that anything 
 which the majority of good people condemn is wrong." 
 She turned from him with an air of finality. 
 
 "I'm sorry," Jack said. 
 
 "I'd be glad if you meant that but you're not 
 sorry." 
 
 "I am sorry I'm sorry not to have public respect, 
 as long as you think it's valuable." 
 
 "I amuse you, don't I?" 
 
 Jack followed her across the room and took the 
 chair at the end of the table opposite to that upon 
 which she seated herself. He passed his hand wearily 
 over his eyes. 
 
 "Not a little bit," he said; "but you make me as 
 blue as the devil, if that's any satisfaction." 
 
 "I'd be glad to make you as blue as the devil, 
 Jack," Helen said, resolutely, "if it meant discontent 
 with what you are doing if it could make you do 
 better." 
 
 "I'm a pretty old leopard to get nervous about my 
 spots." 
 
 "Why are you blue?" 
 
 "You." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "I had hoped that twenty years of charitable deeds 
 had made you also charitable in your judgment." 
 
 "I hope they have." 
 
 "Don't seem to ease up on my specialty." 
 70
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "You called your conduct wild oats twenty years 
 ago." 
 
 "It was; but I found such an excellent market for 
 my wild oats that I had to stay in that branch of the 
 grain business. Besides, it has been partly your 
 fault, you know." 
 
 "Mine?" 
 
 Jack nodded. "Your throwing me over for my 
 wild oats put it up to me to prove that they were a 
 better thing than you thought." 
 
 "Well, having demonstrated that ?" Helen waited. 
 
 Jack, feeling that his financial prosperity and the* 
 evidences of physical comfort surrounding them was 
 a sufficient answer, extended his hands complacently, 
 and with a self-satisfied air added, lazily: 
 
 "Here we are." 
 
 "Yes," assented Helen, her tone showing that she 
 had more regard for the sentimental aspect of the 
 case, "here we are." 
 
 "Back in the old town," Jack added, bringing the 
 consideration to a neutral ground. Then, as he 
 leaned forward on the table in the playful manner of 
 the old Jack, the manner that had been so irresistibly 
 potent in their younger days: "Don't you think it 
 would be a rather pretty finish, Helen, if, despite all 
 my leopard's spots, and despite that that Philadel 
 phia episode of yours 
 
 "You call twenty years of marriage episodic?" 
 Helen broke in, half playfully. 
 
 "I call any departure from the main story episodic." 
 
 There was a quiet authority in Jack's tone that 
 compelled Helen to put the leading question:
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "And the main story is ?" 
 
 "You and I." 
 
 "Oh " Helen had been balancing the heavy 
 paper-cutter in seesaw fashion on the edge of the 
 table. The positiveness of Jack's answer had occu 
 pied her sole attention for the moment, and the paper- 
 cutter fell to the floor with a noticeable thud. Jack 
 picked it up. On one side, near the handle, the cut 
 ter was faintly engraved, "Jack, from Helen." It 
 was one of the few gifts she had made him in her 
 girlhood days. Jack recalled the afternoon that they 
 had leaned above the stationer's showcase in which 
 it had been displayed; his admiration for the imple 
 ment ; Helen's amusement at some playful remark of 
 his about the owner of such a paper-cutter being able 
 not only to gain with it, but also to enforce a liter 
 ary opinion; he remembered the somewhat astonish 
 ing price the dealer had put upon it a price geomet 
 ric in its relation to the cost of smaller paper-cutters 
 and his delight in its possession on the anniver 
 sary Helen had chosen to send it to him. Of all the 
 articles in this curiously fitted library of his, this was 
 his favorite. There was a natural streak of super 
 stition in Brookfield, a superstition which his busi 
 ness had considerably cultivated; he attributed but 
 few of the things that happened in his day to accident. 
 That Helen should drop this piece of ivory which for 
 so many years had been a memento of her, and in con 
 sequence should bring him to her side, Brookfield re 
 garded as significant. Lifting the ivory knife from 
 the floor, he covered both her hands, still resting on 
 the edge of the table, with his disengaged hand, and 
 
 72
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 holding the paper-cutter as he would have held a 
 sword, he said, in a tone of dreamy persuasion and of 
 unmistakable resolution : 
 
 "Wouldn't it be a pretty finish, Helen, if you took 
 my hand and I could walk right up to the camera 
 and say, 'I told you so." 
 
 Helen made no answer during the pause that fol 
 lowed, and with an air of possession Jack added: 
 
 "You know I always felt that you were coming 
 back." 
 
 "Oh, did you?" 
 
 "Had a candle burning in that window every 
 night." 
 
 "You're sure it wasn't a red light?" 
 
 "Dear Helen, have some poetry in your composi 
 tion. Literally a red light, of course." Jack accept 
 ed the allusion to his business. "But the real flame 
 was here" he put his hand on his breast "a flick 
 ering hope that somewhere somehow somewhen I 
 should be at rest with the proud Helen that loved and 
 rode away." 
 
 Jack's assumption of playfulness could not disguise 
 his sincerity of feeling. He had moved behind the 
 table, and was smiling down upon the beautiful wom 
 an who sat at the other end of it. 
 
 Helen was not smiling. There was something in 
 the steadiness of her glance that Jack felt was meant 
 for accusation. She answered with conviction in her 
 even voice: 
 
 ' ' I believe you . ' ' 
 
 "Of course you believe me." Brookfield attempt 
 ed a counterpointing lightness. 
 
 73
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "You had a way, Jack," Helen continued, reminis- 
 cently "a way when you were a boy at college of 
 making me write to you." 
 
 "Had I?" 
 
 "You know you had. At night about this hour 
 I'd find it impossible to sleep until I'd got up and 
 written to you and two days later I'd get from you 
 a letter that had crossed mine on the road. I don't 
 believe the word 'telepathy' had been coined then, 
 but I guessed something of the force, and all these 
 years I've felt it nagging nagging." 
 
 "Nagging?" 
 
 "Yes I could keep you out of my waking hours, 
 out of my thought; but when I surrendered myself 
 to sleep the call would come and I think it was 
 rather cowardly of you, really." 
 
 Jack was too well read in the current and semi- 
 scientific comment of the day to pretend any doubt 
 of the sinister influence that Helen's speech implied. 
 His strain of superstition also made him readily 
 tolerant of the imputation, but the knowledge of 
 his own intent made him ascribe her view entirely 
 to what he was pleased to call a feminine sentimen 
 tality. Helen's earnestness, therefore, produced in 
 him only amusement. His reply was playful. 
 
 "I plead guilty to having thought of you, Helen 
 lots and it was generally when I was alone late 
 my my clients gone and it was in this room, 
 
 " ' Whose lights are fled, 
 Whose garlands dead, 
 And all save him departed.' " 
 
 74
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 And with the quotation of the old song they had 
 frequently sung together, Jack put his hand theatri 
 cally upon his breast. 
 
 Helen, overlooking his inhospitable reception of 
 her psychical suggestion, accepted Jack's mood and 
 met his airy flight. 
 
 "And as you say here we are." 
 
 "Well, what of my offer?" Jack promptly chal 
 lenged. "Shall we say to the world 'we told you 
 so'? What of my picturesque finish?" 
 
 He leaned over her chair and held the hand that 
 lay upon the table. Helen thrilled to the double ap 
 peal of the vibrant voice and physical nearness of her 
 old lover it required all her resolution to answer, in 
 measured tones: 
 
 "You know my ideas you've known them twenty- 
 two years." 
 
 "No modifications?" Jack pleaded. 
 
 "None." 
 
 Brookfield sighed. He moved from behind Helen's 
 chair to a point within her vision, and pointing to the 
 floor above, in the rooms of which most of the para 
 phernalia of the establishment was arranged, he said: 
 
 "I'm willing to sell the tables and well, I don't 
 think I could get interested in this bridge game that 
 the real good people play would you object to a 
 gentleman's game of draw now and then?" 
 
 "You called it a gentleman's game in those days." 
 
 "No leeway at all?" 
 
 "No compromise, Jack no." 
 
 Brookfield passed his hand wearily across his eyes 
 as he had done earlier in the interview. His keen 
 6 75
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 sense of humor saw something rather droll in this 
 attitude of himself and Helen her implied condi 
 tions, his apparent consideration and with a quick 
 deference that had always been part of his charm 
 where women were concerned he said: 
 
 " I trust you won't consider my seeming hesitation 
 uncomplimentary. 
 
 "Not unprecedented, at least." And Helen smiled 
 in recollection of a smilar conclusion some two-and- 
 twenty years before. 
 
 "You see, it opens up a new line of thought," Jack 
 said, reflectively. He pressed his fingers over his 
 eyes. 
 
 "And you have a headache, too," Helen recollected, 
 with sudden compunction. " It isn't kind, I'm sure." 
 She stood up and took Jack's hand in hers. 
 
 The hall-boy, Jo, came in to announce that the gen 
 tleman who had telephoned about the picture was 
 below. Jack asked Helen not to go away, as the 
 interview would be short, and he added : 
 
 "I think we can settle this question to-night, you 
 and I." 
 
 " Please don't put me in the light of waiting for an 
 answer," she said, with gentle raillery. 
 
 " Dear Helen, we're both past that, aren't we ? If 
 I could only be sure to prove worthy of you! I'm the 
 one that's waiting for an answer from my own weak 
 character and rotten irresolution." 
 
 It was all the confession that Helen could have 
 wished. Jack lifted the hand that he still held and 
 kissed it gently. He kept her hand in his until they 
 reached the doorway, and still, as she was going, held 
 
 76
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 it so fast as to arrest her progress. But she would 
 not turn her face to him, and after a moment's firm 
 pressure Jack released his hold, and she quickly dis 
 appeared. The interview, light as it had been at 
 times, playful as Jack had tried to make it, had 
 nevertheless stirred both natures as deeply as two 
 people of their maturity and experience could be 
 stirred. They had reconnoitred and established the 
 most momentous question that could come into the 
 life of either. 
 
 Brookfield turned solemnly back to the table, to 
 the empty chair, to the paper-cutter that somehow 
 seemed to have taken a part in their renewed rela 
 tionship. He smiled as he thought of it, handling the 
 ivory knife fondly Helen's long-ago gift! The hour, 
 the very atmosphere of the room, seemed potentially 
 vibrant ; he was moved to an unwonted degree as he 
 muttered to himself: 
 
 "They say cards make a fellow superstitious well, 
 I guess they do."
 
 VI 
 
 A") Jo ushered the gentleman into the room, Brook- 
 field recognized him at once as the stranger 
 whose gaze had so affected him in the theatre. He 
 saw a man whose age was in the neighborhood of 
 seventy, slight and graceful in figure, and noticeably 
 erect for a man so old. The face was poetic, yet not 
 lacking in strength; the expression one of indulgent 
 patience. Jo announced the visitor: 
 
 "Judge De Brennus." 
 
 Brookfield repeated the name with a declination of 
 welcome. There was a half twinkle of amusement 
 between them as the visitor, after a glance at the 
 negro boy, corrected his announcement "Justice 
 Prentice." 
 
 " Oh, Justice Prentice!" said Jack, in immediate rec 
 ognition of the name; " good evening." Jo left them. 
 
 "You are Mr. Brookfield?" 
 
 "Yes," Jack assured his visitor. 
 
 " I shouldn't have attempted so late a call but that 
 a friend pointed you out to-night at the opera, Mr. 
 Brookfield, and said that your habit was well " 
 
 "Not to retire immediately?" Jack suggested. 
 
 The Justice nodded with a smile. 
 
 "Will you be seated?" Brookfield indicated an 
 easy-chair. 
 
 78
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 " I'm only passing through the city," said the Jus 
 tice. " I called to see a Corot that I understand you 
 bought from Knoedler." 
 
 "That's it." And Brookfield pointed to the canvas 
 which earlier in the evening Clay had been telling 
 Viola was his inspiration for the decoration of the 
 room. 
 
 "Thank you you don't object to my looking at 
 it?" 
 
 "Not at all." Brookfield touched a button and 
 turned on the battery of lights above the picture. 
 The old Justice regarded the canvas affectionately 
 for a moment, and then said: 
 
 "That's it. I thought at one time that I would 
 buy this picture." 
 
 "You know it, then?" 
 
 "Yes. Are you particularly attached to it, Mr. 
 Brookfield?" 
 
 "I think not irrevocably." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 Brookfield, divining that his caller was a possible 
 purchaser, took from the table a pad of paper and 
 busied himself with a slight computation covering 
 the cost of the Corot, the interest on the invest 
 ment, and the like. He had seated himself where the 
 table interposed between his hands and the gaze of 
 his visitor, and he thought himself unobserved. At 
 any rate, the Justice, with his eyes still upon the can 
 vas, had no chance to see him, yet after a moment's 
 interval he inquired: 
 
 " Do I understand that is what you paid for it, or 
 what you intend to ask me for it?" 
 
 79
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Sixty-five hundred." 
 
 Brookfield's glance involuntarily sought the figures 
 on the paper. 
 
 "I didn't speak the price, did I?" 
 
 "Didn't you? Oh" the Justice paused "I 
 couldn't pay that amount." 
 
 "That's its price, however," Brookfield said, struck 
 by the remarkable coincidence between the sum 
 named and the one he had written on the pad. 
 
 "I regret I didn't buy it from the dealer when I 
 had my chance." The Justice looked about the 
 room. "I couldn't have given it so beautiful a set 
 ting, Mr. Brookfield, nor such kindred, but it would 
 not have been friendless." 
 
 The speaker crossed to the fireplace, regarding a 
 second canvas that was hanging there. 
 
 "That's a handsome marine." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Pretty idea I read recently in an essay of Dr. 
 van Dyke's his pictures were for him windows by 
 which he looked out from his study into the world." 
 
 There was no answer or comment from Brookfield, 
 and the Justice added, interrogatively: 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Quite so." Brookfield roused from his reverie. 
 
 The Justice left off contemplating the picture 
 above the fireplace, and moved to another hanging 
 over the doorway that led to the dining-room. His 
 back was now fully turned toward Brookfield, who 
 looked at him with an increasing interest. The Jus 
 tice, glancing over his shoulder, said : 
 
 80
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "M Washington." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "My home is Washington I thought you asked 
 me." 
 
 "No, I didn't," answered Brookfield, a trifle petu 
 lantly. 
 
 "I beg your pardon." And again the Justice fell 
 to looking at the picture. 
 
 Jack rose from his chair, every nerve alert and 
 every sense taut as he said to himself, under his 
 breath : 
 
 "But I'm damned if I wasn't just going to ask 
 him!" 
 
 "And the phases of your world, Mr. Brookfield, 
 have been very prettily multiplied." The visitor was 
 looking about the room with ordinary ease, and ap 
 parently unaware that he had startled his host. 
 
 "Thank you," Brookfield said, answering the state 
 ment. " May I offer you a cigar ?" 
 
 "Thank you, I won't smoke." 
 
 "Or a glass of wine?" 
 
 "Nothing. I will return to the hotel, first asking 
 you again to excuse my untimely call." The old 
 gentleman retraced his steps across the room to a 
 position in front of the Corot, taking his hat from the 
 table as he did so, preparatory to going. 
 
 "I wish you'd sit down awhile." Brookfield had 
 a desire to know more of the man. The Justice, un 
 mindful of the interruption, continued: 
 
 " But I didn't know until I missed it from Knoed- 
 ler's how large a part of my world my dream-world 
 I had been looking at through that frame." 
 
 81
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Well, if it's a sentimental matter, Mr. Justice, we 
 might talk it over." 
 
 "I mustn't submit the sentimental side of it, Mr. 
 Brookfield, and where I have so so intruded." 
 
 "That's the big side of anything for me the senti 
 mental." 
 
 "I'm sure of it and I mustn't take advantage of 
 that knowledge." 
 
 "You're sure of it?" Brookfield asked, uneasily. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is that my reputation?" 
 
 "I don't know your reputation." 
 
 "Then how are you sure of it?" 
 
 "Oh, I see you," said the Justice, looking at him 
 steadily, "and well, we have met." 
 
 For the second time that night Brookfield was con 
 scious of that pair of eyes ; for the second time in his 
 life, as far as he could remember, that creepy feeling 
 of unreasonable fear tingled over his shoulders and 
 through the roots of his hair. Brookfield felt, as the 
 Justice looked at him, that not only his life but his 
 mind and his very soul were open books to that pene 
 trating gaze. There was in it nothing of menace, yet 
 it required all of Brookfield's fortitude to meet it. 
 He would have liked to speak to say some defensive 
 thing, but he uttered only an impotent and half- 
 audible "Oh!" 
 
 The spell, if spell it were, was lifted by a pleasant 
 bow from the Justice and an equally pleasant "Good 
 night." The old gentleman had reached the doorway, 
 and was in the hall before Brookfield pulled himself 
 together sufficiently to say: 
 
 82
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "One moment." The Justice turned inquiringly. 
 "You said your address was Washington?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You thought at the time I was about to ask you 
 that question?" 
 
 "I thought you had asked it," the Justice answered, 
 quite honestly and easily, at the same time retracing 
 his steps into the room. 
 
 "And you thought a moment before I had said 
 sixty-five hundred for the picture?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you often pick answers that way?" Brookfield 
 asked, affecting a lightness which he by no means 
 felt. 
 
 "Well, I think we all do at times." 
 
 "We all do?" 
 
 "Yes; but we speak the answers only as we get 
 older and less attentive, and mistake a person's 
 thought for his spoken word." 
 
 "A person's thought?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you mean that you know what I think?" 
 And again, although this time there was nothing 
 penetrating in the old man's look, Brookfield felt a 
 premonition of that creepy feeling in the shoulders. 
 It was dissipated by the human quality of Prentice's 
 reply. 
 
 "I hadn't meant to claim any monopoly of that 
 power. It's my opinion that every one reads the 
 thoughts of others that is, some of the thoughts." 
 
 "Everyone?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 83
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "That I do?" 
 
 ' ' I should say you more generally than the majority 
 of men." 
 
 There was a moment's fraternity in the look that 
 the Justice now fixed upon him a fraternity that 
 robbed the penetration of all discomfiture. 
 
 "There was a woman said something like that to 
 me not ten minutes ago." 
 
 "A woman would be very apt to be conscious 
 of it." 
 
 Jack looked at him, not altogether without be 
 wilderment. 
 
 "You really believe that that stuff?" 
 
 "Oh yes; and I'm not a pioneer in the belief. The 
 men who declare the stuff most stoutly are scientists 
 who have given it most attention." 
 
 "How do they prove it?" 
 
 "They don't prove it that is, not universally. 
 Each man must do that for himself, Mr. Brookfield." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 The Justice smiled patiently. "Well, I'll tell you 
 all I know of it." 
 
 Brookfield had taken Helen's chair at the end of 
 the table was leaning forward on the table in his 
 eagerness. The Justice again put down his hat, and 
 with the manner of a man who felt that he was per 
 forming a duty to an inquirer, and with an entire 
 absence of display, he said, in a voice the melody and 
 modulation of which Brookfield was beginning to 
 notice pleasurably: 
 
 "Every thought is active that is, born of a desire 
 and travels from us, or it is born of the desire of 
 
 84
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 some one else and comes to us. We send them out 
 or we take them in that is all." 
 
 "How do we know which we are doing?" 
 
 "If we are idle and empty-headed our brains are 
 the play-rooms for the thoughts of others frequently 
 rather bad. If we are active, whether benevolently 
 or malevolently, our brains are work-shops power 
 houses. I was passively regarding the picture. Your 
 active idea of the price registered, that is all; so did 
 your wish to know where I was from." 
 
 Brookfield moved earnestly and uneasily in his 
 chair. He started ineffectually to say something, 
 and then, out of the rush of questions that clamored 
 for answer, he blurted: 
 
 "You say 'our brains.' Do you still include mine ?" 
 
 "Yes." " 
 
 "You said mine more than the majority of men's?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Why hasn't this whatever it is effect happened 
 to me, then?" 
 
 "It has." 
 
 "Why didn't I know it?" 
 
 ' ' Vanity perhaps. ' ' 
 
 "Vanity?" 
 
 "Yes often some friend has broached some inde 
 pendent subject, and you have said, 'I was just going 
 to speak of that myself. " : 
 
 "Very often; but" 
 
 "Believing the idea was your own, your vanity shut 
 out the probably proper solution that it was his." 
 
 "Well, how then does a man tell which of his 
 thoughts are his own?" 
 
 85
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It's difficult most of his idle ones are not. 
 When we drift we are with the current. To go 
 against it, or make even an eddy of our own, we must 
 swim most everything less than that is helpless." 
 
 "Well, I haven't been exactly helpless," Jack said, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No one would call you so, Mr. Brookfield you 
 have a strong psychic a strong hypnotic power." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "This business?" Brookfield mimicked the stereo 
 typed gesture of the mesmerizer. 
 
 "That business," answered Prentice, smiling at the 
 word, "for the beginner." 
 
 "You mean that I could hypnotize anybody?" 
 
 "Many persons yes; but I wouldn't do it if I were 
 vou." And the Justice took his hat to go. 
 
 "Why not?" ' 
 
 "Grave responsibility." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 The Justice inhaled deeply, as if to embark upon 
 an extended explanation ; then Brookfield saw a wave 
 of fatigue and amusement cross his face as the extent 
 of his proposed undertaking evidently appalled him. 
 Perceiving that his host was aware of this, the Justice 
 answered, with a smile distinctly paternal: 
 
 "I'll send you a book about it if I may." 
 
 "Instructions?" 
 
 "And cautions yes. If you tire of your Corot" 
 the Justice turned again to the door and the picture 
 hanging beside it ' ' I should be glad to hear from you." 
 
 "Why can't I save postage by just thinking an- 
 86
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 other price?" bantered Brookfield, following the 
 Justice out of the library. 
 
 Prentice met him in his own spirit as he replied: 
 "The laws on contracts haven't yet recognized that 
 form of tender." 
 
 Brookfield had said good-night to his visitor, and 
 was lingering, thoughtfully, in the hallway when 
 the sound of raised voices reached his ears. He 
 hurried back to the library, wondering, as he heard 
 Denning's tipsy laugh, what mischief he was up to 
 now. 
 
 Despite Ellinger's efforts to control Denning the 
 latter had continued to annoy Clay and Viola in their 
 very amateur attempts at billiards, and several trips 
 across the hall to the sideboard in the dining-room 
 had not tended to improve his pleasantries. From 
 mere playfulness his intrusions had taken on the char 
 acter of opposition; this opposition had developed 
 into ugliness, and finally into aggression. In all of 
 these phases his attack had been secretly aggravated 
 by Hardmuth, who saw with delight the inexperienced 
 boy, under the strain and irritation, appearing in less 
 and less favorable light before Viola. 
 
 Once when Denning had confronted Clay at the 
 rail of the billiard-table, both Ellinger and Viola, who 
 with Hardmuth constituted the remaining company 
 in the billiard-room, had noticed the boy suddenly 
 quail and turn away from his tormentor. As Denning 
 again approached him they heard Clay suddenly call 
 out in evident terror: 
 
 "Don't come near me with that scarf-pin!" 
 87
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 The eccentricity of Clay's aversion called Ellinger's 
 attention to the pin which the young millionaire was 
 wearing an ordinary stick-pin fitted with the semi 
 precious stone commonly known as a cat's-eye. 
 
 Denning, in his intoxication, was hardly to be 
 blamed for not understanding the character of Clay's 
 objection to his scarf-pin; Ellinger himself didn't un 
 derstand it; but the boy's excitement when the pin 
 came within the range of his vision was only too 
 evident. 
 
 As Denning followed him Clay threw his cue on 
 the table and started to leave the room. Denning, 
 in a return of playfulness, caught the boy by the 
 shoulder and turned him so that they faced each 
 other. 
 
 "What's the matter with my scarf-pin?" 
 
 "I don't like it," Clay answered, as he covered his 
 eyes with his hand. 
 
 "Well, I don't like your face," the young rowdy 
 retorted, annoyed by the criticism. 
 
 Viola, alarmed at the occurrence which had now 
 taken on almost the character of a physical conflict, 
 went quickly from the room in search of her mother 
 and Mrs. Whipple. The boy, breaking from his tor 
 mentor, ran across the hallway and through the din 
 ing-room as Denning, with a view to intercepting him, 
 lurched into the library from which Justice Prentice 
 and Brookfield had just gone. 
 
 "J'ever see anything's funny as that? He don't 
 like my scarf-pin. Well, I don't like it, but my valet 
 put it on me, and what's the difference?" 
 
 Hardmuth, who had missed the explanation for the 
 88
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 explosive conduct of the boy, followed Ellinger and 
 Denning. 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 "My scarf-pin," answered Denning. 
 
 "Scarf-pin?" 
 
 "Yes; he pushed me away from him, and I said, 
 'What's the matter?' He said, 'I don't like your 
 scarf - pin '; 'and I said, 'Don't? I don't like your 
 face.'" 
 
 "That was very impolite, with a lady there," El- 
 linger said. 
 
 "Why should he criticise Tom's scarf-pin?" Hard- 
 muth asked, combatively. 
 
 "Exactly," continued Denning. "I said, T can 
 change my scarf-pin, but I don't like your face." 
 
 At this moment Clay entered from the dining-room 
 and moved toward the hallway. 
 
 "Where's Jack?" he paused to ask Ellinger. 
 
 "Saying good-night to some old gentleman below." 
 
 Denning grabbed the boy by the lapel of the coat 
 as he was going, and repeated, in a brow -beating 
 manner: 
 
 "And I don't like your face." 
 
 "That's all right, Mr. Denning." Clay tried to 
 pass him. "Excuse me." 
 
 "Excuse me," echoed Denning, as he held on to the 
 boy, and at the same time, with his disengaged hand, 
 drew the scarf-pin from his tie, "what's the matter 
 with that scarf-pin?" 
 
 "It's a cat's-eye," answered the boy, tremblingly, 
 "and I don't like them, that's all I don't like to 
 look at them." 
 
 89
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Let him alone, Tom," Ellinger expostulated. 
 
 "Damned if he ain't scared of it!" laughed Denning, 
 waving the pin in annoying proximity to the boy's 
 face. 
 
 "Don't do that!" Clay screamed, in tones that were 
 audible through the hallways. 
 
 "It won't bite you, will it?" Hardmuth sneered, in 
 manifest contempt for the boy's weakness. 
 
 "It will bite him," Denning answered, pushing the 
 pin against Clay's cheek and barking in imitation of 
 a dog. 
 
 "Don't, I tell you don't!" screamed the boy. 
 
 "Bow-wow-wow!" persisted the drunkard. 
 
 The lad made a frantic effort to free himself from 
 Denning, and with both hands succeeded in pushing 
 him a step or two away. Denning, cheered on by 
 the applause and laughter of Hardmuth, as well as 
 by the mere physical excitement of the contest, 
 lurched toward the boy again, waving the objection 
 able pin before him. Clay turned to escape the 
 table was in his way. As his hands fell upon it one 
 of them mechanically clutched the large ivory paper- 
 cutter lying on the table. Without intent to injure, 
 with no motive but to escape, with nothing but the 
 instinctive resistance of a hunted animal, the boy 
 struck in the direction of his pursuer. The heavy 
 tusk of greater weight than an equal billet of green 
 oak caught Denning just above the temple. A 
 second and a third time Clay struck with the unrea 
 soning impulse of panic and defence. The drunkard 
 swayed a moment under the blows, and fell, an inert 
 mass, at the feet of Ellinger just as Brookfield, having 
 
 90
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 dismissed his visitor and alarmed by the cries, came 
 hurriedly into the room. Brookfield saw the falling 
 figure; he saw the frightened and livid boy, scarcely 
 understanding what he had done and yet aghast at 
 what he comprehended. Jack called to him. 
 
 "He pushed that horrible cat's-eye right against my 
 face!" the boy cried, with trembling lips. 
 
 "What cat's-eye?" 
 
 "Only playing with him," Hardmuth answered, 
 with the bitterness of the prosecutor, as he stooped 
 and picked up the jewel "a scarf-pin." 
 
 Ellinger was kneeling over Denning, and tried to 
 lift his head. He now turned, and, in laconic phrase 
 ology most familiar to his hearers, said: 
 
 "He's out, Jack." 
 
 Brookfield also knelt beside him, critically examin 
 ing the stricken man. 
 
 "I didn't mean to hurt him," Clay lamented "real 
 ly I didn't mean that!" 
 
 "The hell you didn't!" Hardmuth accused, taking 
 the paper-cutter from the boy. "Why, you could kill 
 a bull with that ivory tusk!" 
 
 Jo and Harvey, the darky servants, had entered 
 the room. Mrs. Campbell, having been on an upper 
 floor, had not heard the cries of the boy, but had 
 decided to leave the house upon the report which 
 Viola had brought from the billiard-room. She had 
 now come to announce her departure. 
 
 "Wait a minute," her brother commanded. Then 
 speaking to the negroes, he said, "Help Mr. El- 
 linger put him on the window-seat give him some 
 air." 
 
 7 91
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Brookfield pointed into the dining-room. Ellinger 
 and the darkies carried Denning from the library. 
 
 ''What is it?" Mrs. Campbell inquired, startled at 
 the scene before her. 
 
 "An accident," Jack answered. "Keep Helen and 
 Viola out of these rooms." 
 
 "Hadn't we better go? Clay is with us." 
 
 "I can't go just now, Mrs. Campbell," Clay said, 
 following the figure of Denning as it was carried from 
 the room. "I hope it isn't serious--! didn't mean to 
 hurt him really." 
 
 "A quarrel?" Mrs. Campbell queried, looking from 
 her brother to Hardmuth. 
 
 There was a momentary pause as the men's eyes 
 followed the direction in which Denning had been 
 carried out. Ellinger now returned to Brookfield with 
 a single gesture of hopeless import. 
 
 "A murder!" 1, .ruth answered. 
 
 His reply was o^ eard by Mrs. Whipple and Viola 
 as they entered' tho . oom. Before they co^ld inquire 
 its meaning Clay, wild-eyed and terror-st .en, ame 
 running from the dining-room, calling as he saw h:'s 
 mother: 
 
 "I've killed him, mother! I've killed him!" 
 
 "Killed him! whom?" 
 
 "Tom Denning," Hardmuth made reply, in per 
 sistent accusation. 
 
 "But I never meant it!" Clay cried, pathetically. 
 "I just struck him, Jack struck wild!" 
 
 "With this," Hardmuth added, malevolently, hold 
 ing the ivory tusk bludgeon fashion. 
 
 "With that Oh, my boy!" And Helen took 
 92
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 the trembling lad in her arms. Tears were in Viola's 
 eyes. 
 
 "That will do," said Brookfield, taking command 
 of the situation; "that will do, everybody." 
 
 The agitated group became for the moment obedi 
 ent and attentive. 
 
 " Lew, telephone Dr. Monroe it's an emergency case, 
 and to come in his dressing-gown and slippers." 
 Ellinger left the room. "Alice, I know you're not 
 afraid of a sick man or that sort of thing. Help 
 me and Jo." Brookfield put his arm about his sister 
 preparatory to leading her to where Denning's pros 
 trate form lay, turned, and, addressing his niece, said, 
 "Viola, you take Mrs. Whipple up-stairs and wait 
 there." 
 
 Hardmuth, craftily assuming a part in the general 
 atmosphere of action, started for the hall, saying as 
 he did so: 
 
 " I'll notify the police." 
 
 The words struck the women like a blow. Helen's 
 heart-broken moan was lost in the imperative " Stop!" 
 that rang out from Brookfield ; then, interposing him 
 self between Hardmuth and the doorway, he added, 
 in a tone of unmistakable menace: 
 
 "You'll stay just where you are!" 
 
 "Are you trying to hide this thing?" Hardmuth 
 challenged. 
 
 "The doctor will tell us exactly what this thing 
 is," Jack answered, with undiminished positiveness, 
 "and then the boy will have the credit himself of 
 notifying the police."
 
 VII 
 
 nPHE testimony of eye-witnesses, all anxious to be 
 1 honest, is difficult to reconcile. The difficulty 
 increases with time, even though the anxiety to be 
 honest persists. Impressions grow dim, vivid mental 
 reflections get mistaken for actual happenings, prej 
 udice colors, discolors, or bleaches recollection ; things 
 heard are remembered as things seen; inaccuracies 
 repeated take on the authority of fact all this in 
 the testimony of eye-witnesses. Add to that the 
 emphasis and exaggeration of the fairest - minded 
 hearsay, and to this the distortion of intentional 
 misrepresentation, and we have the matrix in which 
 the public estimate of an occurrence is cast. 
 
 A murder in the gambling-house of Brookfield, al 
 though mainly dependent upon causes utterly un 
 connected with the business of the establishment, 
 was soon accepted as a natural consequence of that 
 business, as an unanswerable argument for the sup 
 pression of it, and also as an added reason for the 
 ostracism of the proprietor. 
 
 The game at Brookfield's closed. 
 
 The public attributed this to fear. The real cause 
 was Brookfield's sensitiveness and sympathy. An ir 
 reparable calamity had befallen the woman he loved. 
 Her son was to be tried for his life, because of an 
 
 94
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 offence growing out of a situation for which he felt 
 himself measurably responsible. Viola, the niece 
 whom Brookfield loved with a tenderness exceeding 
 that of many a father, was suffering an affliction al 
 most equal to that of Helen herself. 
 
 During the first weeks of Clay's imprisonment, the 
 time covered by the notoriety and comment, by the 
 application for bail and its refusal, by the coroner's 
 inquiry and the indictment, Hardmuth had ap 
 proached Brookfield with a covert proposal to lessen 
 the rigor of the prosecution if given assurance that 
 Viola would accept him as a suitor. The arrange 
 ment had been suggested with an indirection of which 
 Hardmuth was a master, but this approach, skilful 
 as it was, precipitated a collision between him and 
 Brookfield that stopped all sentimental pretence on 
 Hardmuth's side and all hope in the mind of Brook- 
 field for any consideration at the hands of the prose 
 cution. 
 
 Brookfield's energies and resources were at once 
 conserved and applied to the task of liberating Clay 
 from the consequences of Denning's death. 
 
 The best legal talent was retained. The para 
 phernalia of the gambling - house was sold. Mrs. 
 Campbell and Viola were induced to give up their 
 own apartments and again make their home with 
 Brookfield. Helen, whose need to be near her son 
 made a protracted stay in Louisville probable, was 
 persuaded to join them. Their common affliction 
 united them in one intimate and sympathetic family 
 group. 
 
 The long delay necessary to the preparation of the 
 
 95
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 case, both by the prosecution and by the defence, was 
 filled with weary days of corroding anxiety. 
 
 All that money and affection could provide in the 
 prison conditions as they then existed in Louisville was 
 procured for Clay. The old Jefferson Street jail was 
 not a sanitary structure. That part of the building 
 in which Clay was lodged was lighted and ventilated 
 only by a skylight above the court, around which ran 
 three tiers of cells, each tier opening onto an iron 
 gallery or balcony, on which the prisoners took their 
 daily exercise. The associates of the boy, during this 
 waiting period of incarceration, were two or three 
 men like himself, under indictment for capital offences, 
 and a varying number from thirty to fifty charged 
 with felonies and lesser crimes. 
 
 Through the influence of Brookfield and the sym 
 pathy of the jailer, Clay was permitted to have a lit 
 tle cell to himself. Permission was also given to fur 
 nish the cell with such simple necessities as the boy 
 had been accustomed to have, and to send in meals 
 superior to the usual prison fare from an adjacent 
 restaurant. 
 
 The most liberal construction in Clay's case was 
 also put upon the rules that governed visits to the 
 prisoners by their friends. At some time during every 
 day Viola and his mother called on him. There were 
 encouraging visits from the attorneys, and once or 
 twice each week Brookfield dropped in to cheer him. 
 
 Brookfield's time, however, in the main, was de 
 voted to securing such expert testimony as would 
 strengthen the contention of the defence, which the 
 lawyers had decided should rest upon the inherited 
 
 96
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 physical aversion that Clay had for the cat's-eye. To 
 establish the existence of these idiosyncrasies, Brook- 
 field read all the books upon the subject of which the 
 conversation of the experts gave him any hint. 
 
 In the related field of psychology, which this read 
 ing opened up to him, Brookfield found that a fasci 
 nating advance had been made since the date of the 
 text-books he had perfunctorily read in his college 
 days. 
 
 Naturally superstitious as he was, with an imag 
 ination more than normally active, Brookfield found 
 himself standing on the threshold of a world un 
 known in the presence of a power, a knowledge of 
 which he believed would explain all that had been 
 mysterious and baleful in his life. It seemed to him 
 as though behind the screen of material appearance, 
 and behind the web of tangible events, there was a 
 force at work with an intent as definite as the purpose 
 of an artistic weaver an intent to combine appar 
 ently unrelated threads into figure, pattern, and de 
 sign a force throwing its willing, unconscious, 
 frightened, reluctant, or rebellious shuttles through 
 the warp of time, weaving with events its own robe, 
 through the form and texture and decoration of which 
 the spirit of things might be faintly apprehended. In 
 the hands of these forces it seemed to Brookfield that 
 he himself and all his friends and acquaintances were 
 but puppets. 
 
 No event, no material thing, seemed accident or 
 accidental. 
 
 The visit of the opera company that had brought 
 Hardmuth and Clay into relation and into opposition 
 
 97
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 over Viola was a thread in the web of fate; his 
 own boyish desire for the paper-cutter two- and - 
 twenty years before was an immediate antecedent to 
 its readiness as a weapon when Clay was impelled to 
 strike; Helen's accidental dropping of it from the 
 table to the floor when Brookfield was proposing to 
 her was a notable intimation, by fate, that there 
 would be this interruption to the courtship. This 
 and a thousand other facts and incidents in his ca 
 reer seemed so closely interknit and articulated that 
 Brookfield felt himself helpless in a universe of steel. 
 
 He was in this condition of introspection and ap 
 prehension when he found one night, after a busy and 
 nerve-racking day of interviews, a somewhat sub 
 stantial packet on his table bearing the post-mark 
 "Washington." Brookfield opened it. The packet 
 contained a note from Justice Prentice and a book on 
 psychic phenomena, which the jurist on his visit had 
 promised to send him and now recommended to his 
 attention. 
 
 Brookfield read the book in one night. It was a 
 scientific treatise almost devoid of technical terms, 
 and addressed to the understanding of the layman. 
 It set forth in simple, convincing, and logical pro 
 cession a working hypothesis which gave him his first 
 tangible hold on the question that haunted him. 
 
 Granting the difference between various and per 
 haps equally valuable definitions of the two sides of 
 the human mind, the author of the book, for the sake 
 of clearness in the mental picture he wished his reader 
 to make, assumed that each individual was the pos 
 sessor of two minds. The one of these two minds the 
 
 98
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 more in evidence and more consciously possessed, the 
 mind of our daily voluntary conduct and business, the 
 mind that holds communication with other minds 
 through the means of the five senses, he called the ob 
 jective mind. 
 
 This objective mind, with its five avenues of in 
 formation, approach, and communication, was the 
 temporary custodian, employer, teacher, and provider 
 for a second mind more enduring and more richly 
 stored than the objective mind ; more reliable also, in 
 that it had charge of all the automatic action already 
 possessed by the individual organism, and constantly 
 took under its care all conduct that became habitual 
 or automatic ; more powerful than the objective mind, 
 in that it never slept, never forgot, never tired; wiser 
 than the objective mind, in that it had access to every 
 other mind and to the knowledge of every other mind 
 on the same subjective plane as itself. 
 
 Brookfield had one mental quality that distinguish 
 ed him in a degree from most of his fellows. His 
 power of visualization was greater than theirs. Such 
 ideas as were capable of graphic representation he saw 
 in pictures ; ideas that might not be so represented he 
 saw in diagrams. 
 
 It is probable that this ability to form a clear picture 
 in the mind is the one that, according to the degree 
 of its possession, determines the degree of a man's 
 success. It is probable that the strongest individual 
 will in the world would accomplish but little if its 
 owner could form no conception of what he desired. 
 It is probable, on the other hand, that a thing desired 
 can be obtained by a man of very ordinary will power 
 
 99
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 if a clear picture of that thing can be persistently 
 held in the mind. 
 
 "Where there's a will there's a way" is true only 
 when the will is guided by the light of a defined 
 desire. 
 
 Brookfield had a will. He had also the ability of 
 visualization. Along his chosen line Brookfield was 
 a success. 
 
 As he read the illuminating hypothesis of the author 
 whose book Prentice had sent him, his vivid concep 
 tion outshone the description in the volume. He saw 
 before him a picture of the sea. Over the deep bosom 
 of the water were billows, waves, and individual crests 
 separating into drops of blown spray. To his mind's 
 eye these drops and crests and waves and billows 
 symbolized the objective minds of individuals, fami 
 lies, communities, and peoples sprung from an ocean 
 of infinite mind of which each was part and with 
 which each and all had possible communication. 
 
 Brookfield's own mind by constitution, by habit, 
 and by a certain fallowness was most fertile soil for 
 an invited analogy of this kind. The pictured idea 
 took possession of him. 
 
 He sat alone in his library. His imagination made 
 the silence vocal with the hum of subtle and mys 
 terious power. On every side of him wherever his 
 gaze fell it encountered some object acquired in re 
 sponse to an apparently vagrant whim, yet now all of 
 these became intelligently eloquent and collaborative 
 of the message he was just apprehending. Brook- 
 field's habitual mental poise was for the moment too 
 disturbed to enable him to see that the tonal agree- 
 
 100
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ment between the objects was easily referable to the 
 one taste and temperament that had dictated their 
 choice and collection. When a lessening agitation 
 did permit the approach of this idea he saw in that 
 explanation itself only a more profound plan and pre- 
 arrangement. 
 
 Over the mantel of this room, as over the mantel in 
 the dining-room, was a marine painting built into the 
 wood-work a tossing sea with crests of spray. 
 
 Brookfield was startled, not so much to note that 
 the painted picture was the counterpart of the mental 
 picture he had conjured, as he was at his failure to 
 associate the painting and its mental reflection at the 
 first moment. This very dissociation gave the canvas 
 mystic importance and ambassadorial authority. 
 
 The room was lighted by the hooded electrolier 
 under which Brookfield had been reading. Its shade 
 threw a half-gloom over walls and ceiling, a half- 
 gloom made unstable and wavering by the flicker of 
 the open fire. From the big clock in the hall a soft 
 contralto bell struck two. 
 
 Beneath the painting on the mantel was a bronze 
 cast of the Antommarchi death-mask of Napoleon ; the 
 inert touch of the lower lip against the uncovered 
 teeth seemed trembling into the pronunciation of 
 fate. On the other side of the room a sculptured 
 Sphinx crouched on the book-shelves ; Brookfield had 
 brought it as a souvenir from the Nile. It had been 
 in its present place some fifteen years without ever 
 once living until now. 
 
 Over the door to the hallway was a marble bust of 
 Pallas, with the raven perched upon it; on another 
 
 101
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 bookcase rested the Donatello head of Dante; a re 
 production of the well-known mask of Beethoven, 
 the mystic of melody, hung near by. Brookfield look 
 ed in turn upon these several objects. The profun 
 dity of the men whose masks and portraits were about 
 him ; the solemn riddle of the Sphinx ; the placidity of 
 the goddess of wisdom beneath the bird of doubt; 
 the circling, embracing, symbolizing infinitude of the 
 sea each spoke to him of the restful deep in which all 
 reposed; the infinite, all-wise Mind, watchful, com 
 municating, benign; the one force for which his mind 
 had been groping, the force behind the texture of 
 material appearance. 
 
 The objects in the room were related in significance, 
 not because his conscious taste had chosen them, but 
 because a power behind him wiser than himself had 
 done so a power to which he also bore expressive 
 relation. 
 
 Most men awaken so that is, through the recogni 
 tion of the significance of some important symbol, 
 whatever that symbol be : a thing or an event, a ban 
 ner or a bereavement. 
 
 The time was coming for Brookfield, as for all men, 
 when the vibrating wire in the electric lamp over his 
 table, or the embossed swirl on the cover of Khayyam, 
 would be as eloquent as the tragic face of the dead 
 emperor; when nothing in the universe, animate or 
 inanimate, would again be mute. But for the present 
 the objects about him were particular and accredited 
 messengers. 
 
 The truth which Brookfield felt he had grasped, 
 the truth reconnoitred by his recent psychological 
 
 102
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 reading, the truth cogently expressed in the book 
 from Justice Prentice, the truth insinuated by the 
 objects of art with which he had surrounded him 
 self was, as he interpreted it, the essential oneness of 
 all life, the essentially same significance of all things. 
 By its light the years of what he had been pleased to 
 call intellectual improvement and growth in culture 
 seemed years of arrested development, even years of 
 retrogression nothing was of value that had not 
 made for spiritual unfoldment ; and as he reviewed his 
 life Brookfield felt that he had hitherto walked in 
 Cimmerian night. 
 
 For this new thought, this new conception of life 
 that possessed him, the house seemed small and 
 stifling. Brookfield took his hat and coat and went 
 noiselessly into the street, went from the sculptured, 
 the painted, and printed symbols in his room into the 
 chill and tonic air, under the denuded moving branches 
 of the trees through whose tracery and the etheric 
 blue the stars were shining in glittering kinship. 
 
 As these bright luminaries paled in the winter dawn, 
 Brookfield, physically weary but mentally and spirit 
 ually calmed, found himself pacing the sidewalk near 
 the jail wherein Clay was confined with so many 
 others for whom, in their error and misfortune, Brook- 
 field had in his heart a fresh compassion.
 
 VIII 
 
 law is terrible in its earnestness. However 
 1 insignificant its various human instruments may 
 be, there is a compelling majesty about the spirit of 
 the law itself when once that spirit is invoked. The 
 detached juryman, unlettered, uninformed, simple 
 and primitive in his mental processes, less than un 
 important in his social usefulness or position, associ 
 ated with eleven of his kind, forms a body ominous 
 and imposing, when endowed with the legal and awe- 
 inspiring function of verdict. 
 
 The criminal court-room in Louisville compares 
 favorably in almost every respect with the cham 
 bers of its kind in America. It is sufficiently am 
 ple, adequately equipped, well ventilated. Few court 
 rooms in America, however, surpass it in cheerlessness. 
 Facing the judge's dais, six bleak windows and a 
 transom look upon the stucco wall of the old court 
 house; to the right, four equally cheerless windows 
 look on to the dead walls of the adjoining shops; 
 to the left, two still more cheerless windows look upon 
 an open court of dingy and painted brick; on the 
 wall behind the judge, and to either side of him, 
 similar windows look out upon the manufactur 
 ing establishments that flank this new chamber in 
 the annex. Dingy canvases in dingier gilt frames 
 
 104
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 bear the almost stencilled faces of uncertain politi 
 cians. 
 
 The floor space of the room is divided by iron rail 
 ings into three compartments one end reserved for 
 white spectators, one end for negroes, while the trial 
 itself, with its actors, composed of prisoner, contend 
 ing counsel, judge, jurymen, and distinguished visi 
 tors, occupies the middle division. Behind the jury 
 men, whose backs are to the pen of the white spec 
 tators, a second rail some four feet from that of the 
 enclosure establishes a moral vacuum through which 
 no sinister material influence may touch one of the 
 insulated twelve. 
 
 The trial of the case of The People vs. Whipple was 
 a cause celbbre. The youth of the prisoner and his 
 respectable connections, his education, the unpro 
 voked character of his crime as the public understood 
 it $ the almost deliberate killing of a friend who had 
 only ridiculed him, and quite playfully at that, con 
 cerning his lack of skill at billiards; the promised 
 revelations of the interior of a notorious gambling- 
 house, always a place of curiosity to the newspaper 
 reader, together with other factors, combined to 
 stimulate an interest in the proceedings. 
 
 After the first day or two the distinction of the 
 prisoner's friends who were with him in the court 
 room, and especially the reported beauty of his sweet 
 heart, increased the general wish to be present. 
 
 Nor was there anything deterring in the reputation 
 of counsel. The victim had been the son of one of 
 Missouri's wealthiest packers. According to the 
 newspapers, the attitude of this man toward the ac- 
 
 105
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 cused was one of great vengefulness. His money 
 had been freely offered to assist the attorneys for the 
 State in retaining associate counsel ; it had also been 
 used to secure the services of physicians of national 
 reputation who, it was understood, would testify in 
 rebuttal of certain other eminent specialists secured 
 by the defence. 
 
 Although the case for the people was ostensibly 
 in the hands of the prosecuting attorney, its direct 
 ing genius was that officer's assistant, Mr. Hardmuth. 
 
 The associated counsel for the defence were mis 
 led by the prosecution's apparent indifference to the 
 character of the jurymen during their selection. 
 These legal gentlemen even began to hope that some 
 covert leniency was to be indulged in by the repre 
 sentatives of the State. 
 
 It was Brookfield who, sitting with the family dur 
 ing those two or three preliminary days, and occa 
 sionally consulting with the lawyers for the defence, 
 had discovered what ultimately proved to be the 
 guiding intention in the prosecution's selection of the 
 jury. This discovery may have been due to Brook- 
 field's keen knowledge of human nature, surpassing, 
 perhaps, that of the counsel; it may have been due 
 to an especial knowledge of the character of Hard 
 muth; or it may have been due, as Brookfield him 
 self began to suspect, to some subtle telepathic rela 
 tion between the prosecutor and himself. But what 
 ever the means of the discovery, the fact developed 
 that Hardmuth, by persistency of intention and by the 
 failure of an opposing preparation on the part of the 
 defence, had secured a jury singularly dull and no- 
 
 106
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ticeably phlegmatic a jury to whom an appeal upon 
 any ground of alleged nervous excitability would be 
 made in vain. The appreciation of this fact, when 
 Brookfield had called it to their attention, caused more 
 consternation in the ranks of the defence's counsel than 
 any other element in the case. Eliminate the con 
 sideration due to an inherited nervous idiosyncrasy, 
 and the defence was left without a single extenuating 
 plea. 
 
 The outline of the State's case removed all doubt 
 as to their method. According to the calm, judicial, 
 regretful utterances of the State's attorney, the twelve 
 men in the double row of tilting swivel-chairs were 
 called together to hear the story of a deliberate and 
 spiteful killing a killing of one friend by another, 
 who had been frequently a beneficiary of the man he 
 had made his victim, who had been frequently the 
 antagonist of that man in games of chance, for which 
 games the two had often met in the house where the 
 tragedy occurred. The prisoner had been a uniform 
 loser, had lost sums considerable to himself, but of 
 no importance to his victim who had won them. This 
 regularity of loss and envy of the prisoner for the 
 better fortune, both at cards and in life, which the 
 dead man had enjoyed had built up in the heart of 
 the prisoner a hate of his companion as deep and as 
 enduring as it had been gradual in growth; it was a 
 hate none the less terrible because its object was un 
 aware of its existence. The poor boy who had been 
 killed on the night in question had indulged only in 
 such simple raillery as one friend directs against an 
 other inept in any game of skill, and especially where 
 a 107
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 there were ladies among the spectators. This rail 
 lery was of a character that would have been accepted 
 as evidence of friendliness by any man in the jury- 
 box it would have called for nothing more severe 
 than a retort in kind, or some romping push with the 
 shoulder, some slap on the back, or other rough play 
 fulness. The man now dead, the former friend of the 
 prisoner, had been slightly intoxicated that would 
 be shown by the State and would be admitted by 
 the defence. He was in a condition in which even 
 had his aggression not been friendly, even had his 
 wish been to inflict bodily injury upon the prisoner, 
 he could not have been dangerous to the prisoner 
 himself, who had not been drinking on that evening, 
 who was, as the jury might see, a young man of 
 athletic build, and who had been at the time sur 
 rounded by several persons more friendly to him 
 self than to his victim. The prosecution would show 
 that the prisoner had been in no peril whatever, 
 that he could not have acted in self-defence, that he 
 could not have thought he was so acting, that the 
 motive had been hate, that the intent had been mur 
 der, that the weapon had been lethal and deadly. 
 
 When the taking of testimony was begun the bare 
 facts of the tragedy were simply outlined. That at 
 one time in his annoyance Denning had waved a 
 scarf-pin in front of the prisoner the prosecution itself 
 established. The scarf-pin, being a small object, was 
 passed to the jury so that each member of that body 
 might see it for himself. The cat's-eye was handled 
 with bovine indifference by Hardmuth's twelve citi 
 zens. Their first impression of it was potent in its 
 
 108
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 results, because received before any suggestion of its 
 peculiar quality, if it possessed a peculiar quality, 
 was made to their healthy and ordinary minds. 
 
 The paper-cutter, another exhibit for the State, 
 was passed to the jury. This was done, however, 
 after it had been shown that the paper-cutter had 
 lain upon the library table in its accustomed place, 
 familiar to the prisoner, to which, at one stage in the 
 so-called quarrel, he had directly crossed. It was 
 shown that when the prisoner had taken the paper- 
 cutter from the table he had taken it by the lighter 
 end and not by the handle, and had by this very 
 selection turned it into the powerful weapon which 
 it was. The twelve citizens in the jury-box were in 
 the main not uninformed in the choice of weapons, 
 and were not unappreciative of the value of this one 
 as they passed it along their lines. 
 
 Lew Ellinger had been impatient to reach the wit 
 ness-stand. He had been delighted that he was 
 among the witnesses summoned by the prosecution; 
 he had felt that half a dozen words from him, given 
 with the fervor that he would lend them, would im 
 mediately clear the boy in the mind of any unpreju 
 diced listener. The State's attorney, a much younger 
 man than Ellinger, treated him with a curtness 
 one would almost say with a rigor to which Ellinger 
 as a Southern gentleman was not accustomed. The 
 judge, a much older man than the State's attorney, 
 and one with whom Ellinger had frequently fore 
 gathered in convivial association, sustained the con 
 duct of the attorney with an inflexibility difficult to 
 understand in a friend. It was only when the lawyer 
 
 109
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 for the defence took Ellinger in hand for his cross- 
 examination, a process which Lew had understood 
 was the epitome of impertinence and uncharitable- 
 ness, that Lew received anything like the urbanity 
 and gentility which had always made him cultivate 
 gentlemanly associates. 
 
 It was during this cross-examination that Lew 
 found his opportunity to utter many of the polished 
 phrases which he had rehearsed during the prepara 
 tory months. Some of the best and most impassioned 
 of these were almost spoiled by the interruption of the 
 State's attorney. However much Ellinger had ad 
 vanced the case of the defence, he certainly knew 
 when he left the witness-box that no doubt existed 
 of his loyalty to the prisoner. 
 
 As Lew minutely reviewed his testimony during 
 that day and the next, he had sudden gleams in which 
 he distinguished places where it might have been im 
 proved. He remembered several interruptions by 
 the State's attorney which might have been crush- 
 ingly rebuked if he had had the composure to con 
 struct the replies which now came to him in his calmer 
 moments. But with it all there was only one line 
 in his entire testimony, dragged from him by the 
 prosecution in its redirect examination, which he 
 regretted. In a moment of excitability, and perhaps 
 personal vanity, he had said that a cat's-eye pushed 
 into his own face in the manner in which the cat's-eye 
 in evidence had been pushed into Clay's would not 
 have excited him to any frenzy. 
 
 Hardmuth, another witness for the State, with a 
 clarity most impressive to the jurymen, and with 
 
 no
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 the authority of a State's officer, an authority which 
 every touch in the surroundings tended to augment, 
 testified to the bare and uncolored facts of the tragedy. 
 He had seen the commencement of the quarrel; he 
 had seen the prisoner leave the room ; he had seen the 
 victim also leave the room and go into a second room 
 in which the prisoner was not ; he had seen the prisoner 
 re-enter this second room and rejoin the victim; he 
 had seen the difference, a quarrel on one side and a 
 banter on the other, resumed; he had seen the prisoner 
 take the ivory tusk in evidence and repeatedly strike 
 his victim. 
 
 In the cross-examination of Hardmuth the defence 
 elicited only the fact that in the general chorus of 
 outcries which followed the enacting of the tragedy 
 the witness himself had characterized the deed as 
 murder, had himself secured the weapon, had started 
 to notify the police, and had been stopped in that 
 attempt by the proprietor of the house in which the 
 murder occurred. 
 
 With this the prosecution rested the first day of 
 the trial proper closed. There was little popular 
 sympathy with the prisoner, except such indirect 
 sympathy as the spectacle of his weeping mother and 
 sweetheart created. There was little belief in the 
 minds of the legal profession that a successful defence 
 could be established, and small doubt in the minds of 
 the experienced reporters of the press that a convic 
 tion would be secured. 
 
 The close of this first day of the trial was a sad one 
 for the little group composing the defence and as 
 sociated with it. The boy himself was too intelligent 
 
 in
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 to be deceived by the reassurance of his attorneys, 
 but was also too grateful for what was being done 
 in his behalf not to take kindly the well-meant efforts 
 of his attorneys at deception. There was sustaining 
 companionship in the company of his mother and of 
 Viola, but the quality of comfort that supplied the 
 nearest approach to contagious courage he got from 
 the strong and silent grip of Brookfield and through 
 his determined eye. 
 
 It was not in Helen's heart to leave her boy while 
 it was possible to be with him, and although both 
 Brookfield and the lawyers advised against it, she ac 
 companied him, with the consent of his custodians, 
 on his walk from the court-room to the jail. This 
 short journey took the party out-of-doors and through 
 the alleyway known as Congress Street. Along this 
 pavement the little procession made its way, Helen 
 walking at Clay's side, with Viola and Brookfield just 
 behind. The curious were there to note the passing 
 of the prisoner, but they were remarkably respectful 
 in the presence of the ladies, and it was character 
 istic of Kentucky manhood that even the loungers in 
 front of the hotel and the cafe removed their hats in 
 courteous silence as the party passed. 
 
 The evening was spent at Brookfield's rooms in a 
 general council of the family, the attorneys, and the 
 experts. The testimony of the day was reviewed, 
 the plan of the case for the defence gone over for the 
 hundredth time, and a programme for the coming 
 day arranged. 
 
 It was the opinion of Colonel Bailey, who led the 
 defensive forces, and the opinion concurred in by his 
 
 112
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 colleagues and Brookfield, that nothing was to be 
 gained by wearying the court or jury in combating 
 facts that the prosecution had established, with the 
 exception of the single false assumption that a hatred 
 had been built up in Clay's heart for Denning. Brook- 
 field's own testimony would show, furthermore, that 
 where one man lost and another gained, the gain and 
 loss were not necessarily reciprocal, but that the loser 
 lost to the house or its proprietor, and that the winner 
 likewise won from the house or its proprietor. The 
 principal thing to be established was the existence of 
 Clay's aversion to the cat's-eye, his inability to look 
 at the jewel and retain his self-control. The exist 
 ence of similar idiosyncrasies, of which record was pre 
 served in the medical books, was to be told by the 
 experts. The loss of self-control in one so afflicted 
 was also to be established. This line of defence fre 
 quently reiterated, this programme several times 
 rehearsed, induced a semblance of hope in Helen's 
 heart by the time the conference adjourned and she 
 retired for the night. Long after that, however, 
 Colonel Bailey, Brookfield, and Ellinger sat together 
 in the library, a gloomy trio filled with foreboding for 
 the morrow's development. 
 
 On the witness-stand next day Helen told of the 
 existence of the same inexplicable abhorrence of the 
 jewel on her own part, of one or two illnesses which, 
 when a young woman, she had undergone as the re 
 sult of looking at such a jewel, of medical treatment 
 for the susceptibility, of its partial cure. She told 
 also of the inherited loathing in her boy, of her grief 
 at the discovery of the same, of the care with which 
 
 "3
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 she had guarded him from exposure to the influence 
 of the jewel, and of his singular behavior upon the 
 several occasions when it had accidentally come to 
 his attention. 
 
 Brookfield and the attorneys saw with a rising hope 
 the effect of her story upon her listeners. Back of 
 all she said was the simple wish of a true woman to 
 earnestly tell the truth. There was no attempt at 
 effect, there was not the slightest inharmonious ex 
 pression, no touch of vehemence nothing whatever 
 but a few sad pages of family history pathetically and 
 reluctantly revealed. 
 
 Whether by his own request or as a result of his 
 chief's recognition of his ability for the task, the cross- 
 examination of Helen was intrusted to Hardmuth. 
 The witness and her friends all were prepared for an 
 exhibition of rudeness and of brutality. They were 
 disappointed. With a suavity and deference that 
 rapidly won for him the esteem of the jury, Hardmuth 
 began his interrogations. 
 
 "You were treated for this susceptibility of which 
 you have spoken, Mrs. Whipple, this remarkable and 
 inconvenient susceptibility, by a physician thoroughly 
 familiar with its existence?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "By your family physician, was it not?" 
 
 "My mother's family physician yes, sir." 
 
 "Yes, I meant your mother's family physician. I 
 believe you said that this physician had treated your 
 mother for a similar susceptibility, or idiosyncrasy, as 
 it has been called?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 114
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "You were aware of the existence of this dislike to 
 a cat's-eye jewel on the part of your mother?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You have frequently heard her speak of it?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "And the physician that had treated her also treat 
 ed you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Do you mind telling us his name?" 
 
 "No, sir Dr. Lane." 
 
 "Do you see the gentleman in the court-room?" 
 
 "Dr. Lane is dead." 
 
 "Oh well, that's too bad. He died recently?" 
 
 "No, sir Dr. Lane has been dead some years." 
 
 "Do you mind telling the jury, Mrs. Whipple, how 
 old you were at the time of Dr. Lane's death or 
 about how old?" 
 
 "I think I was seventeen years of age when Dr. 
 Lane died." 
 
 "At that time you were completely cured of this 
 difficulty?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You say this same idiosyncrasy made its appear 
 ance in your son?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Sufficiently to require medical attention?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "What physician treated him?" 
 
 "My husband was a physician himself." 
 
 "That hardly answers my question, Mrs. Whipple; 
 do you mind telling the name of the physician who 
 treated your son for this inherited trouble?" 
 
 5
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "He was treated by his father, Dr. Whipple." 
 
 "By any other physician?" 
 
 "Not that I remember." 
 
 "No specialist was called in?" 
 
 ' 4 No, sir none was needed. Dr. Whipple was him 
 self one of the most skilled physicians of Philadelphia." 
 
 ' ' I have no doubt of that. Did your husband make 
 a speciality of nervous troubles?" 
 
 "No, sir Dr. Whipple was a general practitioner." 
 
 "That is all, Mrs. Whippte." 
 
 Hardmuth smiled. 
 
 The defence, in its conference, had decided that it 
 would be wise to put Viola on the witness-stand to 
 testify to the degree of the annoyance which Denning 
 had inflicted upon Clay. It was believed that in ad 
 dition to the girl's testimony her great beauty would 
 strongly influence the sympathies of the jury, and this 
 was the evident result of her appearance. 
 
 Hardmuth, in his cross-examination of Viola, put 
 but one interrogation. 
 
 "Your relation to the prisoner, Miss Campbell, is 
 that of fiancee, is it not ? that is, you are engaged to 
 marry this young man?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
 "That's all." 
 
 The experience of the battery of experts provided 
 by the defence was not unlike the experience of all 
 medical experts in stoutly contested murder cases. 
 When an expert was insecure and uninformed he 
 became ridiculous; when another was master of his 
 subject the attorneys spread about his testimony and 
 about the hypothetical question which induced it such 
 
 116
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 a cuttle-fish obscurity that the jurymen were glad to 
 escape from the troubled mental waters into the clear 
 er region of shallow ignorance. This part of the case 
 for the prosecution was conducted by a new-comer in 
 the office of the State's attorney a young man of pro 
 found medico-legal attainment, whose services it was 
 understood were compensated by the money of the 
 elder Denning. 
 
 The expert medical testimony provided by the de 
 fence was combated by testimony and contrary opin 
 ion given by specialists of equal importance who were 
 summoned by the State. 
 
 When these gentlemen were out of the way, Brook- 
 field was recalled by the prosecution. The State's at 
 torney, prompted by Hardmuth, said to him : 
 
 "Mr. Brookfield, the young lady who testified here 
 earlier in the trial, Miss Campbell, is related to you ?" 
 
 "She is my niece." 
 
 "Your sister's child?" 
 
 "Yes, sir my sister's child." 
 
 "Is the young lady's father living?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "She is entirely in the care of her mother?" 
 
 "Not entirely, sir; the young lady is not without 
 my protection, such as that may be." 
 
 "Are you her guardian, Mr. Brookfield?" 
 
 "I act as such." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "I mean that I never have been legally appointed 
 her guardian, but I try to discharge the duties of a 
 guardian." 
 
 "That is what I supposed. You were informed 
 117
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 concerning this engagement of your niece to the 
 prisoner?" 
 
 "I was." 
 
 "You knew, of course, that he was a patron of 
 your gambling establishment?" 
 
 "I knew that he played in my house yes." 
 
 "You considered him a young man of fit character 
 to marry your niece?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "And this unfortunate position in which he now 
 finds himself involved has that in any way changed 
 your opinion?" 
 
 "It has not." 
 
 In the summing up Hardmuth opened for the prose 
 cution. He began with a misleading show of f air- 
 ness i he complimented the jury upon their atten 
 tion j he sympathized with them in the difficulty of 
 the task they were called upon to perform; he em 
 phasized the gratitude which the community would 
 feel toward them for the service they were rendering' 
 explained in simple language the condition of the 
 civilization under which they were living, the neces 
 sity of law, the transcendent claims of the community 
 over the individual. He then asked them to demand 
 of the individual only the ordinary human qualities, 
 and to dismiss from their minds any prejudice they 
 had against the prisoner because of the fact that he 
 had frequently played for money in a professional 
 gambling-house, to lay upon himself, the speaker, 
 any blame or reprehension they might feel for such 
 conduct, because he, a much older man, had frequent 
 ly offended in this manner, if to take part in a 
 
 118
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 game of chance were a real offence against public 
 morals. Hardmuth then explained with almost kin 
 dergarten simplification the conduct of a trial the 
 needlessness of dwelling upon points upon which there 
 was no dispute; the value of directing the jury's en 
 tire attention to the points that were at issue that 
 is to say, only those points in the entire controversy 
 about which the State and the defence could not 
 agree. So far as he himself was able to see, and he 
 had a trained observation of such disputes, the only 
 point at issue was whether the prisoner had been so 
 excited by the sight of a cat's-eye that he was not 
 responsible for his acts. If such a condition existed 
 at the time of the killing, it meant an attack of 
 emotional insanity ; if such a susceptibility still exist 
 ed in the prisoner, there was a resident tendency to 
 be emotionally insane whenever the same provoking 
 cause should again be presented. If that were true, 
 it was indeed a grave condition ; if that were true, it 
 was, and should be, a matter of the most profound 
 uneasiness to his relatives and friends a matter of 
 the gravest concern to the young sweetheart who had 
 so bravely testified in his behalf. 
 
 In his long experience in the court he had seldom 
 seen a more attractive, a gentler, or a more admirable 
 young lady than this witness. There was not upon 
 the jury a man so dull as not to understand how the 
 uncle of this young lady, even though not her legally 
 constituted guardian, should wish to act in that 
 capacity. 
 
 It was easier to understand how a mother should 
 do for a son all that this mother had done in the court- 
 
 119
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 room than it would be to understand her failure to 
 do so much. 
 
 The sweetheart's interest was equally natural; in 
 fact, Hardmuth's difficulty concerning the young 
 lady's attitude would have been much greater if he 
 had been called upon to explain on her part an indif 
 ference to the boy's position. 
 
 A life was at stake. The jury were to consider 
 that. 
 
 Hardmuth talked on this part of his theme with 
 almost the impressive fervor that would have been 
 expected from the defence. He was not going to 
 say roughly that the mother had testified falsely, but 
 he was going to submit that any mother in that posi 
 tion could not fail to say anything which in her be 
 lief would make for the safety of her son. 
 
 The testimony of the experts, in kindness to the 
 jury, Hardmuth was inclined to dismiss. Nothing 
 had been said by them, no testimony had been given 
 by them, for which they were not to be amply com 
 pensated; and nothing had been said by any one of 
 them that had not been diametrically controverted 
 by gentlemen equally eminent, gentlemen much more 
 disinterested, and in a very much more difficult posi 
 tion, because it is much easier to give testimony in 
 the defence of a man than it is to give testimony in 
 the defence of a community. The principal thing for 
 the jury to consider was the probability of this idio 
 syncrasy existing in the prisoner. Hardmuth him 
 self had no doubt that it had existed to some extent 
 in the mother; such ideas, as had been shown by the 
 testimony of the experts both for the defence and 
 
 I2O
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 for the prosecution, were frequently concomitants of 
 hysteria; but as some of the doctors had testified, 
 and as all of the twelve intelligent men themselves 
 knew, hysteria was peculiarly a feminine luxury. 
 Hysterical men were unusual. In the case of the 
 mother, the idiosyncrasy in question had disappeared 
 as soon as the doctor who had discovered it in the 
 grandmother had himself ceased to live. Its sup 
 posed reappearance in the boy was perhaps a piece 
 of childish imitation built up from fireside gossip 
 of the family. The boy's susceptibility had never 
 been considered as sufficiently serious, even by the 
 father of the boy, to summon the assistance of a 
 specialist; and as the jury had heard several of the 
 eminent specialists on both sides of the case testify, 
 it was unusual, if not almost unheard of, for a physi 
 cian to treat a member of his own family in a serious 
 ailment. 
 
 Recurring to the testimony of Viola, he took up 
 the possible effect of the young lady's appearance 
 upon the jury. The jury were men they were ex 
 traordinary men, if he might be permitted to say so 
 extraordinary men even in that community of ex 
 traordinary manhood. It might have escaped the 
 attention of even the gentlemen themselves, but he 
 now asked them to note that they made a body 
 which would be a valuable addition to any military 
 company or to any athletic association. Whatever 
 accompanying intelligence this physical development 
 carried with it, it surely carried with it a certain senti 
 mental susceptibility. As men, now that he had 
 called their attention to this fact, he asked them to 
 
 121
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 put their judgment in charge over their emotions, and 
 in their duty to the State to rise superior to such 
 influences. 
 
 The young and beautiful witness of whom he was 
 speaking was in her way quite as unusual a physical 
 specimen as any member of the jury ; she was, also, 
 very intelligent. She was old enough to know what 
 a blight the alleged inherited tendency in the prisoner 
 would be in a husband, yet, fully informed as she was, 
 that blight became no bar to their intended marriage. 
 One might attribute that to a quixotic willingness for 
 self-sacrifice on the part of an infatuated girl; but 
 what of the uncle, her guardian ? Mr. Brookfield was 
 not an emotional party; on the contrary, he was a 
 man of wonderful self-possession, a man of wide ex 
 perience, a man skilled in estimating men; he was, 
 moreover, Kentuckian enough to understand the 
 value of hereditary qualities, the value of sound pro 
 genitors and their relation to possible progeny. How 
 had this alleged mental taint affected him or his de 
 cision to give his niece to the prisoner in marriage? 
 Not at all. Even this killing, for which the prisoner 
 stood on trial as the alleged consequence of this men 
 tal trait, had in no wise altered his decision to permit 
 his lovely niece to become the wife of this defective 
 person! 
 
 The jury must be forced to the conclusion at which 
 the speaker had himself arrived : the friends and ac 
 quaintances of the prisoner regarded his mental af 
 fliction, if a mental affliction really existed, as too 
 slight to interfere with any of his plans in life, and 
 as of only sufficient importance to serve as an excuse 
 
 122
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 in the evasion of the law. That it was a trivial and 
 insufficient excuse he had no doubt the serious men 
 to whom he addressed himself would at once perceive. 
 
 But assume that the speaker was mistaken ; assume 
 that this terrible blight, fraught with such heart-rend 
 ing consequences, really was there; assume that it was 
 ineradicable, that it had existed in a grandmother, 
 had been transmitted to her daughter, had now, in 
 turn, been transmitted to a son, when was this fatal 
 heritage to cease ? If the jury found the young man 
 not guilty of the crime of which he had been charged, 
 if in their wisdom they were to set him at liberty, 
 did any of them doubt that the marriage planned 
 between the prisoner and this emotional girl would 
 take place? Would a verdict of insanity be truly 
 merciful? Would it be an act of kindness to the 
 young man himself? Would it be a chivalrous gen 
 erosity to the young woman to make it possible for 
 these two to be joined in wedlock ? Would it not only 
 be sowing the wind that they might reap the whirl 
 wind? 
 
 That, however, was its very narrowest considera 
 tion, the consideration of these two. What of the 
 wider consideration, the protection of the community, 
 that duty for which this jury had been assembled, 
 that first and most important duty which they had 
 sworn to discharge? For his own part, Hardmuth 
 failed to see that the jury in their choice were not 
 between the horns of a dilemma either this dis 
 position to emotional insanity did not exist, in which 
 case it was not a valid plea in his defence, or it did 
 exist, in which case it was all the greater reason to 
 
 9 123
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 protect the community against the prisoner and his 
 kind. 
 
 With this presentation of his case, Hardmuth closed. 
 
 There was a murmur in the court-room ominously 
 like approval. There was a stir in the jury-box, and 
 a disposition on the part of the jurymen to look at 
 the judge or at the attorneys for the State rather 
 than into the faces of the little group that represented 
 the defence. 
 
 Colonel Bailey, for the prisoner, made an able ad 
 hominem appeal. He made an able review of the 
 expert testimony. He made a strong plea for the 
 reasonable doubt that any juryman might entertain, 
 but there was in the court-room a subtle atmosphere 
 impressing all that the task of the defence was uphill 
 work. 
 
 More formidable than any testimony, more baneful 
 than any evidence for the prosecution, was the stolid, 
 animal, earthy quality of the jury which Hardmuth 
 had so shrewdly secured and counted on. The only 
 noticeable effect upon them had been produced by 
 Viola's appearance, and Hardmuth, with his knowl 
 edge of human nature, partly instinctive, largely 
 acquired, had skilfully offset that effect by dwell 
 ing upon the impending marriage of Viola and the 
 prisoner. 
 
 Deep in the composition of every normal healthy 
 man there is a survival of the primitive animal, a 
 survival of the instinct that formerly made the male 
 of every species belligerent at the sight of any female 
 of that species taken by another male. It is a sub- 
 structural if a melancholy fact that few bridegrooms 
 
 124
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 in public weddings have the sincere and unrestrained 
 well-wishes and admiration of the male members of 
 the congregation. It is a fact known to most attor 
 neys skilled in the practise of the criminal law that 
 no jury of men, however brutal themselves or in 
 clined to like offences, can be found to sympathize 
 with a prisoner charged with the forcible appropria 
 tion of a woman. This is not due to the jury's in 
 dividual or collective stock of virtue so much as to 
 the survival of a fine and primitive animal egoism. 
 
 Upon this instinct Hardmuth had relied; its deep 
 current he had skilfully touched and stirred. A ma 
 jority of the jury were unreasonably, immovably an 
 tagonistic to the prisoner. 
 
 The closing speech for the prosecution was short. 
 The jury retired. Word came from their room that 
 there was little prospect of an agreement at ten 
 o'clock that night, and the Court, which had taken a 
 recess, adjourned until the following morning, leav 
 ing the members of the Brookfield household to a 
 night of harrowing suspense. 
 
 The verdict in the morning was "Guilty." The 
 wise attorneys in charge of the prisoner's case believed 
 that they had saved sufficient exception* to the 
 ruling of the Court that the Court had made errors 
 enough to give them an appeal.
 
 '"PHE trial of Whipple, and especially the testi- 
 1 mony of an assistant prosecuting attorney, es 
 tablished beyond further contention the frequently 
 reiterated charge made by the reform newspaper that 
 gambling was openly conducted in the city of Louis 
 ville. It established also the negligence of the police 
 in this connection, and more especially the negligence 
 of the district attorney's office if not, as the press was 
 more than hinting, the collusion of that office in this 
 nefarious condition of things. Hardmuth's explana 
 tion of his own participation was that, as an officer of 
 the law, he was gathering evidence. The support of 
 this assumption necessitated a fairly rigorous cam 
 paign against the gambling-houses. 
 
 Brookfield's was already dark; the frank para 
 phernalia of the establishment had been sold or dis 
 posed of. Once or twice a week, at irregular intervals 
 and unfixed times, there was what Brookfield called 
 a gentleman's game, when a few of the older patrons 
 and his intimate friends sat down to a game of poker, 
 as they might have done at some of their clubs. 
 Gambling proper, however, with its full excitement 
 and allure, was for the time diplomatically inter 
 rupted in all of Louisville's professional establish 
 ments. 
 
 126
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 This condition of affairs was a severe deprivation 
 for Ellinger. Lew's interests in life were few, but were 
 inversely intense. These interests included the race 
 track ; the prize-ring ; the theatre on its vaudeville side 
 and in its reminiscent aspect ; the fluctuation of the 
 stock-market in so far as that fluctuation affected the 
 quotation of a single railroad stock ; the American As 
 sociation of Professional Baseball Clubs; the show- 
 window display of certain importing tailors; the 
 afternoon parade on Fourth Street, particularly on 
 Saturday after the matin6e ; the opening of the hunt 
 ing season, not because of Lew's participation therein, 
 but because of the superiority of the flavor of fresh 
 game over that of the cold-storage supply; the con 
 servation of one or two dwindling supplies of a cer 
 tain vintage of bourbon; his diurnal pink for the 
 button -hole and somebody's eau de quinine for the 
 hair; but first, last, and continuously his greatest in 
 terest was the professional game of hazard known as 
 faro. To take this from him was to make of Lew, 
 in his own language, "a widow and an orphan." 
 
 With faro eliminated Lew's mind had more time at 
 its disposal than its degree of activity demanded. 
 The world grew gray, the universe seemed a com 
 plicated machine for the production of sorrow. 
 
 Lew's associates and nearest acquaintances were 
 men who, like himself, felt particularly aggrieved by 
 the drastic action of the authorities ; men who, like him 
 self, were more than indignant at Hardmuth's deser 
 tion and his betrayal of their interests ; men naturally 
 watchful for additional grounds of criticism of their 
 common enemy. Hardmuth's conduct of the Whipple 
 
 127
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 trial took its place in their bill of grievances. Lew's 
 own resentment of this part of Hardmuth's record 
 made him doubly sympathetic toward the members 
 of Brookfield's home. Nor was his sympathy unac 
 ceptable to Helen, in whose greater trouble any dis 
 position to criticise Lew's past social record or present 
 standing disappeared. 
 
 Lew was a welcome visitor. As a frequent escort 
 to both Helen and Viola, he began in a measure to 
 fill the void which in that department of usefulness 
 had been created by Clay's enforced absence. 
 
 In times of deep and persistent sorrow there are 
 few companions more acceptable than a loyal, unde 
 manding, mature, mediocre friend one whose vanity 
 is not offended by long silences, whose watchful 
 ness prompts to small and unimportant services, 
 whose confidence is unquestioning, and whose punc 
 tuality and dependability banish friction from the 
 small affairs of daily existence. Lew regarded the 
 position in which the ladies found themselves as in 
 directly attributable to the business of a fraternity 
 of which he was an open and avowed associate. His 
 present loyalty, among its other qualities, was there 
 fore fraternal. 
 
 Such entertainment as Lew was competent to sug 
 gest was exactly of that variety most salutary in its 
 character for Helen and Viola. It uniformly de 
 manded some physical exertion, an interest in ma 
 terial things, an attention to the outside world as 
 opposed to speculation and introspection. It was to 
 ride in the automobile, to visit this or the other farm 
 of thoroughbreds, or to make the acquaintance of the 
 
 128
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 excellence of some road-house cuisine. On such ex 
 cursions Lew systematically devoted himself to Viola 
 or Mrs. Campbell, or both, and thus left Helen the 
 fairly uninterrupted society of Jack. 
 
 During all this long and trying period Brookfield 
 astonished Helen by the considerate delicacy of his 
 attitude and bearing. Her thoughts were diverted 
 from rather than invited to any mutual sentimental 
 relation. Brookfield, while something more than a 
 friend, was studiously less than suitor. He seemed 
 instinctively to divine that in this period of Clay's 
 peril Helen would not only regret any thought she 
 might be induced to bestow on her own future hap 
 piness, but would remember unfavorably any attempt 
 on the part of another to so direct her attention. 
 
 If Jack were careful of her physical or mental health 
 it was that she might have strength to devote to her 
 boy. The many thoughtful acts that were done in 
 her behalf were apparently prompted by Mrs. Camp 
 bell; the numerous expenditures made necessary by 
 her presence and for her comfort, entertainment, and 
 diversion seemed always incurred by Mrs. Campbell. 
 That hitherto unreliable and flighty lady was sud 
 denly endowed with masculine prevision, generosity, 
 and executive ability. 
 
 This indirect service could not fail of appreciation 
 by a woman of Helen's delicate fibre rendered acutely 
 sensitive by the recent cumulative tragic events. 
 The more unkind the world seemed, the more generous 
 Jack appeared; the closer and more inexorable the 
 menace of the law, the more wonderful the interpos 
 ing courage of Jack's defence; the more vulnerable 
 
 129
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 she and hers became, the more priceless his pro 
 tection. 
 
 We grow in character through service. Brookfield 
 himself was happily conscious of a spiritual growth. 
 With every unselfish effort he felt an accession not 
 only of compensating but of compounded power. He 
 felt, too, an increasing calm. Something of this calm 
 he had always possessed and to an enviable degree, 
 but heretofore it had been the sufficing calm of poise 
 and self-control. 
 
 This increased calm, whether because it was of 
 another origin or whether reserve and surplus of power 
 always so act, he found to his surprise had a com 
 pelling quality. Men of contrary minds seemed to 
 fall easily into the line of his wishes, not through any 
 expression or any argumentative presentation of his 
 desire, but by its silent and serene tenure. 
 
 In his mental search for the source of the power 
 residing in himself, Brookfield came again upon his 
 larger conception of the interrelation of life, his re 
 cently acquired and developed philosophy plainly 
 religious in its character. When he held in associa 
 tion the fact of his newly accepted belief in the one 
 ness of life, and the truth by him more recently noted, 
 that any expenditure of force in the unselfish service 
 of others was apparently repaid, and in larger quan 
 tity, his active imagination began reaching for some 
 explanation of this apparent repayment, some work 
 ing hypothesis that his reason might approve. 
 
 Why did an effort, physical or mental, made with a 
 purely selfish end in view tire him more than a similar 
 effort spontaneously prompted by his desire to help 
 
 130
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 another? Why did the increase of skill or facility 
 acquired in such selfish occupation seem measurably 
 less than the skill or facility acquired in his disin 
 terested efforts? 
 
 If this relation between the character of his efforts 
 and the reflex action of those efforts upon himself 
 really existed, Brookfield felt that a natural law uni 
 versal in its operation must govern that relation. He 
 felt that his experience could not be unique, that 
 all who were working unselfishly for others, working 
 without personal vanity or the hope of personal re 
 ward, working with love as a sole motive, must have, 
 like him, an accession thereby of spiritual strength 
 and ability. 
 
 There were men and women in Louisville, as there 
 were in every community, whose lives were vital, with 
 altruistic purpose. Certain of these were known to 
 Brookfield by repute, observation, or contact, and as 
 his thought now singled them out he saw that each 
 was animate with an uncommon strength. Looking 
 nearer home, he realized that Helen in her devoted 
 service to Clay had shown an activity and an en 
 durance of which no previous chapter in her life gave 
 hint; and that expenditure of force, instead of lead 
 ing to an expected collapse, resulted in an astonish 
 ing reinforcement. Viola also, under the same stim 
 ulus, was exhibiting equally unsuspected power, a like 
 endurance and a similar increase of strength where 
 depletion had been looked for. 
 
 What was the secret of this energy? From what 
 region did it come ? There seemed no merely physio 
 logical explanation of it; in his own case Brookfield
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 was sure that no material explanation would suffice. 
 It would not do to submit an analogy between the 
 training of a muscle of his arm, for example, and the 
 training of some mental faculty the growth of which 
 might account for the added power of which he was 
 progressively aware. The force within himself was 
 deeper than intellection at least, was quite indepen 
 dent of all conscious mental action ; and when he had 
 unreservedly lent himself to its expression it seemed 
 to flow through him as through an outlet suddenly 
 discovered and as from a reservoir of inexhaustible 
 storage. 
 
 This figure, once suggested to the powerfully graphic 
 mind of Brookfield, quickly shaped itself into a picture 
 illustrative of the hypothesis he sought : 
 
 Back of the visible universe as it presented itself to 
 his mind Brookfield saw an infinite, intelligent force 
 pressing for expression. He saw men and women as 
 so many avenues through which the force might flow. 
 He saw it flowing freely and more freely through 
 those who submitted themselves to its action. Where 
 avarice would retain the flow to selfish ends he saw 
 the force arrested and the man, no longer normal to its 
 current, clogged and stifled with the sediment of ac 
 cumulation, the force itself withdrawn to other chan 
 nels. Where craft and ambition would misdirect and 
 apply the force, he saw it measurably lessened, the 
 agent distorted and misshapen. 
 
 Brookfield smiled at the simplicity of the picture he 
 had conjured, the childishness of it. He remembered 
 that every inspirational fanatic who had become a 
 public nuisance, if not a menace, had considered him- 
 
 132
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 self a passive medium to the will of a force divine and 
 infinite. Better remain a practical gambler, sordidly 
 but sanely dickering for immunity with corrupt of 
 ficials, than reform in a hospitality to such vagaries as 
 this. 
 
 Brookfield as he sat there meditating in his library 
 laughed aloud. He was the only auditor of his laugh, 
 and as auditor he was not fully pleased. The laugh 
 had a discomforting artificiality it was not his own. 
 Brookfield felt that there was another presence in the 
 room . . . 
 
 He looked quickly about. 
 
 He walked to the doorway and turned the electric 
 switch, thereby doubling the light in the hall a glance 
 up and down the respective stairways and then he 
 came back, turning off the added light as he did so. 
 The library was unpleasantly shadowy. The sense 
 of another presence persisted. . . . Over his shoulders 
 and through his scalp there crept that tingle he had 
 felt at Macauley's, when Justice Prentice had first 
 looked at him, and again on the occasion of Prentice's 
 visit to this room. Brookfield reached to the wall and 
 turned the nearest switch. The hood of lamps over 
 the Corot threw their light on the canvas and its re 
 flection dispelled the shadows from the corner of the 
 room. . . . There was nothing to be seen but the 
 familiar objects the paintings on their background 
 of garnet velvet, the rows of books, the inert face of 
 the dead emperor, the Dante, the lidless eyes of the 
 Sphinx in its patient vigil. 
 
 He crossed to the dining-room, passing over that 
 end of the rug from which Denning's body had been
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 lifted just after Clay had killed him. The memory 
 added nothing to his agitation on the contrary, it 
 rather steadied him, being part of the tangible problem 
 in which he was involved. 
 
 Brookfield turned on the light in the dining-room. 
 No one was there. From the sideboard a thousand 
 facets danced their elaborate tribute to good cheer. 
 One stately decanter gleamed orange and amber in 
 its lower half. It invoked a thought of Ellinger 
 how that old comrade would laugh at Jack's present 
 fantasy if he could know of it! He poured out a 
 drink. The very character of the action, ordinary 
 and commonplace, put his feet again on solid ground. 
 He looked at the whiskey to swallow it meant fear 
 it meant even more. As Brookfield considered his 
 condition and the impulse to drink he felt that any 
 voluntary benumbing of the sensitiveness he had de 
 veloped would be retreat would be a kind of dis 
 loyalty. He put the untasted liquor batik upon the 
 sideboard and returned to the library, repeating pos 
 itively but somewhat mechanically the word "dis 
 loyalty." The uncanny illusion of the old Justice's 
 presence was gone. Brookfield was alone in his room 
 with its fondly familiar furniture and fittings, and 
 in his mind nothing but the reiterant word "dis 
 loyalty." 
 
 "Disloyalty? . . . Whose?" 
 
 "Your own!" 
 
 " Disloyalty to what?" 
 
 "To your ideal!" 
 
 The tendency of things to swim went by; Brook- 
 field was himself again the centre of a calm.
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "That was an attack of nerves," he said to himself, 
 "worthy of an inmate of the Old Ladies' Home! 
 What time is it, I wonder?" His watch showed twen 
 ty-nine minutes after midnight. " I'll see Monroe in 
 the morning and get him to give me a sedative." 
 
 But he knew in his heart that he lied. 
 
 Two days after the night on which Brookfield had 
 experienced what he called "an attack of nerves" 
 he received a letter which read as follows: 
 
 " MY DEAR MR. BROOKFIELD, I am sending you a second 
 book upon telepathy and kindred subjects. This is the book 
 which, on the occasion of my visit to your home, I promised 
 to send to you. It has a very instructive consideration of 
 the phenomena of hypnotism and some speculation upon 
 the ethical question unavoidably associated with the use of 
 that force. The first book that I sent you upon the subject 
 of ^psychic phenomena I regarded as an essential preparation 
 for the one I am sending to-night. I had not meant, how 
 ever, to impose between the two books a probationary inter 
 val of such uncomplimentary length, but the rude fact is 
 that I forgot the second one until to-day. My contrition 
 will at once appear when I tell you that the hour is one-quar 
 ter past midnight, and that I pen this letter before permit 
 ting myself to retire. With sincere wishes for your personal 
 usefulness and peace, believe me, 
 
 "Your obedient servant, 
 
 "JEFFERSON M. PRENTICE." 
 
 Brookfield looked at the date and wondered. The 
 letter had been written in Washington on the self 
 same night that he, sitting in his library here in Louis 
 ville, had been so strongly impressed by a sense of the 
 writer's presence, and assuming that the writer had
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 quoted standard time, to which Brookfield's watch 
 was set the hours had been identical ! 
 
 What wizard's power was this' Brookfield en 
 deavored to recall the only conversation he and 
 Justice Prentice had held. He remembered his ques 
 tion, "Do you mean that you know what I think?" 
 and the Justice's reply: "I don't claim any monopoly 
 of that power. It's my opinion that every one reads 
 the thoughts of others that is, some of the thoughts." 
 Had he, two nights before, been reading the Justice's 
 thought? Or was it only coincidence that while his 
 own mind had recalled a vivid recollection of the Jus 
 tice, that gentleman had independently chosen to in 
 dite him a letter ? Helen had said that in his college 
 days he had been able to make her get up from her 
 bed and write to him. . . . 
 
 Did he possess such a power unconsciously? 
 
 Prentice had said to him, "You have a strong 
 psychic, a strong hypnotic ability." It was conse 
 quent to that statement that the Justice had sent him 
 the second book of " instruction and caution." 
 
 Brookfield read the book in the concentrated in 
 tensity of a blow-flame read and reread it. Its 
 author differed with all those of his contemporaries 
 who held that there was nothing in hypnotism but 
 suggestion, and quoted in his support the agreement 
 of those authors themselves that between the hypno 
 tist and his subject there existed for an indefinite time 
 after the hypnosis a strong rapport. What was this 
 unison of vibration between the two but an invasion 
 of the subconscious field of the subject and a perma 
 nent seizure of part of that territory? Was there 
 
 136
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 anything but an assumption, was there sufficient 
 evidence to show that this rapport which seemed to 
 persist through life ceased with the death of either? 
 
 It was under the discussion of this inquiry that the 
 author introduced the ethical considerations to w r hich 
 Justice Prentice had called his attention. This pres 
 entation made an indelible impression upon Brookfield, 
 not so much because of the dire consequences which 
 it outlined as by the author's explanation of a vi 
 bratory agreement between two minds the dynamic 
 agitation of the communicating ether by one mind 
 and its registration by the other mind. The figure 
 fitted in and confirmed all that Brookfield had already 
 worked out for himself. 
 
 Brookfield's family physician, Dr. Monroe, was a 
 fad homceopathist that is to say, Monroe was a 
 "high -potency" man. The high -potency man ob 
 tains the ordinary homoeopathic dose, already in- 
 finitesmal, and dilutes it maybe ten thousand times. 
 There is no instrument in the universe except the 
 human subconscious mind delicate enough to detect 
 the presence of a drug in a high-potency pellet no 
 reagent known to chemistry will answer to its action. 
 A high-potency homoeopathist is a skilled diagnosti 
 cian practising suggestive therapeutics in a blindfold. 
 Now and then one of them lays aside the blindfold 
 and joyously, but secretly, with blank powder, adopts 
 in functional disorders the art of mental medicine. 
 Monroe had not laid aside the blindfold, but he was 
 peeping. 
 
 A wise physician who would not dare to confess to 
 his pastor that he indulged in beneficent deceit at
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 three dollars a deception could find encouraging 
 sympathy in the heart of the intelligent owner of 
 a roulette - wheel. Monroe had so confided, and at 
 length, to Brookfield; and in Brookfield's present 
 psychological study of Clay's case Dr. Monroe had 
 been his guide. 
 
 Together Brookfield and the doctor dissected the 
 new book. The doctor had certain patients in whom 
 he was sure he had occasionally induced a slight 
 hypnosis. The features of their cases were discussed, 
 the method of their cures. The doctor agreed with 
 the reported opinion of the Justice that Brookfield 
 was possessed of considerable magnetic power. 
 
 One night the two men had sat fairly late in Brook- 
 field's library browsing rather than surveying the 
 fascinating field they had partially explored in com 
 pany when the young darky, Jo, intruded to solicit 
 the doctor's ministrations. Jo was "low in his mind" j 
 it transpired also "his food didn't seem to strengthen 
 him none." Yet pulse, respiration, and temperature 
 were normal; Jo's tongue was as clean as a sliced 
 tomato. More careful inquiry developed the fact 
 that a recent addition to Jo's circle of acquaintance 
 was a young colored man from Louisiana, a person of 
 aggressive amativeness and notably of winsome qual 
 ities with the opposite sex. Even Jo's own girl was 
 taking fluttering notice of the new arrival. Some 
 said that the young man was a doctor's son himself 
 and could cast a spell. He and Jo had come to words 
 over the girl. Jo couldn't recall the exact threat in 
 dulged in, but it had been to the effect that Jo had 
 ' ' better look out. ' ' Jo dated the most alarming of his 
 
 138
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 symptoms from that evening. The doctor and Brook- 
 field looked at each other seriously. 
 
 "If this is a spell, Mr. Brookfield," said the doctor, 
 "and I see no other explanation of it, I think it is a 
 case where your faculties are more clearly needed 
 than mine. You are a man constantly favored by 
 fortune, the powers are with you, and I think you 
 could do something for Jo." 
 
 "What do you think, Jo?" Brookfield asked the 
 boy. 
 
 "Well, Marse Jack, if I am hoodooed, I'd bet your 
 luck agin any nigger if you'd holp me." 
 
 Jack patted the boy comfortingly on his resilient 
 kinks, patted him with that strong hand which subtly 
 emitted reassurance to dog or horse or man. In ac 
 cordance with his reading and his previous casual in 
 struction from the doctor, Jack seated the boy in an 
 easy-chair, his head at rest, his hands lying comfort 
 ably in his lap. Jo's attention was directed in turn 
 to each part of his body, and complete relaxation 
 induced. Brookfield then stroked him gently over 
 the eyes, and brought his own hands down over 
 shoulders, arms, and limbs, though not in actual con 
 tact. An easy smile flitted at the corners of Jo's 
 ample mouth; a gentle pricking came into feet and 
 fingers. He heard Brookfield, far away, say in a tone 
 like the bass note on the chapel melodeon, "You 
 may close your eyes, Jo." 
 
 The eyelids of the negro boy closed down with 
 leaden slowness his breathing deepened he seemed 
 to sleep. 
 
 Brookfield looked at the doctor the doctor lifted 
 139
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 his hand, prompting Brookfield in the experiment. 
 Brookfield placed his own hand some inches over Jo's 
 and moved it slowly to one side. The boy's hand 
 followed. Brookfield replaced it by the same method. 
 When Brookfield's head was inclined to either side 
 Jo's head moved with it. 
 
 Monroe took the boy's wrist in his grasp, noting 
 beneath his skilled index-finger that the pulse was 
 accentuated the doctor indicated the fact. Brook- 
 field was aware that his own heart was beating faster 
 than usual. He had a moment's scientific curiosity 
 as to whether its quickened action was due to the 
 novelty of his occupation or was in reflex from his 
 subject. 
 
 The room was purring like a sea-shell. 
 
 Before him was the still form of the negro; at his 
 side the smiling, quizzical, intellectual face of the 
 physician; about them the Sphinx with its unsolved 
 riddle, the voiceless masks of the great dead, the bust 
 of Pallas and the raven; and behind them all, back of 
 the sleeper and the questioner and beneath the sym 
 bols, the unifying, buoyant, pervading field of force 
 on which Brookfield felt he was about to tread. 
 
 He moved a chair near to the boy and sat down. 
 Close to Brookfield's mental elbow and slightly behind 
 him, as he sensed it, an admonitory something repeated 
 to him the scruples of the author to whom Prentice 
 had introduced him scruples about invading the 
 personal domain of another soul; but Brookfield felt 
 that a darky boy's subconscious territory could not 
 but be improved by the squatter immigration of a 
 white man's volition, and especially when the fili- 
 
 140
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 busterer came to eject a Voodoo usurper. In a low 
 monotone Brookfield began to speak to the boy: 
 
 " The spell that that Louisiana darky threw over 
 you, Jo, will be gone when you wake up; so will 
 that tired feeling. You will enjoy your food after 
 this, and you will be more cheerful ; you won't be low 
 in your mind any more, and there won't any nigger 
 cast any spell on you again. You are sleeping now 
 you are getting a lot more rest than you would 
 out of any other sleep. The tired feeling is going 
 away from you even now, and when I tell you to 
 wake up you will feel almost as though you'd had a 
 full night's rest." 
 
 Just then the electric buzzer connected with the 
 front-door button sounded in the back hall. Jo had 
 previously left the door of the back hall open when 
 he entered, in order that the sound of the annunciator 
 might be heard. 
 
 "Now, who can that be at this hour?" Brookfield 
 said, as much to himself as to the doctor. The 
 answer to his question came from the sleeping 
 darky. 
 
 "That's Mr. Ellinger, suh." 
 
 "Mr. Ellinger?" 
 
 " Yes, suh; he's at the front door; he's got a paper 
 bundle under his arm with two ducks in it." 
 
 Brookfield looked at the doctor. 
 
 "Can that be so?" 
 
 "It will be interesting if it is wake him, and find 
 out." 
 
 Brookfield spoke to the boy, snapping his fingers 
 sharply before his eyes as he did so. 
 
 141
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 " That will do, Jo wake up." Jo awoke. " There's 
 somebody at the front door," said Brookfield. 
 
 "Is there?" said the boy. 
 
 "The bell just sounded." 
 
 "I didn't hear it, suh," said Jo, apologetically; 
 "excuse me." Jo left to answer the summons. 
 
 "If that's Ellinger at the door," said Brookfield to 
 the doctor when they were alone, "how do you ex 
 plain that boy's knowledge of it?" 
 
 "Clairvoyance," the doctor answered, laconically. 
 
 "You know what Hudson would call it?" 
 
 The doctor nodded. " Telepathic h trois." 
 
 The boy returned, followed by Ellinger, who had 
 under his arm a home-made bundle. His face wore 
 a beam of genial good-humor. 
 
 " 'Evening, gentlemen," Lew greeted. "You will 
 excuse the lateness of my call, Jack, but I saw a light 
 in the window, and " 
 
 Jack finished the sentence for him. 
 
 "And you didn't want to carry both those ducks 
 home." 
 
 Lew held the bundle before him, turning it over 
 and over with critical examination. At length, in be 
 wilderment, he said: 
 
 " How the devil did you know that bundle was 
 ducks?" 
 
 Little Jo, who stood by, regarded the scene with 
 eyes bulging in amazement. 
 
 The reviewing courts denied the application of 
 Whipple's attorney for a new trial. 
 But one hope remained. 
 142
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 That hope lay in a constitutional point upon which 
 appeal was made to the Supreme Court of the United 
 States. The point was most wire-drawn and attenu 
 ated. The attorneys themselves submitted it more 
 in a determination to interpose every obstacle to an 
 execution of the sentence upon their client than in 
 a belief in the soundness of the contention. The 
 basis of their appeal lay in the fact that the Court 
 had given an order limiting the number of spectators. 
 This order was given because the janitor had dis 
 covered a crack in the concrete ceiling of the cellar 
 below the court-room. The order was enforced only 
 during two days, and until the architect, who hap 
 pened to be absent from the city, could return and 
 make an examination. The crack had probably been 
 there from the date of building, and bore no relation 
 to the increased weight above it. The ceiling in ques 
 tion was of steel girders, and capable of serving as the 
 floor of a round-house. To limit the number of spec 
 tators, however, the sheriff had issued tickets of 
 admission. The defence submitted that in an unre 
 stricted attendance some casual and voluntary wit 
 ness might have entered with an experience which 
 paralleled that of their client, and that the recital 
 of such similar history might have weighed with the 
 jury. The contention that the constitutional guar 
 antee of a public trial had back of it a belief in the 
 probability or possibility of such fortuitous testimony 
 was pathetically hopeless, but it was a straw, and 
 they were drowning. 
 
 Brookfield saw in the appeal nothing but delay, yet 
 to Helen he argued for its promise. He even led her
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 to place some hope in his own acquaintance with Jus 
 tice Prentice, a member of the Court. Helen, like 
 most women, was too uninformed concerning the 
 integrity and the incorruptible impartiality of that 
 august body to see, as Brookfield knew, the futility, 
 or rather the fatality, of any attempt to influence 
 one of its members. Yet to buoy her failing hope 
 he urged the value of this acquaintance he also 
 showed her the letter recently received from Justice 
 Prentice. 
 
 Helen's memory, stimulated by the sight of this 
 letter, recalled another letter, and in a firmer hand, 
 which identified the writer of both as one of whom 
 she had heard her mother speak. 
 
 "This Justice Prentice was he, too, a Kentuck- 
 ian?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Helen at once set about finding such letters or 
 papers as might establish the friendship between the 
 families, or might point to other like avenues of in 
 fluence. Her mother's effects were in the possession 
 of another daughter older than Helen, who lived with 
 her husband now removed to the Ozark country. 
 
 More to set Helen a task that would employ her 
 mind and give her a change of scene than because 
 her personal attention to the duty was required, or 
 that any profit might come of it, Brookfield advised 
 her to go to her sister's home and to make the search 
 of her mother's papers herself. 
 
 Lew Ellinger went with her. 
 
 After Helen's departure the duty of the daily visit 
 to Clay devolved principally upon Viola, who had as 
 
 144
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 company her mother, or as escort her uncle Jack or 
 Dr. Monroe. These visits to Clay in jail were always 
 in the presence and. hearing of a guard, and with iron 
 bars between Viola and Clay. No contact, even of 
 finger-tips, was permitted between her and him, for 
 in such slight communication might be conveyed a 
 drop of poison that would rob a great commonwealth 
 of its revenge. Notwithstanding these hard restric 
 tions, Clay was cheered by the visits not more through 
 Viola's hope for him and her confidence in his ulti 
 mate acquittal than he was by a strange sense of near 
 ness to Brookfield and of his protection. On one 
 occasion Viola inquired if at a certain hour of the 
 night previous Clay had not called the guard to the 
 grating in his cell and asked for a blanket. Clay look 
 ed quickly at the guard then on duty to whom, in 
 fact, the request had been made. The guard's won 
 der at the question was as great as Clay's. Viola ex 
 plained that she had no knowledge of the fact her 
 self, but asked the question at Uncle Jack's request. 
 Another and a smiliar question at a later date verify 
 ing another experiment of Brookfield 's only served 
 to increase the watchfulness of the officials. It was 
 evident to them that some underhand work was being 
 attempted in the jail. 
 
 Brookfield's inquiries ceased, but the short naps 
 which Jo took in his master's library continued in 
 order that "Marse Jack" might make Jo more and 
 more immune to every hoodoo in the world. 
 
 Helen and Ellinger returned. Both had been suc 
 cessful. Helen had found the letters for which she 
 had searched, and Lew had found a game in Spring-
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 field from which he had won enough not only to pay 
 expenses both ways, but to cover his seemingly in 
 explicable losses to Helen's brother - in - law, whose 
 guests he and Helen had been, and who had devel 
 oped an increasing fondness for seven-up during the 
 visit. Lew admitted to Jack that these losses to the 
 brother-in-law amounted to very little more than 
 board and lodging would have footed had he and 
 Helen invited comment by staying at the hoteL 
 Jack's austerity during the circumspect phase of this 
 confidence only aggravated a slight bronchial irrita 
 tion of Ellinger's and increased Lew's anxiety con 
 cerning the adjustment of his boutonnibre.
 
 IN Washington, one evening in November, Justice 
 Prentice sat at a game of chess with Justice Hen 
 derson, an associate of his Court. About them were 
 books, for the most part heavy and uninviting, be 
 hind antiquated casements of diamond-shaped panes, 
 for they were seated in the library of Justice Pren 
 tice's house. The room itself was as easy as an old 
 slipper warm with lamp and firelight, sweetly aro 
 matic with the trimmings of a side-table on which a 
 kettle simmered above a spirit flame. Near the aged 
 players two tumblers stood amid the killed and capt 
 ured chessmen, beside the checkered field on which 
 knight and bishop still interposed between contending 
 royalties. From each tumbler a gentle incense lifted 
 languidly above a curl of lemon in the vapor-bath. 
 
 The two men, though near the same age, were alike 
 in little else except judicial moderation of speech 
 Justice Prentice, poetical, sensitive, artistic, almost 
 femininely intuitive, refined in features and expres 
 sion, delicate of frame, and elegant in manner ; Justice 
 Henderson, practical, positive, matter-of-fact, scep 
 tical, quizzical in glance, secretive, quaintly humor 
 ous, sturdy, and ordinary in figure and carriage. 
 
 From time to time as one pondered over a play the 
 other moved about the room, or, lighting a pipe, stood
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 by and studied the board. There was this difference 
 in their methods : in Justice Henderson's attack of a 
 problem his look was fixed on the pieces and with a 
 roving activity; Justice Prentice frequently looked 
 through the smoke to the ceiling or closed his eyes 
 entirely. After one of these silences Henderson made 
 a move and announced: 
 
 "Checkmate in three moves!" 
 
 " I don't see that," said Prentice, his gaze returning 
 to the board. 
 
 Henderson began to explain and to demonstrate, 
 his finger above the pieces. "Well, knight to " 
 
 "Yes, yes I see," interrupted Prentice; "check 
 mate in three moves that's one game each. Shall 
 we play another?" 
 
 "Let's look at the enemy." Henderson drew his 
 watch. " By Jove! Quarter of twelve! I guess Mrs. 
 Henderson will be expecting me soon." And then, 
 as he returned his timepiece to his pocket, he looked 
 up with a new interest: "I'll play a rubber with you, 
 Mr. Justice, and its result shall decide your position 
 on the Whipple case." 
 
 "Why, I'm surprised at you! A United States 
 Supreme Court decision shaped by a game of chess! 
 We'll be down to the level of intelligent jurymen soon, 
 nipping pennies for a verdict." 
 
 "And a very good method in just such cases as 
 this," Justice Henderson protested. "Well, if you 
 won't play, I'll have to go." He got up from his 
 place at the table. 
 
 His host also rose, taking up as he did so his empty 
 glass and moving toward the sideboard. 
 
 148
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Not without another toddy?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, come now, don't you like this liquor?" 
 
 "Immensely! Where did you say you got it?" 
 Henderson answered, feebly relenting. 
 
 "Kentucky. One lump, Judge?" 
 
 "Only one." 
 
 Prentice dropped the sugar into the glass. " My old 
 home, sir. And a bit of lemon?" 
 
 "A piece of the peel yes." 
 
 "They make it there," Prentice explained, as he 
 reached for the water-kettle. 
 
 "I'll pour the water, Mr. Justice," Henderson 
 volunteered, as he took the glass from Prentice and 
 tipped the kettle. 
 
 "There, there don't drown me," cautioned the 
 host. 
 
 "My folks were Baptists, you see." And with this 
 time - worn pleasantry Henderson handed Prentice 
 the glass half full of water, and took his own con 
 taining the sugar and the lemon-peel. As he reached 
 for the decanter he inquired: 
 
 "What did you say it cost you, Mr. Justice?" 
 
 "Fifty cents a gallon." 
 
 "What!" Henderson set his glass down upon the 
 side-table with exaggerated caution, and going to the 
 fireplace pushed the button of an electric bell. "I 
 think I'll take water." 
 
 "That's what it cost me," Justice Prentice ex 
 plained, with a humorous twinkle. " Its value I don't 
 know; an old friend sends it to me fifty cents for 
 express." 
 
 149
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Oh!" Henderson relaxed in genuine relief and 
 picked up his glass again. 
 
 "That's different, isn't it?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "He makes it down there," Prentice resumed; and 
 then, with sudden recollection : " Why, it's in the same 
 county in which this Whipple murder occurred!" 
 
 "How about that point, Mr. Justice?" Henderson 
 remarked, becoming seriously persuasive. " We might 
 as well admit it and remand the case." 
 
 "Oh no, there's no constitutional point involved." 
 
 "A man's entitled to an open trial." 
 
 "Well, Whipple had it." 
 
 "No, he didn't," contended Henderson; "they 
 wouldn't admit the public." 
 
 "Oh, come, now the court -room was crowded, 
 and the judge refused admission to others only when 
 there was danger of the floor breaking." 
 
 "But, my dear Mr. Justice," persisted Henderson, 
 " that would have been all right to limit the attend 
 ance " 
 
 "Well, that's all he did." 
 
 " Only he did it by having the sheriff issue tickets 
 of admission. That placed the attendance entirely 
 in the control of the prosecution, and the defence is 
 right in asking a rehearing." 
 
 "Nonsense! Justice is a little too slow in my old 
 State, and I am impatient with technical delays. It 
 is now years since they openly assassinated the gov 
 ernor-elect, and the guilty men still at large." 
 
 "Why should the killing of Scovil bear on this 
 case?" asked Henderson.
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It bears on me I'm concerned for the fair name 
 of Kentucky." 
 
 "Well, if you won't, you won't, and there's an end 
 of it." Henderson drained his glass of toddy. 
 
 "Have another?" Prentice invited, in perfunctory 
 hospitality. 
 
 "Not another drop." 
 
 Prentice's servant came into the room, answering 
 the ring of Justice Henderson, who now asked for his 
 coat. The servant left to get it. Justice Prentice, 
 realizing that his offer of another toddy might have 
 been in better nature, repeated it more cordially. 
 
 "No, I mustn't," his guest replied. "Mrs. Hender 
 son has filed her protest against my coming home 
 loaded." 
 
 "Well, if you won't, you won't." And the host set 
 his own tumbler on the side-table. 
 
 "Hello!" said Henderson, picking up a book bound 
 in limp morocco, "reading the Scriptures in your old 
 age?" 
 
 "It does look like a Bible, doesn't it?" Prentice 
 joined him. "That's a flexible binding I had put on 
 a copy of Bret Harte I admire him very much." 
 
 "I like some of his stuff." 
 
 "When I get home from the Capitol and you prosy 
 lawyers, I'm too tired to read Browning and those 
 heavy guns, so I take Bret Harte very clever, I 
 think. I was reading ' A Newport Legend ' before 
 you came. Do you know it?" 
 
 "I don't think I do." 
 
 With a gesture of apology Prentice took the book 
 from his friend, explaining as he turned the leaves :
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It's about an old house at Newport that's haunted. 
 A young girl in the colonial days died of a broken 
 heart in the house, it seems her sweetheart sailed 
 away and left her and here's the way Bret Harte 
 tells of her coming back." 
 
 Justice Prentice's colleagues on the bench were 
 aware of his fondness for reading aloud. There were 
 times when their enjoyment of it was less than his 
 own. Henderson sat down in submissive resignation. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not going to read all of it to you," Pren 
 tice growled, in playful protest "only one verse." 
 
 Henderson affected to conceal a smile of gratifica 
 tion. 
 
 "I forgot to tell you" Prentice again interrupted 
 himself "that when this chap left the girl he gave 
 her a little bouquet understand?" Henderson nod 
 ded. "That's a piece of material evidence necessary 
 to this summing up," and in a legal manner Justice 
 Prentice patted the page he was about to read. Then, 
 in a voice trained by practice, modulated by tem 
 perament, and made rich by a life of self-control, the 
 jurist read w T ith exquisite tenderness : 
 
 " 'And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, 
 
 She walks unbidden from room to room. 
 And the air is filled that she passes through 
 
 With a subtle, sad perfume. 
 The delicate odor of mignonette. 
 
 The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet, 
 Is all that tells of her story yet 
 
 Could she think of a sweeter way?'" 
 
 In a manner of entire and light relief, he turned to 
 Henderson.
 
 'COULD SHE THINK OF A SWEETER WAY?' ISN'T THAT CHARMING. EH
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Isn't that charming, eh?" 
 
 "A very pretty idea," Henderson answered, with 
 judicial composure. 
 
 "Beautiful to have a perfume suggest her," Pren 
 tice urged, with stimulating enthusiasm. And then, 
 after a moment's retrospection: "I suppose it ap 
 peals to me especially because I used to know a girl 
 who was foolishly fond of mignonette." The Justice 
 closed the book tenderly. 
 
 "Well, you don't believe that stuff, do you?" Hen 
 derson questioned. 
 
 "What stuff?" 
 
 "That Bret Harte stuff the dead coming back 
 ghosts, and so forth." 
 
 "Yes, in one way I do. I find as I get older that 
 the things of memory become more real every day 
 every day. Why, there are companions of my boy 
 hood that I haven't thought of for years who seem 
 to come about me more tangibly, or as much so, as 
 they were in life." 
 
 This poetic side of his nature was one that Pren 
 tice did not often show to his material-minded friend, 
 consequently the superior smile that came to Hender 
 son's lips was not surprising as he said : 
 
 "Well, how do you account for that? Spiritual 
 ism?" 
 
 "Oh no; it's time's perspective." 
 
 "Time's perspective?" Henderson repeated, in a 
 tone that he would have used to a confused counsellor 
 at the bar. 
 
 "Yes." Prentice, turning to him, realized the dif 
 ficulty of conveying his idea in words alone. "I'll
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 have to illustrate my meaning." He walked toward 
 the side-table, above which hung one of the few pict 
 ures in the room. "Here's a sunset by Rousseau. 
 I bought it in Paris last summer. Do you see what 
 an immense stretch of land there is in it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "A bird's-eye view of that would require a chart 
 reaching to the ceiling. But see Rousseau's per 
 spective. The horizon line isn't two inches from the 
 base." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, my dear Mr. Justice, that is the magic in 
 the perspective of time. My boyhood's horizon is 
 very near to my old eyes now. The dimmer they 
 grow the nearer it comes, until I think sometimes 
 that when we are through with it all we go out al 
 most as we entered little children." 
 
 Henderson was moved in spite of himself, but more 
 by the tone of the speaker than by the nature of his 
 subject. It was against his ideas of self-discipline to 
 encourage feeling of this kind, so, at a loss for a fitting 
 reply, he walked toward the picture, affecting an in 
 terest in its artistic merit. 
 
 "A very beautiful painting, Mr. Justice a Russell, 
 you say?" 
 
 "A Rousseau." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes," said Prentice, throwing off his reflective 
 mood, "it cost me three thousand only; and a funny 
 thing about it : the canvas just fitted into the top of 
 my steamer trunk. It came through the custom-house 
 without a cent of duty. I completely forgot it."
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Your memory isn't so retentive, then, as it 
 seems." 
 
 "Not on those commercial matters." Prentice 
 joined heartily in the laugh against himself. 
 
 The servant crossed the room with Justice Hender 
 son's coat on his arm. In doing so it brushed from 
 the table where the men had been playing a small 
 object which fell to the floor with a metallic sound. 
 
 "You dropped your tobacco-box, I think," Pren 
 tice said, as the servant was assisting Henderson with 
 his overcoat. 
 
 "No, I think not." Henderson patted his coat- 
 pocket to make sure. 
 
 "It was this picture, sir," the servant explained, 
 lifting the fallen object from the floor. 
 
 "My gracious, my gracious, it might have been 
 broken!" exclaimed Prentice. He took the picture 
 tenderly from the man. 
 
 "Oh, it often falls when I'm dusting, sir," remarked 
 the servant. 
 
 "Oh, does it?" ejaculated Prentice, in unfeigned 
 surprise, as the servant left the room. "Well, I'll 
 put it away. . . . An ivory miniature by Wimar." With 
 the caress of a connoisseur he handed the picture to 
 Henderson. "I prize it highly. Old-fashioned por 
 trait see gold back." 
 
 "A beautiful face." 
 
 "Isn't it isn't it?" 
 
 "Very. What a peculiar way of combing the hair 
 long ; and over the ears." Henderson pantomimed 
 the process with a gesture comically unfeminine. 
 
 "The only becoming way women ever wore their 
 155
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 hair. I think the scrambly style they have now is 
 disgraceful." 
 
 "Your mother, Mr. Justice?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no; a young girl I used to know. Oh, 
 don't smile she's been dead a good five-and-twenty 
 years married and had a large family." 
 
 "Very sweet very sweet indeed." 
 
 " Isn't it ? And see the bodice, too how pretty! 
 the mammillar bands, you see. They used to make 
 the waists with just a piece or two of whalebone." 
 
 "How do you know, you grizzly old bach?" said 
 Henderson, nudging Prentice playfully in the ribs. 
 
 "In Heaven's name, why shouldn't I?" Prentice 
 laughed, holding Henderson by the elbow with one 
 hand and placing the other affectionately upon his 
 shoulder as he looked over at the ivory miniature. 
 " Get out get out ! But look at it ! Such suppleness 
 and rotundity, and all that!" The two old friends 
 regarded the picture a moment in silence, and then, 
 as if resenting the changed conditions of his life, 
 Prentice walked away from Henderson, who still re 
 tained the miniature. 
 
 " A year or so ago I was in Kentucky, and on my 
 way back I stopped in Indiana for a call on Harland. 
 He was in chambers hearing a copyright case. It 
 seemed that a corset-maker " 
 
 "A what?" interrupted Henderson, in pretended 
 expostulation. 
 
 "A corset-maker," Prentice courageously repeated, 
 "was suing some one for infringing his right to an 
 advertisement a picture of the Venus de Medici or 
 Lucrezia Borgia, or some of those dear old girls, in one 
 
 156
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 of this chap's corsets. You must have seen it in the 
 window. Well, he had his lithograph and one of his 
 corsets in court. Do you believe me, it was made of 
 steel and brass and buckram and all kinds of hard 
 ware?" 
 
 "Oh yes," Henderson answered, smiling; "we have 
 them at home." 
 
 "Harland whispered to me, 'What do you think 
 of it, Mr. Justice?' and I said, 'I thank God I'm a 
 bachelor." 
 
 Their laughter was again interrupted by Prentice's 
 servant, who entered with a card. Prentice read the 
 name and said he would see the visitor. 
 
 "A call?" queried Henderson, when the servant 
 had left the room. 
 
 " Yes. The man owns a picture that I've been try 
 ing to buy a Corot." 
 
 "Oh, another of these 'perspective' fellows, eh?" 
 
 "Yes; his call doesn't surprise me, because he's 
 been in my mind all day." 
 
 " Seems to be in a hurry for the money, coming at 
 midnight." 
 
 " I set him the example. Besides, midnight is just 
 the shank of the evening for Mr. Brookfield he's 
 supposed to be a sporting man." 
 
 Prentice coughed warningly as the servant opened 
 the door and ushered in Jack Brookfield. It struck 
 the Justice as he greeted his visitor that he was a 
 trifle pale. He extended his hand cordially. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Brookfield." 
 
 "You remember me, Mr. Justice?" said Brookfield, 
 as he met the greeting.
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Perfectly. This is Justice Henderson." 
 
 "I hope I'm not intruding " Brookfield began; 
 but Henderson took him up. 
 
 " I'm just going, Mr. Brookfield." The Justice but 
 toned his overcoat and crossed to the door. Prentice 
 followed him. 
 
 "No constitutional point about it?" Henderson 
 made a last appeal for the Whipple case. 
 
 "None," Prentice answered, firmly. 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 As the door closed after Henderson, Prentice turned 
 to Brookfield, who had been regarding the Rousseau. 
 
 " Have a chair, Mr. Brookfield." 
 
 "Thank you," Brookfield answered, deferentially. 
 
 Prentice indicated the side-table. 
 
 " I've some medicine here that comes directly from 
 your city." 
 
 "I don't think I will, if you'll excuse me." 
 
 "Well, have you brought the picture?" 
 
 "The picture is still in Louisville I'm in Wash 
 ington with my niece " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And a friend of hers a lady. They are very 
 anxious to meet you, Mr. Justice." 
 
 "Ah!" Prentice paused. "Well, I go to the Cap 
 itol at noon to-morrow." 
 
 "To-night," Brookfield interrupted; "they're leav 
 ing the city tc-morrow, as you were when I had the 
 pleasure of receiving you." 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 Brookfield drew out his watch. 
 
 158
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "They were to come after me in five minutes if I 
 didn't return, and those five minutes, Mr. Justice, I 
 hoped you would give to me." 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 The Justice sat down amiably, but Brookfield re 
 mained standing, thoughtfully silent, as though con 
 sidering his mission. At length, with compensating 
 positiveness, he began: 
 
 "Those two books that you sent me " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I want to thank you for them again and ask you 
 how far you go with the men who wrote them, es 
 pecially the second one. Do you believe that book ?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. I know the man who wrote it, and I 
 believe him." 
 
 " Did he ever do any of the stunts for you that he 
 writes about?" 
 
 "He didn't call them 'stunts,' but he has given me 
 many demonstrations of his power and mine." 
 
 "For example?" 
 
 "For example?" Prentice paused a moment, medi 
 tating. " Well, he asked me to think of him steadily 
 at some unexpected time, and to think of some defi 
 nite thing. A few days later in this room two 
 o'clock in the morning I concentrated my thoughts 
 I mentally pictured him going to his telephone and 
 calling me." 
 
 "And did he do it?" Brookfield asked, eagerly. 
 
 "No." As Prentice paused a shade of disappoint 
 ment crossed Brookfield's face. "But he came here 
 at my breakfast-hour and told me that at two o'clock 
 he had waked and risen from his bed and walked to
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 his 'phone in the hallway with an impulse to call 
 and then had stopped because he had no message to 
 deliver and because he thought his imagination might 
 be tricking him." 
 
 "You hadn't given him any tip, such as asking 
 him how he'd slept?" 
 
 "None. Five nights after that I repeated the 
 experiment." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "That time he called me." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " He said, ' Old man, you ought to be in bed asleep 
 and not disturbing honest citizens,' which was quite 
 true." 
 
 Both men smiled at the Justice's admission. There 
 was a moment's silence, and then Brookfield said, in 
 a voice that wavered between awe and amusement: 
 
 "By Jove! That's kind of harking back to the 
 Salem witchcraft business, isn't it?" 
 
 "Distinctly," Prentice assented, "and in a measure 
 explaining the ' witchcraft business.' Those old wom 
 en of Salem were the unconscious pioneers in a new 
 mental field. A poor, lone creature, hungry for com 
 panionship, let her thoughts dwell on some young girl 
 of the neighborhood ; the girl's thoughts answered by 
 this inevitable law " 
 
 "Really inevitable?" 
 
 "Really inevitable. The girl could neglect the old 
 woman and her neighborly claim for sympathy, but 
 when she couldn't banish the woman from her 
 thoughts they called it witchcraft, and hanged the 
 woman." 
 
 1 60
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It's a devilish creepy business, isn't it?" Brook- 
 field said, after a moment's thought. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And if it's so " he continued, more to himself than 
 to the Justice. 
 
 "And it is so," Prentice pursued. 
 
 "Pays a man to be careful what he thinks." 
 
 "It will very well pay your type of a man to do so." 
 
 "I don't want to be possessed by any of these bug 
 house theories, but I'm blamed if a few things haven't 
 happened to me, Mr. Justice, since you started me 
 on this subject." 
 
 "Along this line?" 
 
 "Yes," Brookfield answered; and then, with an 
 air of confession, he added: "And I've tried the other 
 side of it, too." 
 
 "What other side?" 
 
 "The mesmeric business." Brookfield involunta 
 rily suggested the motion of the hypnotist as he saidi 
 "I can do it." 
 
 Again Brookfield felt the steadiness of the old man's 
 gaze. He met it just as steadily as he found himself 
 wondering which of his thoughts his silent inquisitor 
 was reading. After a moment of this telepathic in 
 terrogation, as Brookfield construed it, the Justice 
 leaned forward on the table. 
 
 "Then I should say, Mr. Brookfield, that for you 
 the obligation of clean and unselfish thinking was 
 doubly imperative." 
 
 "Within this last year I've put persons well, prac 
 tically asleep in a chair, and I've made them tell me 
 what a boy was doing a mile away, in a jail." 
 
 161
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "I see no reason to call clairvoyance a bug-house 
 theory," Prentice answered, easily. 
 
 "I only know that I do it." 
 
 "Yes, you have the youth for it the glorious 
 strength." There was a pathetic note of regret in 
 the old man's voice. "Does it make any demand on 
 your vitality?" 
 
 "I've fancied that a headache to which I'm sub 
 ject is more frequent that's all." Brookfield passed 
 his hand over his eyes a gesture that had become 
 characteristic. 
 
 "But you find the ability the power increases, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Yes. Within the last month I've put a man into 
 an hypnotic sleep with half a dozen waves of the 
 hand." 
 
 As Brookfield lifted his hand from the back of the 
 chair and voluntarily repeated the mesmeric pass, 
 Prentice asked: 
 
 "Why any motion?" 
 
 "Fixes his attention, I suppose." 
 
 "Fixes your attention." The old Justice smiled. 
 "When in your own mind your belief is sufficiently 
 trained, you won't need this " And Prentice imi 
 tated Brookfield's gesture. 
 
 "I won't?" somewhat incredulously. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What '11 I do?" 
 
 "Simply think." 
 
 Brookfield smiled slightly. 
 
 "You have a headache, for example?" 
 
 "I have a headache, for a fact." 
 
 162
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Well, some persons could cure it by rubbing your 
 forehead." 
 
 "I know that," Brookfield admitted, remembering 
 how Viola had done so. 
 
 ' ' Others could cure it by the passes of the hypnotist ; 
 others by simply willing that it should be cured." 
 
 "Well, that's where I can't follow you and your 
 friend, the author." 
 
 "You simply think your head aches," Prentice said, 
 tolerantly. 
 
 "I know it aches." 
 
 "I think it doesn't." 
 
 "What?" Brookfield looked at his host, who was 
 leaning quietly back in his easy-chair, his eyes closed. 
 
 "I think it doesn't," the old man repeated, gently. 
 
 The pain in Brookfield's head ceased, as it some 
 times did, for the space of a heart-beat. He waited 
 for a second pulse and a third, confident of its return, 
 when, feeling that further delay would be impolite, he 
 answered truthfully: 
 
 "Well, just at this moment it doesn't. But isn't 
 that simply mental excitement won't it come back?" 
 
 ' ' It won't come back to-day." There was no doubt 
 in the affirmative tone. 
 
 "Well, that's some comfort. The blamed things 
 have made it busy for me since I've been studying 
 this business." 
 
 "It is a two-edged sword." Prentice opened his 
 eyes and looked compassionately at his visitor. 
 
 "You mean it's bad for a man who tries it?" 
 
 "I mean that it constantly opens to the investigator 
 new mental heights, higher planes; and every man, 
 
 163
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Mr. Brookfield, is ill in some manner who lives habitu 
 ally on a lower level than that of the light he sees." 
 
 The servant announced that two ladies were in the 
 reception-room below. 
 
 "Your friends?" Prentice asked Brookfield. 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Yes, sir," the servant volunteered. 
 
 "Ask them to come up." The Justice rose and 
 took a tumbler from the table. "I'll put away Jus 
 tice Henderson's glass," he said, in explanation of 
 his act. 
 
 "They're Kentucky ladies, Mr. Justice." 
 
 "But I don't want any credit for a hospitality I 
 haven't earned."
 
 XI 
 
 A3 the two ladies came into the room, Viola was 
 slightly in advance of Helen. Jack took her hand 
 and presented her to the Justice. As he turned to 
 Helen, she said: 
 
 "One moment, Jack; I prefer to introduce my 
 self." 
 
 Justice Prentice desired the ladies to be seated. 
 
 "You are not a married man, Justice Prentice?" 
 Helen began, interrogatively. 
 
 There was a tone of tender regret in the voice of 
 the old Justice as he answered, quietly 
 
 "I am not." 
 
 "But you have the reputation of being a very 
 charitable one." 
 
 "That's pleasant to hear." 
 
 Prentice resumed his chair opposite to that in 
 which Helen had seated herself. Brookfield stood 
 by the table, slightly out of the Justice's range of 
 vision, reassuringly holding Viola's hand. He knew 
 by her trembling that the girl was in an agony of 
 apprehension. 
 
 "What charity do you represent?" Prentice asked, 
 by way of an opening. 
 
 "None. I hardly know how to tell you my ob 
 ject." 
 
 165
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It's a personal matter, is it?" Prentice looked 
 to Brookfield to help him out. 
 
 "Yes, a very personal matter, Mr. Justice." 
 
 "I have here," said Helen, "an autograph-book." 
 
 Again Prentice looked at Brookfield with a slight, 
 amused smile. "I usually sign my autograph for 
 those who wish it at the " 
 
 "I did not come for an autograph, Justice Pren 
 tice," Helen broke in, tremulously; "I have brought 
 one." 
 
 "Well, I don't go in for that kind of thing very 
 much I have no collection. My taste runs more 
 toward " 
 
 "The autograph I have brought is one of yours 
 written many years ago. It is signed to a letter." 
 Helen offered the book. "Will you look at it?" 
 
 "With pleasure," Prentice replied, adjusting his 
 glasses. "Is this the letter?" 
 
 Helen nodded. 
 
 The Justice read aloud: "'June 15, i860. 1 Dear 
 me, that's a long time ago. 'My dear Margaret, 
 The matter passed off satisfactorily a mere scratch 
 Boland apologized. Jeff.'. . . What is this?" 
 
 "A letter from you." 
 
 Prentice himself showed agitation both in voice 
 and face as he repeated the words: 
 
 " ' My dear Margaret . . . 1860. ' Why, this letter 
 was it written to Margaret ?" 
 
 "To Margaret Price," Helen affirmed, in a voice 
 almost inaudible with emotion. 
 
 "Is it possible? Well, well!" Prentice looked 
 dreamily at the miniature lying on the table before 
 
 166
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 him. " I wonder if what we call coincidences are ever 
 mere coincidences. Margaret Price! Her name was 
 on my lips only a moment ago." 
 
 "Really, Mr. Justice?" Brookfield asked, his heart 
 taking unreasonable hope from the circumstance. 
 
 "Yes. Did you know Margaret Price?" 
 
 Brookfield turned to Helen as he answered in the 
 affirmative. Prentice's gaze followed Brookfield's, 
 and in response to his look more than to his words 
 Helen said: 
 
 " She was my mother." 
 
 "Margaret Price was ?" 
 
 "Was my mother." 
 
 The old Justice leaned back in his chair; over his 
 face there passed in turn astonishment, perplexity, 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Why, I was just speaking of her to Justice Hen 
 derson, who went out as you came in you remem 
 ber?" 
 
 He appealed with animation to Brookfield, who 
 nodded assent. His audience of three hung almost 
 breathlessly on his words. 
 
 "Her picture dropped from the table here this 
 miniature." He took the ivory portrait in his hand 
 affectionately. " Margaret Price gave it to me her 
 self. And you " his tender old eyes lifted to Helen's, 
 his voice trembled and dropped to a lower key 
 "and you are her daughter?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Justice." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I can see the likeness. At twenty you 
 must have looked very like this miniature." He 
 handed the portrait to Helen. 
 
 167
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "I have photographs of myself that are very like 
 this," Helen said, handing the picture to Jack. As 
 he and Viola studied it together, Helen turned to the 
 Justice, pursuing the topic that had begun so auspi 
 ciously. 
 
 "And you say you were speaking of her just now?" 
 
 "Not five minutes ago." 
 
 "What were you saying of her?" 
 
 Brookfield put the miniature down on the table 
 and waited for the answer. The Justice hesitated 
 strangely, but once launched on his confession he 
 spoke rapidly. 
 
 "Well, I was saying that the old bodices were a 
 more civilized article of apparel than the modern sub 
 stitute for them, madam. Don't you agree with me?" 
 
 "I don't think it an important question, Mr. 
 Justice," Helen returned, without coquetry, yet in a 
 tone that implied appreciation of the pleasantry sug 
 gested by the comparison. 
 
 "I trust you don't think it an impertinent one?" 
 The courtly old Kentuckian was on his feet imme 
 diately with a gesture of deference both to Helen 
 and Viola that would have disarmed any inclination 
 to criticism. 
 
 " Oh no," Helen hastened to assure him. 
 
 "But be seated, please," the Justice urged Viola, 
 who was still standing by her uncle. " I am really 
 delighted that you calleddelighted." The old man 
 beamed. 
 
 "Even at such an hour?" Helen ventured. 
 
 "At any hour." The tender sincerity of his voice 
 was unmistakable. "Margaret Price was a very dear 
 
 168
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 friend of mine. And to think you are her daughter!'* 
 Prentice took the autograph - book from the table 
 again, scanning the note which more than filled the 
 first page of the paper. "And this letter 1860! 
 What's this?" He had turned a leaf. 
 
 "Oh, don't touch that!" Helen exclaimed, half ris 
 ing as she did so; "it will break. It's only a dry 
 spray of mignonette pinned to the note when you 
 sent it." 
 
 "A spray of mignonette," Prentice repeated, mus 
 ingly. He half lifted the volume of Bret Harte from 
 which he had read to Justice Henderson earlier in the 
 evening. 
 
 "It was my mother's favorite flower and perfume," 
 Helen explained. 
 
 "I remember." The Justice's expression relaxed 
 in baffled weariness. He turned to Brookfield. " Well, 
 well, this is equally astonishing!" 
 
 "Do you remember the letter?" Jack asked him. 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 " And the circumstance it alludes to ?" Brookfield's 
 voice almost shook with eagerness. 
 
 " Yes," Prentice, answered simply ; " it was the work 
 of a romantic boy. ' ' Turning to Helen, he said : " I I 
 was very fond of your mother, Mrs. " He paused 
 in an attempt to recall her name; then remembering 
 that he had not heard it, said, pleasantly, " By-the- 
 way, you haven't told me your name." 
 
 "Never mind that now," Helen begged; "let me be 
 Margaret Price's daughter for the present." 
 
 "Very well," Prentice agreed. He returned to the 
 subject of the letter, addressing all three of his visi- 
 
 169
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 tors. "This was a little scratch of a duel they've 
 gone out of fashion now, I'm thankful to say." 
 
 "Do you remember the cause of this one?" Helen 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes. Henry Boland had worried Margaret some 
 way. She was frightened, I think, and fainted." 
 
 "And you struck him?" 
 
 "Yes, and he challenged me." 
 
 " I've heard mother tell it. Do you remember what 
 frightened her?" 
 
 " I don't believe I do does the letter say ?" Again 
 the Justice turned to the book. 
 
 "No," said Helen, evidently anxious to distract his 
 attention from the book. "Try to think." 
 
 "Was it a snake or a toad?" the Justice pondered. 
 
 "No a jewel." 
 
 "A jewel? I remember now a cat's-eye a cat's- 
 eye jewel, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes." Helen covered her eyes with her 
 handkerchief and bowed her head upon the table. 
 
 Viola came to her side in a surge of sympathy and 
 laid her hand gently on Helen's shoulder. 
 
 Justice Prentice was at a loss to understand the 
 cause of her sudden tears. Had he inadvertently 
 touched some ancient wound? 
 
 " My dear madam, it seems to be a very emotional 
 subject with you," he said, tentatively. 
 
 "It is." Helen raised her wet eyes to his face. "I've 
 hoped so you would remember it. On the cars I was 
 praying all the way that you would remember it, 
 and you do you do." Helen leaned over the table 
 pleading, eager, straining for his answer. 
 
 170
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "I do yes," he assured her. 
 
 " Compose yourself, dear," Viola whispered to Helen, 
 her arms about her; "remember what depends on it." 
 
 " It is evidently something in which I can aid you," 
 Prentice said, gently. 
 
 "It is. And you will?" 
 
 "There is nothing I would not do for a daughter of 
 Margaret Price. You are in mourning, dear lady; 
 is it for?" 
 
 "For my son." 
 
 The Justice turned apologetically to Jack, as if he 
 would spare her. 
 
 "How long has he been dead?" 
 
 "He is not dead, Justice Prentice!" Helen cried, 
 her voice rising with emotion. " My boy, the grandson 
 of Margaret Price, is under sentence of death." She 
 rose from her chair. 
 
 "Sentence of death!" In a moment Justice Pren 
 tice had recovered the judicial mantle of his office and 
 was on guard. 
 
 "Yes; I am the mother of Clay Whipple " 
 
 "But, madam" 
 
 " He is to die. I come " 
 
 "Stop!" Prentice commanded, sternly. "You forget 
 yourself." He retreated with great gravity toward 
 the door of his private apartment. "The case of 
 Whipple is before the Supreme Court of the United 
 States. I am a member of that body I cannot 
 listen to you." 
 
 "You must." Helen followed him. 
 
 "You are prejudicing his chances," Prentice went 
 on, imperatively rather than in explanation; "you 
 xa 171
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 are making it necessary for me to rule against him." 
 And then in a tone of more human appeal : " My dear 
 madam, for the sake of your boy, do not do this. It is 
 unlawful without dignity or precedent." He turned 
 upon Brookfield, whom he evidently held responsible 
 for this painful interview. " If the lady were not the 
 mother of the boy, I should call your conduct base." 
 
 "But she is his mother," Viola interjected. 
 
 "And, Justice Prentice, I am the daughter of the 
 woman you loved," Helen said. 
 
 "I beg you to be silent." The Justice put his 
 hand on the door-knob. 
 
 "Won't you hear us for a moment?" Jack tempo 
 rized, feeling that the opportunity they had counted 
 on so much was slipping from them. 
 
 "I cannot I dare not. I must leave you." 
 
 "Why?" The question came from Viola. 
 
 "I have explained," the Justice hurried on, in his 
 indignation; "the matter is before the Court for me 
 to hear you would be corrupt." 
 
 "I won't talk of the question before your Court." 
 Helen's intuition seized the one possible plea for a 
 hearing. "That, our attorneys tell us, is a constitu 
 tional point." 
 
 "That is its attitude." 
 
 " I will not talk of that. I wish to speak of this 
 letter." 
 
 "You can listen to that, can't you, Mr. Justice?" 
 Jack pleaded. 
 
 Prentice paused and surveyed his visitors: Brook- 
 field, manly, straightforward, sincere ; Viola, trembling 
 ly expectant and suppliant; Helen, in an anguish of 
 
 172
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 suspense, her frightened face so wonderfully like one 
 he remembered. 
 
 "Do you hope for its influence indirectly?" he 
 asked, coming back into the room. 
 
 " No. Sit down, Justice Prentice, and listen to me. 
 I will talk calmly to you." Helen resumed her place 
 at the table ; Viola joined her, standing with her arms 
 about her the two women making a picture that 
 moved the old Justice more than he would have cared 
 to confess. 
 
 "My dear madam," he said, "my heart bleeds for 
 you." Then to Brookfield : " Her agony must be past 
 judicial measurement." 
 
 "Only God knows, sir." 
 
 There was a moment's silence before Helen again 
 turned to the Justice. 
 
 " You remember this letter, Mr. Justice you have 
 recalled the duel?" 
 
 Prentice bowed. 
 
 "You remember, thank God, its cause." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "You know that my mother's aversion to that 
 jewel amounted almost to an insanity?" 
 
 "I remember that." 
 
 "I inherited that aversion. As a child the sight 
 of one of them would throw me almost into con 
 vulsions." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 " It is true. The physicians said I would outgrow 
 the susceptibility, and in a measure I did. But I dis 
 covered that Clay had inherited the fatal fear from 
 me."
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "You can understand that, Mr. Justice," Brook- 
 field declared, anxiously. 
 
 "Medical jurisprudence is full of such cases. Why 
 should we deny them? Is nature faithful only in 
 physical matters ? You are like this portrait. Your 
 voice is that of Margaret Price. Nature's behest 
 should have embraced also some of the less apparent 
 possessions, I think." 
 
 "We urged all that at the trial," Jack submitted, 
 "but they called it invention." 
 
 "Nothing seems more probable to me." 
 
 "Thank you," Helen said, in deepest gratitude, 
 hard put to it to restrain her tears of relief. " Well, 
 as I was saying, Clay, my boy, had that dreadful and 
 unreasonable fear of the jewel. I protected him as 
 far as possible. But one night a year ago some men, 
 companions, finding that the sight of this stone an 
 noyed him, pressed it upon his attention. He didn't 
 know, Mr. Justice, he was not responsible." Helen's 
 fingers locked and unlocked in her agony. "It was 
 insanity; but he struck his tormentor, and the blow 
 resulted in the young man's death." Unconsciously 
 she rose and extended her hands in dramatic appeal 
 to the Justice. 
 
 "Terrible terrible!" he whispered, painfully atten 
 tive. 
 
 "My poor boy is crushed by the awful deed. He 
 is not a murderer he was never that but they have 
 sentenced him, Mr. Justice; he is to die." Helen's 
 rising tone ended in one heart-broken sob. She stag 
 gered toward the Justice, who had himself risen from 
 his chair, drawn by an involuntary impulse to her
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 aid, but Brookfield was before him and took her in 
 his arms. 
 
 "Helen, dear Helen" Brookfield sought to com 
 fort her " remember how much depends on you try 
 to compose yourself." 
 
 "You promised," Viola reminded her. 
 
 Helen became conscious of the voice of Justice 
 Prentice speaking in judicial tones to Jack, and of 
 Jack's rejoinders. 
 
 "All this was ably presented to the trial Court, 
 you say?" 
 
 "By the best attorneys." 
 
 "And the verdict?" 
 
 "Still was guilty. But, Mr. Justice, the sentiment 
 of the community has changed very much since then. 
 We feel that a new trial would result differently." 
 
 The mention of a new trial reminded Helen of her 
 own part she heard her own voice speaking to the 
 Justice. 
 
 "When our lawyers decided to go to the Supreme 
 Court, I remembered some letter of yours in this old 
 book. Can you imagine my joy when I found the 
 letter was on the very point of this inherited trait on 
 which we rested our defence?" 
 
 "We have ridden twenty-four hours to reach you," 
 Jack said. "The train came in only at ten o'clock." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Justice, you are not powerless to help 
 me!" Helen was alive with new hope and joy the 
 man into whose deep eyes she looked was responding 
 to her appeal. "What is an official duty to a moth 
 er's love, to the life of my boy?" 
 
 " My dear, dear madam, that is not necessary, be-
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 lieve me. This letter comes very properly under the 
 head of new evidence." In the most matter-of-fact 
 manner of which he was at the moment capable, 
 Prentice turned to Brookfield. "The defendant is 
 entitled to a rehearing on that." 
 
 " Mr. Justice Mr. Justice!" Helen exclaimed, almost 
 beside herself with joy. 
 
 "There there." Again Viola's arms were about 
 her. 
 
 "Of course that isn't before us," Prentice ex 
 plained, ' ' but when we remand the case on this con 
 stitutional point " 
 
 "Then you will you will remand it!" cried Helen. 
 
 "Justice Henderson had convinced me on that 
 point to-night, so I think there is no doubt of the 
 decision." 
 
 "You can never know the light you let into my 
 heart." 
 
 Viola returned to her the handkerchief which had 
 marked the page in the autograph-book. Helen closed 
 the book with the handkerchief in its place. 
 
 "What is that perfume?" Prentice asked, as she 
 did so. "Have you one about you?" 
 
 "Yes, on this handkerchief." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Mignonette." 
 
 "Mignonette?" 
 
 "A favorite perfume of my mother's. This hand 
 kerchief of hers was in the book with the letter." 
 
 "Indeed!" Prentice inhaled slowly. His eyes were 
 moist, and in them there was a haunted look of ten 
 der memory. 
 
 176
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Justice, do you think I can save my 
 boy?" 
 
 Prentice turned to Brookfield. 
 
 "On the rehearing I will take pleasure in testify 
 ing myself as to this hereditary aversion and what I 
 knew of its existence in Margaret Price." 
 
 "May I tell the lawyers so?" Jack asked, eagerly. 
 
 "No. They will learn it in the court to-morrow 
 they can stand the suspense. I am speaking comfort 
 to the mother's heart." 
 
 "Comfort!" echoed Helen; "it is life." 
 
 "Say nothing of this call, if you please nothing to 
 any one." 
 
 "We shall respect your instructions, Mr. Justice," 
 Brookfield answered for all; and then explained: "My 
 niece, who has been with Mrs. Whipple during this 
 trouble, is the fiance'e of her son the boy lying in 
 jail." 
 
 Prentice took Viola's hand in both his own. "You 
 have my sympathy, too, my dear." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "And now, good-night." 
 
 "Good-night." Viola joined her uncle Jack at the 
 door; both turned, waiting for Helen. 
 
 "Good-night, Justice Prentice," she was saying. 
 "You must know my gratitude words cannot tell it." 
 
 "Would you do me a favor?" he said. 
 
 "Can you ask it?" 
 
 "If that was the handkerchief of Margaret Price, 
 I'd like to have it." 
 
 Helen lifted the folded square of antique lace from 
 the book; she put it in the extended hand of Pren- 
 
 177
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 tice. Some expression of gratitude formed in her 
 mind; some allusion to the handkerchief as a me 
 mento; some thought of the mother who had owned 
 it, but no words would come. There are seas upon 
 which we do not venture small boats, there are emo 
 tions in which language cannot live. Helen turned 
 to Brookfield and Viola, and went from the room 
 without looking back. 
 
 The Justice, left alone, stood for a moment looking 
 at the folded handkerchief in his hand. He spoke 
 aloud. 
 
 "Margaret Price. . . . People will say that she has 
 been in her grave five-and- twenty years " he picked 
 up the miniature from the table "but I'll swear her 
 spirit was in this room to-night and directed a de 
 cision of the Supreme Court of the United States." 
 
 From a distant belfry there came the stroke of two. 
 
 Prentice lifted the handkerchief to his face 
 
 " ' The delicate odor of mignonette, 
 
 The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet, 
 Is all that tells of her presence yet 
 Could she think of a sweeter way?"-'
 
 XII 
 
 HPHE Brookfield party returned to Louisville, 
 1 Helen, Viola, and the attorneys greatly excited: 
 Helen to a tearful degree of hope and exaltation; 
 Viola's spirit like a pinioned bird suddenly set free; 
 the attorneys stimulated by their victory, and anx 
 ious to retrieve cause and reputation in a second trial ; 
 Brookfield sharing all these emotions, but addition 
 ally stirred to the centre of his being by his experi 
 ence in Prentice's library and the utterances of the 
 Justice. One comment in particular frequently re 
 curred : 
 
 "Then I should say, Mr. Brookfield, that for you 
 the obligation of clean and unselfish thinking was 
 doubly imperative." 
 
 Brookfield was aware of the threatening paralysis 
 of too much self-examination, aware also that of late 
 he had been dangerously given to an introspective 
 habit. Yet he further indulged it in the light of 
 Prentice's warning, in order to ascertain to his moral 
 satisfaction the character of his thinking. Was it 
 clean? Was it sufficiently unselfish? 
 
 And that sudden cure of his headache? Reports 
 and pretended records of all demonstrations of that 
 kind had found no receptive faith in him. What ex 
 plained it? 
 
 179
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 That he could question a negro boy whose objective 
 faculties were inhibited by hypnosis and get from 
 that boy a reading of another person's thoughts he 
 had demonstrated to himself and to a scientific ad 
 viser. That' the subjective mind of the negro boy 
 was in communication directly and indirectly with 
 other minds, through channels of affinity previously 
 and variously established, was probable. For similar 
 phenomena such was the scientific explanation by 
 the most advanced students of the subject. Brook- 
 field himself was prepared to believe that an individ 
 ual subjective mind set free from its objective cus 
 todian by hypnosis was in flowing communication 
 with the common subjective mind of humanity. But 
 to explain or even grant the purposive projection of 
 a thought puzzled him. It was easy for him, at this 
 stage of his special education, to admit that Prentice's 
 author friend had read the thought of the Justice, in 
 which was held a picture of the author going to his 
 telephone ; easy to understand that such reading had 
 suggested the action to an inert sleeper; but that a 
 thought could be projected and be a compelling order 
 was more than startling it was intellectually revolu 
 tionary. 
 
 Yet there was the fact of his own headache being 
 banished at command! What accomplished that, if 
 it was not a projected force? Yet if a force, what 
 was the means of its communication ? For Brookfield 
 could imagine no force transmitted except through 
 a material vehicle or medium. But assume a medium ; 
 assume the medium to be the ether that predicated, 
 interplanetary, intermolecular, all - penetrating sub- 
 
 180
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 stance. Assume that medium, or suppose still an 
 other and finer ether, devoted to the transmission of 
 thought alone. What stirs its atoms? What agi 
 tates and propels them in seeming currents or direc 
 tions ? 
 
 Brookfield related the headache incident to Dr. 
 Monroe. That gentleman said: "A cure by sugges 
 tion." But this explanation Brookfield refused. He 
 admitted a degree of susceptibility to suggestion in 
 every person, but susceptibility permitting an in 
 stantaneous cure of a headache would be most ab 
 normal. He also combated the implication of hyp 
 nosis which Monroe offered in his inquiries as to 
 whether the Justice had looked at him steadily dur 
 ing the interview, had established any monotony of 
 tone, and the like. 
 
 Brookfield had not been hypnotized into relief. 
 That explanation was untenable. 
 
 The more he considered it the more convinced he 
 became that there must exist a mental force that is 
 dynamic a force that certain minds can consciously 
 direct. What was the character of a mind capable 
 of commanding this power? What was its essential 
 endowment ? What was the needed degree of devel 
 opment ? 
 
 Brookfield had never before knowingly met such 
 a man as Prentice. Could that uncanny power of his 
 be cultivated in other men ? Imagine it in the hands 
 of one vicious or criminally disposed! Brookfield felt 
 that he, like Hamlet, could accuse himself of such 
 things that "'twere better his mother had not borne 
 him" ; yet his own power as a hypnotist had been cul- 
 
 181
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 tivated and perceptibly increased, and at the cost of 
 only a little greater tension, resulting, perhaps, in a 
 trifling recurrence of his headaches. 
 
 Again he recalled a remark by the Justice: "The 
 investigation constantly opens new mental heights, 
 and every man is ill in some manner who lives habit 
 ually on a lower plane than that of the light he sees." 
 
 Did the answer to his fear of the power in improper 
 hands lie in that explanation of Prentice's ? Did the 
 power come only to men who lived up to their high 
 est light, and, if once acquired, did it desert them 
 when they willingly and habitually abandoned their 
 standard ? 
 
 The thought of this possibility influenced Brook- 
 field. He formed no resolutions as to plainer living, 
 or higher thinking, but the presence of the idea itself 
 acted as a constant monitor. One by one indulgences 
 were foregone ; unwholesome topics were dismissed from 
 conversation and from mind ; a conscious tonic, physi 
 cal and mental regimen was gradually established. 
 
 One evening after dinner Brookfield was in the 
 library with the ladies. Viola and her mother were 
 quietly discussing some intricacy of knitting; Helen 
 was endeavoring to interest herself in a magazine. 
 Brookfield sat in a big sofa by the fireplace. A grate 
 of gleaming anthracite was shaping and reshaping 
 faces in its bed, as it always did for him. He had an 
 impulse to call Helen's attention to these pictures, and 
 he foresaw with unusual distinctness, even for him, the 
 position he would like her to take beside him on the 
 sofa leaning forward as he pointed out the faces in 
 the coals, one elbow on her knee, her chin in the 
 
 182
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 supporting hand. At that moment Helen laid the 
 magazine she had been reading on the table, came 
 over to his side, and assumed the position he had 
 mentally seen her take. 
 
 "What are you looking at, Jack?" 
 
 Her very words stepped Indian fashion into the 
 mental footprints of his thoughts. 
 
 Brookfield answered her, tracing the wavering forms 
 in the fire, and speaking in an easy and natural under 
 tone; but his thoughts were busy with the strange 
 coincidence that had just occurred. That there was 
 any dynamic force in his own thinking, nothing as yet 
 demonstrated. The events of the last few moments, 
 however, were suggestive of experiment. 
 
 "Would it astonish you, Helen, if Viola were to put 
 down her work and come over here ?" Brookfield asked, 
 in a voice audible to Helen only. 
 
 "No. Would it astonish you ?" 
 
 " Suppose that, instead of perching on the arm of the 
 sofa beside you, which would be the girlish and natural 
 thing to do, she came behind us both ; that she then 
 put her right hand over your shoulder and her left 
 hand on my head would that astonish you?" 
 
 " If you tell me she is going to do it, the accuracy 
 of your prevision would astonish me." 
 
 "I think she's going to do it." 
 
 "I think she isn't," Helen bantered. 
 
 "But that isn't the game," Jack explained; "you, 
 too, must dramatize her doing it." And again he 
 described the action. 
 
 Helen felt an uncanny creeping of the flesh as Viola, 
 before Jack had ceased speaking, laid aside her needla- 
 
 183
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 work and rose to her feet. The girl looked around 
 uncertainly, crossed the room, and stood behind the 
 sofa. 
 
 "Am I interrupting?" she asked. 
 
 "Not at all, my dear," Helen answered. 
 
 Viola put her right arm about Helen's neck. There 
 was a moment's pause ; then she lifted her left hand 
 and caressingly stroked her uncle's head. 
 
 Helen gasped, and was about to exclaim, when 
 Jack, with finger on his lips, objured her to silence. 
 
 The second trial of Clay Whipple began under more 
 intelligent direction for the defence than the first trial 
 had displayed, although conducted by the same at 
 torneys. A sustained endeavor was made to secure 
 a jury of men of sufficient imagination, if not of suf 
 ficient information, to conceive the possibility of trans 
 mitting a mental idiosyncrasy from one generation to 
 another. 
 
 Hardmuth, because of his full knowledge of the 
 case, had been specially appointed in charge for the 
 State. His attempts to get an unsympathetic and 
 matter-of-fact jury were as persistent as the efforts 
 to the contrary of the defence. The result was the 
 selection of twelve men not all of whom were satis 
 factory to either side, and from whom the defence 
 anticipated at best but a disagreement. 
 
 The greater publicity that the elapsed interval had 
 contributed to the case, together with the closer at 
 tention that both sides had given to the selection of 
 the jury, had prolonged that part of the proceedings. 
 The days so occupied were not altogether unhappy 
 
 184
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ones for the women who loved the defendant. They 
 were with him now in surroundings less depressing 
 than those in the jail. They were in the presence and 
 in the company of men of intelligence, the majority 
 of whom were sympathizers, and the strongest and 
 best of whom were advocates of their cause. 
 
 Moreover, the mere machinery of the law no longer 
 terrified the women related to the prisoner. Their 
 interest, of course, made them unreliable judges of 
 the value of any bit of testimony; their fears ex 
 aggerated the menace; their sympathies distorted 
 favorable utterances ; but they had a consoling realiza 
 tion that much of the proceedings was in their favor. 
 The presence of a Justice of the Supreme Court of the 
 United States among the witnesses for the defence 
 gave dignity to that side, and at once lifted its princi 
 pal from the condition and color of a malefactor at 
 bay, endeavoring to escape the just penalty of the 
 law, to the position of an unfortunate prisoner pre 
 sumably innocent and whom to prove guilty was the 
 task of the State. 
 
 That portion of the South that lies east of the 
 Mississippi has a reverence for lineage that is un 
 known elsewhere in America, with perhaps the ex 
 ception of Boston. Through the other fields of the 
 nation the current of life has flowed with a swiftness 
 and a freedom that have made attention to pedigree 
 a retarding and unprofitable digression from the gen 
 eral progress. In Dixie and in Boston, however, the 
 movement has been rotary rather than progressive. 
 In the Southland especially it is impossible to be wide 
 ly introduced without meeting somebody cousin to 
 
 185
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 the sponsor. Family connection is a weighty consid 
 eration. Parents of distinction are computable assets 
 even when dead. Notable grandparents compound 
 in value of almost geometrical increase. That the 
 prisoner's maternal grandmother had been a sweet 
 heart of a man since advanced to the supreme bench 
 was a recommendation of considerable import to sev 
 eral members of the jury. That his singular aver 
 sion to the cat's-eye had been also hers, and that the 
 grave and dignified and distinguished legal gentle 
 man before them had fought a duel shielding that 
 sensitiveness in a lady from a rude and stupid ap 
 proach not unlike that from which the prisoner had 
 defended himself, was of tremendous weight. 
 
 Hardmuth brought all his batteries to bear upon this 
 witness. He put into play every art and trick and 
 resource that his intelligence and his experience had 
 developed, and his efforts were not entirely ineffectual 
 with the jury. 
 
 During this second trial, except when testifying or 
 advising with the attorneys, Brookfield was notice 
 able for his absence from the court-room. There 
 were those who attributed this to his possible belief 
 that the friendship of an ex-gambler would not be 
 helpful to the accused. Had this been Brookfield's 
 opinion it would not have been well founded. As 
 a gambler his reputation had been that of a square 
 one, and in all contests, whether in sporting, financial, 
 or political circles, Jack Brookfield was known as a 
 consistent advocate of fair play. Furthermore, in the 
 year and a quarter that had passed since the killing 
 of Denning, Brookfield had taken an increasing inter- 
 
 186
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 est in politics. His wide acquaintance, his personal 
 magnetism, and his ample means had made of him a 
 factor of influence and consequent power. There was 
 more than one man on the jury to whom the friend 
 ship of Brookfield might be valuable. 
 
 Brookfield's absence from the court-room was due 
 to an incident of which he had made no report to any 
 one. Near the finish of his own testimony he had 
 chanced to glance along the double row of faces in the 
 jury-box. The glance had been casual enough in the 
 beginning, but as it encountered the gaze of one of 
 the men Brookfield had felt an involuntary arrest of 
 his attention. A like happening has come to every 
 one at some time. Eyes confront eyes with inex 
 plicable recognition the vis-b-vis is a stranger, and 
 there is on either side no question of that fact, yet 
 the gaze of both halts in the passing with silent salute 
 or challenge. Each look says: "Well, what is it you 
 wish of me?" Though Brookfield held the gaze of 
 the juror for less than a second, he felt that if pro 
 longed the interchange would develop into one of 
 those optical duels that end in self-consciousness and 
 sometimes irritation and anger. There was a slight 
 show of color in the temples of the other man before 
 Brookfield, tactful as he was, could move on with his 
 glance, accepting for himself the part of retreat. In 
 a later survey of the men he was careful so to time 
 and distribute his regard that this particular juror 
 should not feel any exception in his case. Yet, im 
 partial as was the disposition of time, there was a 
 quality in this man's look that made Brookfield aware 
 that their minds as well as their eyes had met. 
 13 187
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 When Brookfield left the court-room, as he did soon 
 after, he refrained from looking back at the jury. He 
 was conscious, through some subtle sense, that the 
 man was again looking at him, and he preferred 
 that no spectator should note a second exchange of 
 glances between the juror and himself. 
 
 In consequence of this incident Brookfield was 
 away from the court-room during the period of Pren 
 tice's examination, although he would have liked 
 to hear the old Justice testify and to see the effect 
 of his testimony. Prentice and Brookfield had been 
 in each other's company the greater part of the time 
 since the Justice had arrived in Louisville on his pres 
 ent mission. They had talked much of the case, and 
 Prentice's opinions, as Brookfield had reported them 
 to Clay's counsel, had affected to some extent the con 
 duct of the case. 
 
 When, in turn, his examination was finished, Pren 
 tice came at once to Brookfield. He was not in 
 clined to minimize the value to the defence of the 
 appearance of a man of his position, but he reported 
 a disturbing estimate of the counteracting influence 
 of Hardmuth. There was, in his opinion, among the 
 counsel for Whipple no such dominating mind as 
 Hardmuth's no man so capable of influencing other 
 men by his mere personality, independently of his 
 contentions. As one of wide experience in trial pro 
 cedure and long practice in reading human nature, 
 Justice Prentice was fearful of the verdict. He feared 
 Hardmuth's effect upon the jury when he should 
 come to his argument. Furthermore, there was added 
 to Hardmuth's personal strength the momentum of 
 
 1 88
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 an increasing position in the public opinion; he was 
 realizing Brookfield's predictions of success in politics. 
 He was not only a district attorney by appointment, 
 but he was the man most generally discussed as his 
 party's nomination for governor. A murder trial is 
 a contest in which every factor weighs, and none more 
 than the importance of attorneys. 
 
 The Justice's fears quickly communicated them 
 selves to Brookfield. If these various considerations 
 in Hardmuth's personal favor, as well as the facts in 
 the case itself, were to weigh with the jury, it was 
 plainly Brookfield's duty to reduce Hardmuth's popu 
 larity at any cost. 
 
 Clay's life was at stake. 
 
 "I've tried to fight in the open, Mr. Justice, and to 
 stoop to nothing for which any of us might be ashamed 
 hereafter, or I could have crushed that fellow Hard- 
 muth ere this," Jack said. 
 
 "Crushed him?" 
 
 "As easily as you'd crush a beetle by treading 
 on it." 
 
 "But if, as you say, the means were unfair " 
 
 "Only as telling on a fellow is unfair when you 
 know something that's against him." 
 
 "Something told you in confidence?" 
 
 "Not by him. Yes, sir it would have crushed 
 Hardmuth if I'd printed what I know of him, and as 
 a citizen I believe I owe it to the public to tell it. I'm 
 sorry I have put it off until too late." 
 
 "Is it too late, Mr. Brookfield? He hasn't begun 
 his concluding speech. What is the nature of your 
 charge against him?" 
 
 189
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Brookfield looked at his watch. 
 
 " It may be a kindness to you, Mr. Justice, to leave 
 you entirely out of this. Did you come back in the 
 automobile ?" 
 
 "Yes; it's at the door." 
 
 "I'm going to be rude enough to ask you to find 
 your own way to your hotel." 
 
 " No rudeness whatever, Mr. Brookfield. I see that 
 your time is valuable." 
 
 Brookfield ran hurriedly down-stairs, taking from 
 the rack as he passed it his overcoat and hat. As he 
 slammed the door of the limousine, he said to the 
 chauffeur : 
 
 ' ' The Courier- Journal /' '
 
 XIII 
 
 TT was night. Brookfield sat alone in his library 
 1 deeply enveloped in thought. The only illumina 
 tion in the room was from the fireplace and a small 
 lamp on one of the side -tables. The old darky, 
 Uncle Harvey, entered apologetically. 
 
 "Marse Jack?" 
 
 " Well, Uncle Harvey ?" Brookfield looked at him. 
 
 " 'Scuse me, suh, when you wants to be alone, but 
 I'se awful anxious myself. Is dey any word from 
 the co't-house?" 
 
 "None, Uncle Harvey." 
 
 "'Cause Jo said Missus Campbell had done come 
 in, an' I thought she'd been to the trial, you know." 
 
 " She has." An earnestness came into Brookfield's 
 manner. "You're not keeping anything from me, 
 Uncle Harvey?" 
 
 "'Deed no, suh. An' I jes' like to ask you, Marse 
 Jack, if I'd better have de cook fix sompun to eat 
 maybe de other ladies comin', too?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Harvey; but whether they'll want to 
 eat or not will depend on what word comes back from 
 that jury." 
 
 "Yes, suh." 
 
 Uncle Harvey left Brookfield moodily pacing the 
 floor. The report of his sister's return and her fail- 
 
 191
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ure to come to him were disturbing. He had about 
 determined to go in search of her when Mrs. Campbell 
 entered the room. 
 
 "Jack!" she said, in a tone of mingled astonish 
 ment and reproof. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Why are you here?" 
 
 " Well " Brookfield hesitated" I live here." Full 
 seriousness was wellnigh impossible to Jack in most 
 conversations with his sister. 
 
 "But I thought you'd gone to Helen and Viola," 
 Mrs. Campbell rebuked him. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You should do so. Think of them alone when 
 that jury returns, as it may at any moment, with 
 its verdict." 
 
 "The lawyers are there, and Lew Ellinger is with 
 them." 
 
 " But Helen Helen needs you." 
 
 " I may be useful here." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "There's one man on that jury that I think is a 
 friend." 
 
 "One man?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Out of a jury of twelve." 
 
 "One man can stop the other eleven from bring 
 ing in an adverse verdict, and this one is with 
 us." 
 
 "Would your going to Helen 'and Viola in the 
 court-house stop his being with us?" The tone was 
 a trifle acrimonious. 
 
 192
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Perhaps not," Jack answered, tranquilly, "but it 
 would stop my being with him." 
 
 "What!" Mrs, Campbell looked about the room in 
 a possible search for the juror. " I don't understand 
 you." 
 
 "Justice Prentice told me," Jack explained, im 
 pressively, "that he could sit in his room and make 
 another man get up and walk to the telephone and 
 call him by simply thinking steadily of that other 
 man." 
 
 "Superstitious people imagine anything," Mrs. 
 Campbell commented, scoffingly. 
 
 "Imagine much yes; but this isn't imagination." 
 
 "It's worse, Jack; I call it spiritualism." It would 
 be difficult to get more disapproval into a single 
 speech than Mrs. Campbell's tone and manner crowd 
 ed into this. 
 
 " Call it anything you like," Jack answered, placidly: 
 " spiritualism or socialism or rheumatism it's there. 
 I know nothing about it scientifically, but I've tried 
 it on and it works, my dear Alice it works." 
 
 "You've tried it on?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "With you." Jack sat Mrs. Campbell gasped. 
 Some unwarrantable liberty had been taken with her 
 personal rights. The pause that followed her gasp 
 was ineffective because her attention was divided be 
 tween inquiry and inventory. Curiosity triumphed 
 as she said, interrogatively: 
 
 " I don't know it if you have ?" 
 
 " That is one phase of its terrible subtlety."
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "When did you try it on?" 
 
 "That night a month ago when you rapped at my 
 door at two o'clock in the morning and asked if I was 
 ill in any way?" 
 
 " I was simply nervous about you," Mrs. Campbell 
 spluttered, defensively. 
 
 "Call it 'nervousness' if you wish to, but that was 
 an experiment of mine a simple experiment." 
 
 "Oh!" Indignation and incredulity commingled 
 in the single note. 
 
 "Two Sundays ago," Brookfield continued, "you 
 went right up to the church door, hesitated, and 
 turned home again." 
 
 " Lots of people do that " 
 
 " I don't ask you to take stock in it, but that was 
 another experiment of mine. The thing appeals to 
 me. I can't help Helen by being at the court-house, 
 but, as I'm alive [and my name's Jack Brookfield, I 
 do believe that my thought reaches that particular 
 juryman." 
 
 " That's lunacy, Jack, dear." Mrs. Campbell began 
 commiserating her brother. 
 
 "Well, call it 'lunacy' I don't insist on rheuma 
 tism." 
 
 " Oh, Jack, the boy's life is in the balance. Bitter, 
 vindictive lawyers are prosecuting him, and I don't 
 like my big, strong brother, who used to meet men and 
 all danger face to face, treating the situation with 
 silly mind-cure methods hidden alone in his rooms." 
 Mrs. Campbell, with an embracing gesture, made an 
 exhibit of Brookfield and his surroundings. " I don't 
 like it!" 
 
 194
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "You can't acquit a boy of murder by having a 
 strong brother thrash somebody in the court-room. 
 If there was anything under the sun I could do with 
 my physical strength I'd do it, but there isn't. Now, 
 why not, if I believe I can influence a juryman by my 
 thought why not try?" 
 
 His sister turned from him with a sigh of hopeless 
 ness as Jo entered from the hallway. Jo's manner 
 was agitated. 
 
 "Well?" Brookfield inquired, sharply. 
 
 "Mistah Hardmuth." 
 
 "Frank Hardmuth!" Mrs. Campbell exclaimed, in 
 her astonishment. 
 
 "Yes'm," Jo assented. 
 
 "Here's one of the 'bitter, vindictive' men you 
 want me to meet face to face. Now, my dear Alice, 
 you stay here while I go and do it." 
 
 Mrs. Campbell's protest was prevented by the 
 abrupt entrance of Hardmuth. 
 
 "Excuse me," he shouted, "but I can't wait in an 
 anteroom!" 
 
 " That will do, Jo," Brookfield said to the boy. 
 
 "I want to see you alone," Hardmuth continued, 
 threateningly. His nod toward Mrs. Campbell con 
 veyed his objection to her presence. 
 
 "Yes," Brookfield replied to the unspoken ques 
 tion of his sister. He led her tenderly toward the 
 door. 
 
 " What do you think it is ?" she gasped, in suppressed 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Nothing to worry over," Brookfield answered, re 
 assuringly, as she left the room.
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Jack Brookfield " Hardmuth began. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I've just seen Harvey Fisher, of the Courier. , n 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "He says you've hinted at something associating 
 me with the shooting of Scovil." 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" Hardmuth 's angry explo 
 sion carried all the threat that was possible. 
 
 " I mean, Frank Hardmuth," Jack answered, in that 
 deliberate calm which most of his masculine acquaint 
 ances had come to correctly estimate " I mean that 
 you sha'n't hound this boy to the gallows without 
 reckoning with me and the things I know of you." 
 
 "I'm doing my duty as a prosecuting attorney." 
 
 "You are," interrupted Brookfield, "and a great 
 deal more you're venting a personal hatred." 
 
 "That hasn't anything to do with this insinuation 
 that you've handed to a newspaper man, an insinu 
 ation for which anybody ought to kill you." 
 
 "I don't deal in 'insinuations/ It was a charge." 
 
 "A statement?" 
 
 "A charge! You understand English a specific 
 and categorical charge." Brookfield's tone was rising. 
 
 "That I knew Scovil was to be shot?" 
 
 " That you knew it ? No !" The voice was rasping 
 with contempt. "That you planned it and arranged 
 it and procured his assassination." 
 
 The courage and character of Brookfield's answer 
 benumbed Hardmuth for the moment. When he 
 spoke at last the words came slowly and quietly, and 
 rang with vibrant passion. 
 
 196
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 " If the newspapers print that, I'll kill you, damn 
 you I'll kill you!" The finish of the threat was in a 
 whisper. Hardmuth's clinched fist shook in Brook- 
 field's face. 
 
 " I don't doubt your willingness," came the metallic 
 reply; " and they will print it, if they haven't done so 
 already." 
 
 Tlje insult implied in Hardmuth's belief that to 
 threaten his life would compel him to retract what he 
 had said stung Brookfield like a blow on the cheek. 
 His splendid self-control deserted him for the moment 
 just long enough to lend increasing power to the 
 rest of his reply. 
 
 "And if they don't print it by God, I'll print it 
 myself and paste it on the fences!" 
 
 Hardmuth's nerve was shaken. 
 
 "What have I ever done to you, Jack Brookfield, 
 except to be your friend ?" he almost whined. 
 
 " You've been much too friendly. With this mur 
 der on your conscience you proposed to take to your 
 self as wife my niece, dear to me as my life. As re 
 venge for her refusal and mine, you've persecuted 
 through two trials the boy she loves and the son of 
 the woman whose thought regulates the pulse of my 
 heart an innocent, unfortunate boy. In your am 
 bition you've reached out to be the governor of this 
 State, and an honored political party is seriously con 
 sidering you for that office to-day." 
 
 "That Scovil story is a lie, a political lie! I think 
 you mean to be honest, Jack Brookfield, but some 
 body's strung you." Hardmuth turned away. 
 
 " Wait," Brookfield commanded. " The man that's 
 
 197
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 now hiding in Indiana, a fugitive from your feeble 
 efforts at extradition, sat up-stairs drunk and des 
 perate, his last dollar on a case card. I pitied him. 
 If a priest had been there he couldn't have purged his 
 soul cleaner than poor Raynor gave it to me. If he 
 put me on, am I strung?" 
 
 "Yes, you are," Hardmuth blustered. "I can't 
 tell you why, because this jury is out and may come 
 in any moment, and I've got to be there. But I can 
 square it so help me God, I can square it!" 
 
 "You'll have to square it." 
 
 Mrs. Campbell came in just then, and behind her 
 Justice Prentice, a folded newspaper in one hand. 
 
 "Excuse me." Prentice apologized for the ab 
 ruptness of his entrance. 
 
 Hardmuth bowed to him respectfully. "Oh, Jus 
 tice Prentice!" 
 
 There was a moment's awkward hesitation before 
 Brookfield said, with some conciliation: 
 
 "The State's attorney Mr. Hardmuth." 
 
 "I recognize Mr. Hardmuth," Prentice answered, 
 with dignity. "I don't salute him because I resent 
 his disrespectful treatment of myself during his cross- 
 examination." 
 
 "Entirely within my rights as a lawyer, and " 
 
 " Entirely," Prentice interrupted ; " and never within 
 the opportunities of a gentleman." 
 
 "Your side foresaw the powerful effect on a local 
 jury of any testimony by a member of the Supreme 
 Court, and my wish to break that ' 
 
 "Was quite apparent, sir, quite apparent," Pren 
 tice answered. " But the testimony of every man is 
 
 198
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 entitled to just such weight and consideration as that 
 man's character commends. But it is not that dis 
 respect which I resent. I am an old man; that I 
 am unmarried, childless, without a son to inherit the 
 vigor that time has reclaimed, is due to a sentiment 
 that you endeavored to ridicule, Mr. Hardmuth a 
 sentiment which would have been sacred in the hands 
 of any true Kentuckian, which I am glad to hear you 
 are not." 
 
 As Hardmuth began a reply, Brookfield interposed: 
 "That's all!" 
 
 "Perhaps not," the prosecutor said, threateningly, 
 as he left the room. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Brookfield," Prentice hastened to 
 say as soon as they were freed from Hardmuth's 
 presence, " that man certainly hasn't seen this news 
 paper?" 
 
 "No, but he knows it's coming." 
 
 " When I urged you as a citizen to tell anything you 
 knew of the man, I hadn't expected a capital charge." 
 
 "What is it, Jack?" Mrs. Campbell asked, in alarm. 
 "What have you said?" 
 
 "All in the head-lines," Jack explained, quietly; 
 "read it." He handed the paper to his sister, and 
 turned again to the Justice with the question: 
 
 "Is that enough for your purpose, Mr. Justice?" 
 
 "Why, I never dreamed of an attack of that mag 
 nitude. Enough!" 
 
 Mrs. Campbell exclaimed in an agony of alarm: 
 
 "Why why did you do this, Jack?" 
 
 " Because I'm your big, strong brother and I had 
 the information." 
 
 199
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "It was necessary, Mrs. Campbell necessary," 
 Prentice added, also assuming Brookfield's calm. 
 
 "Why necessary?" 
 
 "My poor sister, you don't think. If that jury 
 brings in a verdict of guilty, what then?" 
 
 "What then? I don't know" 
 
 "An appeal to the Governor for clemency." 
 
 "Well?" Mrs. Campbell prompted. 
 
 "This Governor may not grant it," Prentice ex 
 plained. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Then we delay things until a new governor comes 
 in," Jack answered. " But suppose that new gov 
 ernor is Hardmuth himself?" 
 
 "How can the new governor be Hardmuth?" 
 
 "Nothing can stop it if he gets the nomination," 
 the Justice replied, "and the convention is in session 
 at Frankfort to-day, with Mr. Hardmuth's name in 
 the lead." 
 
 "I've served that notice on them " Brookfield in 
 dicated the paper " and they won't dare nominate 
 him that is, I think they won't." 
 
 "But to charge him with murder!" Mrs. Campbell 
 protested. 
 
 "The only thing to consider there," Prentice said 
 to Brookfield, "is have you your facts?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " Then it was a duty, and you chose the psycholog 
 ical moment for its performance. ' With what meas 
 ure you mete, it shall be measured to you again."' 
 The Justice turned to his agitated hostess. " I have 
 pity for the man whom that paper crushes, but I 
 
 200
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 have greater pity for the boy he is trying to have 
 hanged. You know, Mrs. Campbell, that young 
 Whipple is the grandson of an old friend of mine." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Justice, I know that." Mrs. Campbell's 
 answer unconsciously fell into the tender tone of the 
 Justice. 
 
 Jo's hurried entrance and his cry, "Marse Jack!" 
 startled the occupants of the room. Mrs. Campbell, 
 womanlike, feared the return of Hardmuth; Jack 
 thought some bad news had come from the trial. 
 The appearance of Helen and Viola, who followed Jo, 
 did not momentarily dissipate this belief. 
 
 "Oh, Jack!" Helen exclaimed. She staggered, and 
 only Jack's arms prevented her from falling. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 Viola, who was holding the hand of her mother, 
 answered: "The jury returned and asked for instruc 
 tions." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "There's a recess for an hour," Helen found voice 
 to say. She looked toward Viola, who continued the 
 explanation. 
 
 "The Court wished them locked up for the night, 
 but the foreman said the jurymen were all anxious 
 to get to their homes, and that he felt an agreement 
 could be reached in an hour." 
 
 The reassuring voice of Prentice broke in upon 
 their mental turmoil. "Did he use exactly those 
 words 'to their homes'?" 
 
 "'To their homes' yes." 
 
 "There you are," Prentice smiled to Jack. 
 
 "What is it, Jack?" Helen inquired, looking into 
 
 201
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Brookfield's face for the answer. Brookfield, per 
 plexed, shook his head and turned to the Justice. 
 
 "Men with vengeance or severity in their hearts," 
 the old jurist commented, "would hardly say they 
 were anxious to get to their homes. They say, in that 
 case, the jury is anxious to get away, or to finish its 
 work." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Justice, you pin hope upon such slight 
 things!" Helen sank into a chair. Prentice put one 
 hand over hers in his paternal manner. 
 
 "That is what hope is for, my dear Mrs. Whipple 
 the frail chances of this life." 
 
 Viola, who had gone to Helen's side, turned to 
 Brookfield. "And now, Uncle Jack, Mrs. Whipple 
 ought to have a cup of tea and something to eat." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't," Helen pleaded; "we must go 
 back at once." 
 
 "Well, I could. I I must," the young girl said 
 to the group. 
 
 "Yes, you must both of you," Mrs. Campbell 
 urged. 
 
 Helen shook her head, again refusing, at which 
 Viola asked : " You don't think it's heartless, do you ?" 
 
 "You dear child!" Helen put her arms about the 
 girl whose sympathy and companionship had been 
 the most unwavering element in her own strength for 
 more than a year. She kissed her tenderly and gave 
 her to Mrs. Campbell, who led her from the library 
 and into the dining-room, where Uncle Harvey had 
 arranged refreshments. 
 
 "And now courage, my dear Helen," Jack com 
 forted; "it's almost over." 
 
 202
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 " Oh, Jack, at the other trial the jury delayed just 
 this way!" 
 
 "Upon what point, Mrs. Whipple, did the jury ask 
 instructions?" Prentice inquired. 
 
 "Degree." 
 
 "And the Court?" 
 
 "Oh, Jack," Helen said, in returning terror, to 
 Brookfield, "the Judge answered: 'Guilty in the first 
 degree or not guilty." 
 
 "That all helps us," Prentice said. 
 
 "It does?" 
 
 Helen's answer from the Justice was a nod and one 
 of his confident and reposeful smiles. 
 
 "Who spoke for the jury?" Brookfield inquired. 
 
 "The foreman, and one other juryman asked a 
 question." 
 
 "Was it the man in the fourth chair, first row?" 
 
 "Yes," Helen replied. 
 
 Jack heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 "Why?" pursued Helen. 
 
 " I think he's a friend, that's all." But there was 
 something in the calm of Brookfield's manner imply 
 ing more than his words expressed. There was also 
 a significant interchange of looks between the old 
 Justice and himself. 
 
 "Oh, Jack," Helen said, helplessly, "I should die 
 if it weren't for your courage!" She rose from the 
 sofa where she had half fallen when Viola left her and 
 came toward Jack. Brookfield took both her out 
 stretched hands. "You won't get tired of it," she 
 pleaded, " will you, and forsake my poor boy and me ?" 
 
 "What do you think?" 
 14 203
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "All our lawyers are kindness itself; but you, Jack 
 you somehow " 
 
 Viola returned from the dining-room, holding in her 
 hand a crumpled note of blue paper. 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Jack, here's a note our lawyer asked 
 me to give to you! I forgot it until this minute." 
 
 "Thank you." Jack took the note. 
 
 "Please try a cup of tea," Viola urged; but Helen 
 absent-mindedly pushed the girl away, her own at 
 tention anxiously riveted on Brookfield, who was 
 reading the note under the hooded electrolier which 
 he had turned on for the purpose. Viola returned to 
 her mother in the dining-room. Brookfield finished 
 the note, and handed it significantly to Prentice. 
 
 "What is it, Jack?" Helen asked. "Are they 
 afraid?" 
 
 " It's not about the trial at all." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why don't you show it to me, then?" 
 
 " I will if my keeping it gives you so much alarm 
 as that." 
 
 Jack took the note from the Justice, who had read 
 it, and turned to Helen. "Colonel Bailey says: 
 
 " ' DEAR JACK, I've seen the paper. Hardmuth will shoot 
 on sight."! 
 
 "Oh, Jack if anything should happen to you!" 
 "Anything is quite as likely to happen to Mr. 
 Hardmuth." Jack took both her hands in the cover 
 ing, protective manner that had become habitual with 
 him toward Helen since the tragedy. 
 
 204
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "But not even that. My boy has killed a man, 
 and you, Jack you well, you just mustn't let it 
 happen that's all." 
 
 The appeal in her trembling whisper, the moisture 
 in her eyes as she looked up at him, was the most 
 satisfying answer that Brookfield had had during all 
 these months to his question asked on the night of 
 the opera asked in the same room, and beside the 
 table where they were now standing. 
 
 " I mustn't let it happen because ?" Jack waited. 
 
 "Because I couldn't bear it." 
 
 Jack bent over one of the hands he was holding and 
 kissed it.
 
 XIV 
 
 HPHE old Justice was scanning the titles of the 
 1 Editions de luxe in their glass cases. Mrs. Camp 
 bell, with characteristic matter-of-fact ness, bustled in 
 from the dining-room. 
 
 "What was the letter, Jack?" 
 
 Brookfield, still holding Helen's hand, led her tow 
 ard the dining-room. He mechanically handed the 
 lawyer's note to his sister as he passed her, saying 
 to Helen: "And now I'll agree to do the best I can 
 for Mr. Hardmuth if you'll take a cup of tea and a 
 biscuit." 
 
 "There isn't time," Helen protested. 
 
 " There's plenty of time if the adjournment was for 
 an hour." 
 
 "Jack!" Mrs. Campbell cried, explosively, the blue 
 letter fluttering at arm's-length. 
 
 Brookfield turned, startled at the suddenness of the 
 outcry, and, divining its cause, he implored: "Just 
 one minute." Then gently yet firmly said to Helen: 
 "Go, please." 
 
 Helen joined Viola in the dining-room. 
 
 " He threatens your life!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, 
 interpreting the letter for him. 
 
 " Not exactly," Brookfield answered; " simply Colo 
 nel Bailey's opinion that he will shoot on sight." 
 
 206
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 " Oh " Mrs. Campbell stamped her foot and turn 
 ed impatiently to the Justice for understanding and 
 appreciation. 
 
 "There is a difference, you know," Brookfield con 
 tinued, "my dear sister " 
 
 The entrance of Jo interrupted him. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Mr. Ellinger, suh." 
 
 Lew came briskly into the room, in his hand a news 
 paper open and displayed. 
 
 "Hello, Jack!" 
 
 "Well, Lew!" 
 
 " Why, that's the damnedest thing " Then, as he 
 saw Mrs. Campbell, Lew apologized. "I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 "Don't, please," the lady answered: "some manly 
 emphasis is a real comfort, Mr. Ellinger." 
 
 Lew bustled busily over to Brookfield. 
 
 "That charge of yours against Hardmuth is raisin' 
 more he he high feelin' than anything that ever 
 happened!" 
 
 "I saw the paper." 
 
 " You didn't see this it's an extra." And Lew be 
 gan to read, standing under the electrolier that Brook- 
 field had turned on for Colonel Bailey's letter. He 
 read, following the thrilling head-lines with his fore 
 finger, and looking over his glasses into Jack's face as 
 he pointed to the more sensational lines: " ' The Charge 
 Read to the Convention in Night Session at Frankfort 
 Bill Glover Hits Jim Macey on the Nose Devoe, of 
 Carter County, Takes Jim's Gun Away from Him The 
 Delegation from Butler Get Down on Their Stomachs 
 
 207
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 and Crawl Under the Benches Some Statesmen Go 
 Through the Windows Convention Takes Recess Till 
 Morning Local Sheriff Swearin' in Deputies to Keep 
 Peace in the Bar-rooms.'" Lew let the paper fall to 
 his side and said, ominously, to Jack: "That's all 
 you've done." 
 
 "Good," said Brookfield; and then, with a note of 
 triumph, he added: "They can't nominate Mr. Hard- 
 muth now." 
 
 Lew turned to Mrs. Campbell. "I've been hedgin' 
 I told the fellows I'd bet Jack hadn't said it." 
 
 "Yes, I did say it," corrected Jack. 
 
 "In just those words?" Lew again spread the 
 paper under the electric light and read: "'The poor 
 fellow who crouched back of a window-sill and shot 
 Kentucky's governor-elect deserves hanging less than 
 the man whom he is shielding the man who laid the 
 plot of assassination, the present prosecuting attorney 
 by appointment Frank Allison Hardmuth. ' Did you 
 say that?" 
 
 " Lew, that there might be no mistake, I wrote it!" 
 And Brookfield brought his hand down with emphasis 
 upon Lew's shoulder. Ellinger emitted a long whistle 
 of prophetic consternation. Brookfield turned off the 
 electrolier, and the light in the room fell to its usual 
 volume. 
 
 When Ellinger could pull himself together after 
 his astonishment he inquired : 
 
 "Is it straight?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He was in the plot to kill the governor-elect ?" 
 
 "He organized it." 
 
 208
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Well, what do you think of that?" Lew asked of 
 the surrounding atmosphere. " And now he's running 
 for governor himself a murderer!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And for six months he's been houndin' every 
 fellow in Louisville that sat down to a game of cards!" 
 Lew crossed to the Justice and in a confidential under 
 tone complained: "The damned rascal's nearly put 
 me in the poor-house." 
 
 "Poor old Lew," Jack laughed. 
 
 " Why, before I could go to that court-house to-day," 
 Ellinger continued, "I had to take a pair of scissors 
 that I used to cut coupons with and trim the whiskers 
 off my shirt-cuffs." The deep indignity of this ca 
 lamity as he recalled it turned the old sport toward 
 Brookfield with something of resentment. " How long 
 have you known this?" 
 
 "Ever since the fact." 
 
 "Why do you spring it only now?" 
 
 "Because until now I lacked the character and 
 moral courage. I 'spring it' now by the advice of 
 Justice Prentice, to reach that convention at Frank 
 fort." 
 
 "Well, you reached them." 
 
 "The convention was only a secondary consid 
 eration with me," Justice Prentice said; "my real 
 objective was this jury with whom Mr. Hardmuth 
 seemed so powerful." 
 
 "Reach the jury?" Lew asked, not believing that 
 he had heard correctly. 
 
 "The jury!" Jack exclaimed, in a burst of en 
 thusiasm. Suddenly he grasped the significance of 
 
 209
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 the fact in the light of his new philosophy. "Why, 
 of course the entire jury; and I was hoping hoping 
 for one man why, Alice " 
 
 "Why, they don't see the papers," Lew interrupt 
 ed; "the jury won't get a line of this." 
 
 "I think they will." 
 
 "You got 'em fixed?" 
 
 "Fixed? No!" Brookfield resented the question 
 as positively as he denied the fact. 
 
 "Then how will they see it?" 
 
 "How many people in Louisville have already 
 read that charge as you have read it?" Prentice 
 asked. 
 
 "Thirty thousand, maybe, but " 
 
 "And five hundred thousand in the little cities and 
 the towns. Do you think, Mr. Ellinger, that all those 
 minds can be at white-heat over that knowledge, and 
 none of it reach the thought of those twelve men? 
 Ah, no." 
 
 "To half a million good Kentuckians to-night 
 Frank Hardmuth is a detestable thing," Jack con 
 tinued, in the same strain, "and that jury's faith in 
 him is dead." 
 
 Ellinger blinked in helpless confusion. He tried to 
 grasp the idea, but all he could say was: "Why, Jack, 
 old man, you're dippy!" 
 
 "Then, Mr. Ellinger, I am ' dippy ' too," the Justice 
 tice added. 
 
 "Why, do you think the jury gets the public opin 
 ion without anybody tellin' them or their reading it ?" 
 Lew asked, impatiently. 
 
 "Yes. In every widely discussed trial the defend- 
 
 210
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ant is tried not alone by his twelve peers, but by the 
 entire community." 
 
 "Why, blast it, the community goes by what the 
 newspapers say!" Lew's good-nature was almost ex 
 hausted. 
 
 "That is often the regrettable part of it," Prentice 
 admitted, "but the fact remains." 
 
 Brookfield stood silent in rapt admiration of the 
 method of the Justice. If there was a uniform law, 
 and he believed that he had demonstrated its exist 
 ence, by which the active and aggressive thinking of 
 one mind could affect another, and if the intensity 
 of this effect increased as the battery of minds was 
 strengthened by additional numbers, Brookfield be 
 lieved that at the instigation of Prentice he had in 
 voked this law at the most crucial moment of his 
 existence, and had applied it in the most direct way 
 possible. The value of their act grew in his estima 
 tion when he recalled his reading on the psychology 
 of panics, of religious revivals and sentimental cru 
 sades which move like prairie-fires in their rapid com 
 munication between the units of a crowd. Despite 
 the incredulity of Ellinger and his sister, Brookfield 
 felt an unbounded hope in the force he had set in 
 motion, and which at that very moment was moving 
 with cumulative momentum upon the twelve men 
 sitting in deliberative conference in the jury-room at 
 the court-house. He clapped his hands, and turned to 
 the Justice enthusiastically. 
 
 "And that is why you asked me to expose Frank 
 Hardmuth?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 211
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Jack took Mrs. Campbell's arm and started for the 
 dining-room to communicate his new hope to Helen. 
 He was arrested by Ellinger's comment: 
 
 "Well, the public will think you did it because he 
 closed your game." 
 
 "Hardmuth didn't close my game." 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 "This man." Jack, with deference and affection, 
 pointed to the Justice. 
 
 Prentice bowed. 
 
 "Well, how the he er Heaven's name did he 
 close it?" 
 
 "He gave my self-respect a slap on the back, Lew, 
 and I stood up." 
 
 Brookfield and his sister left the room. Lew fol 
 lowed slowly to the doorway, hoping for some greater 
 light to be shed upon the question. As illumination 
 failed he turned to the Justice and expressed his 
 mental condition in a single favorite expletive: 
 
 "Stung!" 
 
 The Justice was sufficiently familiar with the slang 
 of the period to be amused by Lew's laconic summary. 
 His smile gave Lew courage for some critical vent. 
 
 "So you are responsible for these new ideas of 
 Jack's?" 
 
 "In a measure," the Justice answered, as he took 
 a chair. ' ' Have the ideas apparently hurt Mr. Brook- 
 field?" 
 
 "They've put him out of business that's all." 
 Ellinger endeavored to conceal a sneer. * 
 
 "Which business?" 
 
 "Why, this house of his." Lew's hands involun- 
 
 212
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 tarily trembled in the veriest descriptive sketch of a 
 deal as he nodded to the floor above, where the 
 gambling paraphernalia had formerly been. 
 
 "I see," said Prentice, comprehending. "But his 
 new ideas don't you like them, Mr. Ellinger?" 
 
 "I like Jack Brookfield, love him like a brother, 
 but I don't want even a brother askin' me if I'm sure 
 I've thought it over when I start in to take the halter 
 off for a pleasant evening. You get my idea ?" 
 
 "I begin to," Prentice confessed, trying to hide his 
 amusement. 
 
 "In other words," continued Lew, "I don't want 
 to take my remorse first it dampens the fun. The 
 other day a lady at the races said, 'We've missed you, 
 Mr. Ellinger,' and I said: 'Have you? Well, I'll be 
 up this evening.' ' A smile came over the old sport's 
 face, and a new light crept into it that explained to 
 Prentice's quick comprehension Lew's reputed popu 
 larity and the propriety of the ever-present pink in 
 the button-hole. "And I'm pressing her hand and 
 hanging onto it till I'm afraid I'll get the carriage 
 grease on my coat, feelin' only about thirty- two, you 
 know." He didn't look much older as he threw back 
 his lapels. "Then I turn round and Jack has those 
 sleepy lamps on me and bla!" Lew threw out his 
 hands and let them fall inertly. His knees sagged 
 under him, and with one pirouette he sank into the 
 sofa like an old fighter on the ropes. 
 
 "And you don't go?" Prentice concluded, when he 
 could command his gravity. 
 
 "I do go, as a matter of self-respect." Lew sat up, 
 full of resentful dignity. "But I don't make a hit. 
 
 213
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 I'm thinking so much more about those morality 
 ideas of Jack's than I am about the lady that it 
 cramps my style, and we never get past the weather 
 and ' When did you hear from so and so ?'" Lew rose 
 from the sofa, disgusted with the memory of the in 
 effectual evening and the new ideas that had made 
 it possible. "I want to reform, all right I believe in 
 reform ; but first I want to have the fun of fallin', and 
 fallin' hard." 
 
 Jo's voice was heard in the hallway; it was as full 
 of alarm as if he had encountered a ghost. It rang 
 through the library and echoed in the dining-room, 
 where the startled hearers could scarcely believe the 
 import of its cry. 
 
 "'Fore God, Marse Clay!" And then Clay's voice 
 resounded in almost equal clearness in a hurry of 
 words, from the confusion of which his mother's name 
 might be distinguished. Mrs. Campbell was the first 
 to enter the library. 
 
 "Why, that's Clay!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "It's the boy!" announced Lew. 
 
 "His mother!" fearfully breathed Mrs. Campbell. 
 She faltered in an impulse to turn back toward Helen, 
 but Clay was already in the library and in Mrs. Camp 
 bell's embrace as Prentice simultaneously said : " Ac 
 quittal." 
 
 Brookfield took one step into the dining-room, and 
 was just in time to support Helen. 
 
 "My boy!" Helen cried. She tottered toward 
 him. 
 
 Clay sobbed "Mother!" and sank to his knees, his 
 face buried in her gown. The joy of his release found 
 
 214
 
 vent in tears as there came over him a surging real 
 ization of the suffering he had caused. 
 
 Helen swayed, and 'would have fallen but for Jack's 
 strong arm. With a sharp grip of the shoulder he 
 said, in stimulating severity: 
 
 "He's free, Helen; he's free!" 
 
 "Yes, mother, I'm free!" Clay rose to his feet, 
 his arms about his mother. 
 
 Helen's face sank on his breast. There was a 
 hushed silence, in which the members of the party 
 heard her sobbing whisper: "My boy! my boy!" 
 
 Jack left them and crossed the room, greeting 
 Colonel Bailey, who had accompanied Clay to the 
 house and now followed him into the room. Helen, 
 roused by the stir about her, looked up and be 
 yond her son to where Viola was standing by Mrs. 
 Campbell, her fingers locked in a joy almost as in 
 tense and inarticulate as Helen's. The mother gen 
 erously turned Clay's face and pointed to the girl. 
 
 "Viola, my brave sweetheart!" Clay whispered, as 
 he took her in his arms. 
 
 "Is it really over?" Viola asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Jack was shaking Colonel Bailey's hand. 
 
 "It's a great victory, Colonel. If ever a lawyer 
 made a good fight for a man's life, you did. Helen, 
 Viola you must want to shake this man's hand." 
 
 Viola, who was nearest, took the hand of the at 
 torney as she met him. 
 
 "I could have thrown my arms around you when 
 you made that speech." 
 
 The old cavalier shook his head gallantly. "Too 
 
 215
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 many young fellows crowding into the profession as 
 it is." 
 
 The lawyer passed on to Helen, who said: "Life 
 must be sweet to a man who can do so much good as 
 you do." 
 
 "I couldn't stand it, you know," Bailey bantered, 
 defensively, "if it wasn't that my ability works both 
 ways." 
 
 " Marse Clay!" It was the trembling voice of Uncle 
 Harvey, who, finding his dining-room deserted, had 
 come into the library. 
 
 "Harvey! Why, dear old Harvey!" 
 
 Clay took him by both hands. The old darky 
 proceeded to pat him on arms and shoulders, to be 
 doubly sure that the boy was really back. 
 
 " Yes, suh yes, suh could you eat anything, 
 Marse Clay?" 
 
 "Eat anything!" laughed the boy. "Why, I'm 
 starving, Uncle Harvey!" 
 
 " Yes, suh." The old man capered from the 
 room. 
 
 "But you come with me," said Clay to his mother 
 and Viola. 
 
 "My boy, Colonel," Helen apologized, as she left 
 the room with Clay, taking Viola with her. 
 
 Bailey and Mrs. Campbell followed. Ellinger, who 
 was the last of the procession to quit Brookfield and 
 Prentice, said, as he left the room: 
 
 "Well, I don't believe I could eat anything but I 
 suppose there'll be something else." 
 
 Brookfield took from the table the threatening let 
 ter of Hardmuth. 
 
 216
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Justice Prentice," he said, "I shall never doubt 
 you again." 
 
 "Mr. Brookfield," the Justice answered, impressive 
 ly, "never doubt yourself." 
 
 Brookfield 's hand was above his head in touch 
 with the button of the electrolier. There was 
 the sound of rushing footsteps in the hallway. 
 Hardmuth, livid of countenance, dashed into the 
 room. 
 
 "You think you'll send me to the gallows; but, 
 damn you, you go first!" 
 
 Both hands were struggling to free from his over 
 coat-pocket a double-barrelled derringer that had 
 caught in the lining. The weapon was freed; there 
 was the double click of the hammer as Hardmuth 
 pushed it against Brookfield's body. 
 
 "Stop!" As if released by Brookfield's word 
 the full light of the electrolier fell into Hardmuth's 
 eyes. 
 
 Behind Brookfield one hand of the old Justice point 
 ed at Hardmuth in silent but riveting command. 
 Hardmuth's thought seemed to desert him. He felt 
 in his face the glare of the light; he saw Brook- 
 field's eyes, like two burning coals from which it 
 was impossible to take his gaze. Behind Brook- 
 field, in the circle of half-light, he felt rather than 
 saw the eyes of Prentice. Through a haze of con 
 sciousness he heard Brookfield's level monotone 
 slow, compelling: 
 
 " You can't use that gun you can't pull the trig 
 ger you can't even hold the gun!" 
 
 Hardmuth heard the sound of the derringer as it 
 
 217
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 dropped from his inert grasp and struck the floor. 
 And then again the voice of Brookfield : 
 
 "Now, Frank, you may go." 
 
 Hardmuth felt as one waking from a dream. In 
 an awed and throaty whisper he said: "I'd like to 
 know how in hell you did that to me!"
 
 XV 
 
 "\ \ 7 HEN Hardmuth reached the street the newsboys, 
 V V who came as far south as Brookfield's only on 
 extraordinary occasions, were crying the extras, with 
 the report of Whipple's acquittal and the discovery of 
 the Scovil murderer. 
 
 Hardmuth's impulse was flight. 
 
 He remembered that he had often commented on 
 the lack of intelligence shown by criminals in flight. 
 It had been easy to reconstruct the route of a fugitive 
 from the report of his mistakes in the paper, or to 
 show how he had lost time that had been fatal to him 
 by aimlessly doubling on his tracks or stupidly hid 
 ing where his pursuers would most naturally search 
 for him. 
 
 His great need consequently, he reasoned, was for 
 a few minutes' calm reflection: if only he could have 
 half an hour in his own room he was certain he could 
 plan a means of escape from the arrest that was doubt 
 less now under way ; but he dared not go to his room. 
 This must have been clear to his subconscious mind 
 from the first as an instinct had guided his steps before 
 his reason approved it, for he found himself walking 
 swiftly away from the heart of the town. The night 
 was bitter cold; few pedestrians were out. Hard 
 muth's direction would soon take him from the city, 
 is 219
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 but it would also take him into the State. His hope 
 lay in reaching Indiana. 
 
 If he could only get some perspective upon himself. 
 How would he advise another in his situation who 
 might come to him for counsel ? As he revolved this 
 question in his mind the two voices of his subjective 
 and objective self entered into debate: 
 
 " What are you going to do ? Don't let this rattle 
 you brace up and answer me." 
 
 "Do? I don't know. What do you advise me to do ?" 
 
 "Get under cover keep still for a day or two. 
 Brookfield has probably telephoned headquarters be 
 fore this that you're running away, and the police 
 are watching every bridge and highway." 
 
 Hardmuth had been walking south. He turned 
 east over Ormsby Street and into Bainbridge. On 
 that side of Louisville there lies a little chain of grave 
 yards (St. Michael's, St. Louis, and Cave Hill), sepa 
 rated from one another by only a few blocks. At the 
 end of an hour's walk Hardmuth was skirting the 
 outside of Cave Hill Cemetery, the last of the chain, 
 and coming into the district of railroad tracks. Sud 
 denly he pulled up this was commonplace and stupid. 
 He was treading the very ground where he himself, 
 in the discharge of his duty, would have directed the 
 police to search for some besotted heeler who might 
 have killed his sweetheart in a drunken jealousy! 
 
 Could he, in his emergency, do nothing original? 
 Was there a stencil for the plans of the criminal? 
 Probably all men tired and cold and hungry and 
 hunted were much alike. 
 
 He had had no dinner. The day and evening had 
 
 220
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 been filled with exciting events. The reaction from 
 the rush of murderous fury, checked only at the last 
 moment when about to vent its hate, had left him 
 weary. Strange how Brookfield did that! Some 
 unusual shock something he could not account for 
 in his experience had stayed his hand when Brook- 
 field turned on that light and those two pairs of glow 
 ing eyes had burned into his brain. He almost reeled 
 at the thought of it, and his hand instinctively went 
 up to his eyes, as if he would shut out the sight. He 
 pulled himself together and laughed aloud at his 
 weakness. At this rate his strength and endurance 
 would soon run out, and some patrolman would find 
 him on the pavement before morning. He resolved 
 to go to one of the cheaper hotels near the river, and 
 take the small chance of recognition. He would have 
 food and three or four stiff drinks, which, God knew, 
 he needed. He would have a bed and a chance to 
 sleep, and sleep late; and then, if they hadn't found 
 him, he could wait until night again, when he might 
 look up some friends whose interest it would be to 
 assist him. 
 
 As he reached this decision he found himself cross 
 ing Jackson Street. This avenue was illuminated by 
 a string of arc-lights hung on a single line, gemlike, 
 through its entire length. Hardmuth paused. He 
 recognized the neighborhood. At the foot of this 
 street lived a colored woman who had once been a 
 servant in his mother's home; her house would be 
 a surer refuge than a hotel; besides, she would be a 
 safe messenger in communicating with his friends. 
 He turned north, and moved along Jackson Street 
 
 221
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 toward the river; not another human being was in 
 sight. The only evidence of life was a little light in 
 the watch - tower of the signal - man who controlled 
 the barriers guarding the railway crossing. He pass 
 ed the Chesapeake & Ohio big freight-house, through 
 the grilled end of which came that damp odor of 
 traffic blent of sugar, tobacco, and sacked coffee. He 
 crossed the tracks, and went on through the shadows 
 of the colossal pipe and foundry company. One 
 block farther on he paused. On his left two mon 
 strous piles the city's gas-tanks loomed into the 
 twinkling, frosty night. Against the sky-line to his 
 right, a block or two away, was silhouetted the faint 
 tracery of the railway bridge, broken by the battery 
 of smoke-stacks above a rambling foundry. About 
 him on the cinders and brick fill-in were old and 
 rusting boilers, gigantic spools of unused cable, and 
 gnarled and twisted heaps of iron. In their midst, 
 and from a lower level, peeped the chimney of Mandy's 
 cottage. A little fence of uneven and unequal boards 
 made a pretence at enclosure. 
 
 Through the maze of rubbish Hardmuth groped his 
 way. He mounted the flight of rickety steps that 
 led up over the half story which formed a basement 
 to the house and rapped on the door. From within 
 came a challenge. Hardmuth answered: 
 
 "That you, Mandy? Is George there? Open the 
 door." 
 
 There was a shuffling of footsteps, then the strik 
 ing of a match; a light shone through a crack in the 
 weather-warped panel of the door, a hand fell on the 
 knob, a man's voice asked: 
 
 222
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Me, George Mandy knows my voice put out 
 the light before you open the door." 
 
 The woman's voice was heard in lower tone: 
 
 "It's Marse Frank blowout de light, like he done 
 tell you." 
 
 The light went out; the door opened; the prose 
 cuting attorney disappeared into the shadow, a fugi 
 tive from justice. 
 
 The evening after the trial Viola and Clay sat to 
 gether in the library of the Brookfield house. It 
 had been a day of incident and excitement. 
 
 "I must really say good-night and let you get some 
 sleep," Viola said, sympathetically. 
 
 "Not before Jack gets home," Clay pleaded. "Our 
 mothers have considerately left us alone together; 
 they'll just as inconsiderately tell us when it's time 
 to part." 
 
 "My mother said it was time half an hour ago." 
 
 "Wait until Jack comes in," Clay coaxed. 
 
 The young darky, Jo, brought in a card. 
 
 "Dey's another reporter to see you, suh." 
 
 "Send him away," Viola directed. "Mr. Whipple 
 won't see any more reporters." 
 
 "Wait a minute, "said Clay. "Who is he?" Jo hand 
 ed him the card. "I've got to see this one, Viola." 
 
 "Why got to?" 
 
 "He's a friend. I'll see him, Jo." 
 
 "Yes, suh." Jo left the room. 
 
 "You've said that all day they're all friends," 
 Viola remonstrated. 
 
 223
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Well, they are; but this boy especially. It was 
 fine to see you and mother and Jack when I was 
 in that jail great; but you were there daytimes. 
 This boy spent hours on the other side of the bars 
 helping me pass the awful nights. I tell you, death- 
 cells would be pretty nearly hell if it wasn't for the 
 police reporters; ministers ain't in it with 'em." 
 
 Jo ushered the reporter into the room. 
 
 "How are you, Ned?" Clay took his hand, greet 
 ing him cordially. "You know Miss Campbell, Mr. 
 Emmett." 
 
 The reporter nodded affably; Viola bowed. 
 
 "Have a chair." 
 
 "Thank you." Emmett looked about the warm 
 and luxurious room. "This is different, isn't it?" 
 
 "Some," returned Clay, in the national habit of 
 understatement. 
 
 "Satisfied the way we handled the story?" Emmett 
 asked, as he took the offered chair. 
 
 "Perfectly; you were just bully, old man." 
 
 "That artist of ours is only a kid, and they work 
 him to death on the 'Sunday,'" Emmett explained 
 to Viola; "so" apologetically to Clay "you under 
 stand, don't you?" 
 
 "Oh, I got used to the pictures a year ago." 
 
 There was an awkward pause ; then Emmett coughed 
 and proposed: "Anything you want to say?" 
 
 "For the paper?" Viola asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I think not," Clay answered. 
 
 Just then Helen and Alice came into the room. 
 
 "You have met my mother?" said Clay. Emmett 
 
 224
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 answered, "No"; and Clay introduced him, adding, 
 proudly : "This is Mr. Emmett, of whom I've told you." 
 
 "Oh, the good reporter!" Helen exclaimed, appre 
 ciatively. 
 
 "Gee! That would be a wonder if the gang heard 
 it!" Emmett whispered, laughingly, to Clay; then in 
 assent to Helen: "We got pretty well acquainted 
 yes'm." 
 
 "Won't you sit down, Mr. Emmett?" Mrs. Camp 
 bell asked. 
 
 "Thank you. I guess we've covered everything," 
 the reporter continued, in the business-like manner of 
 his profession ; ' ' but the chief wanted me to see your 
 son" turning to Helen and then to Clay "and see 
 if you'd do the paper a favor." 
 
 "If possible gladly." 
 
 "I don't like the assignment because well, for 
 the very reason that it was handed to me, and that 
 is because we're more or less friendly." 
 
 Brookfield came in briskly from the hall. He was 
 still wearing the great fur coat he had worn in the 
 automobile, and carried in his hand his cap and 
 goggles. 
 
 "Well, it's a wonderful night outside," he said, 
 joyously. 
 
 "You're back early," his sister offered. 
 
 "Purposely. How are you, Emmett?" The re 
 porter bowed. "I thought you girls might like a 
 little run in the moonlight before I put up the ma 
 chine," Jack explained. 
 
 "Mr. Emmett has some message from his editor," 
 Helen said. 
 
 225
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "There's a warrant out for Hardmuth you saw 
 that?" Emmett asked of the entire group. 
 
 "Yes, we saw that," Viola said. 
 
 "To-night's paper," Jack added. 
 
 "If they get him," Emmett continued, "and he 
 comes to trial and all that, it will be the biggest trial 
 Kentucky ever saw." 
 
 "Well?" Clay prompted. 
 
 " Well, the paper wants you to agree to report it for 
 them the trial. There'll be other papers after you, 
 of course." 
 
 "Oh no!" Viola exclaimed, horrified, going in 
 stinctively to Clay's side. 
 
 "Understand, Clay, I'm not asking it," Emmett 
 said, apologetically. " I'm here under orders, just as 
 I'd be at a fire or a bread riot." 
 
 "And of course" Clay hesitated, searching for a 
 diplomatic refusal "you understand, don't you?" 
 
 "Perfectly," the reporter answered. "I told the 
 chief myself you wouldn't see it." 
 
 "Paper's been too friendly for me to assume any 
 any" 
 
 "Unnecessary dignity," Jack suggested. 
 
 "Exactly; but I just couldn't do that, you see." 
 
 "Oh, leave it to me; I'll let you down easy," Em 
 mett assured him. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "You expect to be in Europe or " 
 
 "But I don't." 
 
 "We're going to stay right here in Louisville," 
 Viola declared, putting her hand in Clay's. 
 
 226
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Yes," added the boy, "and work out my my re 
 habilitation among the people who know me." 
 
 " Of course," Emmett said, understandingly. " Eu 
 rope's just to stall off the chief to get him off on 
 some other dope." 
 
 Helen rose anxiously from the sofa with the impulse 
 of protest. 
 
 " It's all right," Jack said to her. 
 
 "I hate to begin with a falsehood." 
 
 "Not your son, Mrs. Whipple me," Emmett laugh 
 ed. He turned to Jack. "I saw some copy on our 
 telegraph desk, Mr. Brookfield, that would interest 
 you." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Or maybe you know of it ? Frankfort?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Some friend named you in the caucus." 
 
 "What connection?" 
 
 "Governor." 
 
 "Uncle Jack?" Viola asked, enthusiastically. 
 
 "Yes'm that is, for the nomination." 
 
 All looked at Brookfield. There was but a mo 
 ment's serious consideration for Jack before he 
 laughed : 
 
 "It's a joke." 
 
 " Grows out of these Hardmuth charges, of course," 
 Emmett assented, smiling. 
 
 "That's all," Jack answered. 
 
 The reporter said good-night and left the room. 
 Clay, after accompanying him to the door, returned, 
 his face set and bearing the stamp of malignant de 
 termination. 
 
 227
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "If it weren't for the notoriety of it, I'd like to do 
 that." 
 
 "My son!" Helen exclaimed, reproachfully. 
 
 " Why would you like to do it ?" Jack asked, quietly. 
 
 "To get even. I'd like to see Hardmuth suffer as 
 he made me suffer; I'd like to watch him suffer and 
 write of it." 
 
 "That's a bad spirit to face the world with, my 
 boy." 
 
 "I hate him!" 
 
 " Hatred is heavier freight for the shipper than it is 
 for the consignee." 
 
 "I can't help it." 
 
 "Yes, you can. Mr. Hardmuth should be of the 
 utmost indifference to you; to hate him is weak." 
 
 "Weak?" Viola interjected. 
 
 "Yes, weak-minded," pursued her uncle. "Hard 
 muth was in love with you at one time he hated 
 Clay. He said Clay was as weak as dish-water, and ' ' 
 facing the boy and looking him straight in the eyes 
 "you were at that time. You've had your lesson 
 profit by it its meaning was self-control. Begin 
 now if you are going to be the custodian of this girl's 
 happiness." 
 
 "I'm sure he means to, Jack," Helen interposed. 
 
 " You can carry your hatred of Hardmuth and let 
 it embitter your whole life, or you can drop it so." 
 Jack let fall on the table the book he had taken up. 
 "The power that any man or any thing has to annoy 
 us we give him or it by our interest. Some idiot told 
 your great-grandmother that a jewel with different 
 colored strata in it was 'bad luck' or a 'hoodoo.' She 
 
 228
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 believed it, and she nursed her faith and passed the 
 lunacy on to your grandmother." 
 
 "Jack, don't talk of that, please/' Helen protested. 
 
 "I'll skip one generation; but I'd like to talk of it." 
 
 "Why talk of it?" Mrs. Campbell ventured to ask. 
 
 "It was only a notion, and an effort of will can 
 banish it." Jack was again speaking to the boy. 
 
 "It was more than a notion." 
 
 " Tom Denning' s scarf - pin, which he dropped 
 there " he pointed to the floor "was an exhibit in 
 your trial; Colonel Bailey returned it to me to-day." 
 Brookfield put his hand in his pocket. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't, Uncle Jack," Viola said, 
 timidly. 
 
 "You don't mind, do you?" Brookfield asked Clay. 
 
 " I'd rather not look at it to-night." The boy's face 
 was averted, his voice trembled. 
 
 "You needn't look at it," Brookfield said, quietly; 
 " I'll hold it in my hand, and you put your hand over 
 mine." 
 
 " I really don't see the use in this experiment, Jack," 
 Mrs. Campbell fluttered. Clay had obediently placed 
 one hand over Brookfield 's, but he still kept his eyes 
 averted. 
 
 "That doesn't annoy you, does it?" Brookfield 
 asked. 
 
 "I'm controlling myself, sir," the boy answered, 
 through shut teeth, "but I feel the influence of that 
 thing all through and through me." 
 
 "Jack!" Helen pleaded. 
 
 Viola turned away, unable to bear the sight of the 
 boy's suffering. 
 
 229
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Down your back, isn't it?" Jack persisted, relent- 
 lessly, "and in the roots of your hair tingling?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why torture him?" Helen demanded. 
 
 "Is it torture?" Jack asked of Clay. 
 
 "I shall be glad when it's over, sir," the boy 
 answered, with an additional effort at self-con 
 trol. 
 
 "What rot!" Brookfield threw oS Clay's hand. He 
 opened his own. "That's only my night-key look 
 at it!" The boy turned and looked. " I haven't the 
 scarf-pin about me!" 
 
 "Why make me think it was the scarf-pin?" Clay 
 asked, with a considerable show of frightened indig 
 nation. 
 
 "To prove to you that it's only thinking that's all. 
 Now, be a man. The cat's-eye itself is in that table 
 drawer. Get it, and show Viola that you're not a neu 
 ropathic idiot." Clay crossed to the table. "You're a 
 child of the everlasting God, and nothing on the earth 
 or under it can harm you in the slightest degree!" 
 Clay had opened the drawer and taken from it the 
 scarf-pin; he held it at arm's -length before him. 
 "That's the spirit look at it!" Brookfield took Clay 
 by the wrist and pushed the jewel immediately be 
 fore his eyes. "Look at it close I've made many a 
 young horse do that to an umbrella now give it to 
 me." Brookfield took the scarf-pin and carried it to 
 Viola. " You're not afraid of it ?" 
 
 "Of course I'm not," the girl smiled. 
 
 Brookfield stuck the pin in the lace at her throat. 
 He turned to Clay. 
 
 230
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Now, if you want my niece, go up to that ' hoodoo* 
 like a man." 
 
 His fear of the jewel now apparently under com 
 plete control, Clay went up to Viola and took her in 
 his arms. 
 
 "Oh, Jack!" Helen exclaimed, happily, "do you 
 think that will last?" 
 
 "Which?" Brookfield asked, with a laugh " indif 
 ference to the ' hoodoo ' or partiality to my niece?" 
 
 "They'll both last," Clay answered, with resolu 
 tion. 
 
 " Now, my boy " Jack turned to him, his serious 
 ness resumed "drop your hatred of Hardmuth as 
 you drop your fear of the scarf-pin. Don't look 
 back your life is ahead of you; don't mount for 
 the race overweighted." 
 
 Jo announced Mr. Ellinger. Lew had followed him 
 to the doorway, and entered the dining-room behind 
 him. 
 
 "I don't intrude, do I?" It was almost a chal 
 lenge. 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 Lew was in a gale of excitement. He greeted the 
 ladies affably; he turned to the young people. 
 
 "Ah, Clay, glad to see you looking so well; glad 
 to see you in such good company 1" And then to 
 Jack, in triumph: "I've got him!" 
 
 "Got whom?" said Brookfield. 
 
 " Hardmuth. Detectives been hunting him all day, 
 you know." 
 
 "He's caught, you say?" Helen asked, excitedly. 
 
 "No; but I've treed him." Ellinger turned to 
 
 231
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Brookfield. "And I thought I'd just have a word 
 with you before passing the tip. He's nearly put 
 me in the poor-house with his raids and closing laws, 
 and I see a chance to get even." 
 
 "In what way?" Brookfield asked. 
 
 " They've been after him. nearly twenty-four hours 
 morning paper's going to offer a reward for him, 
 and I understand the State will also. If I had a lit 
 tle help I'd hide him for a day or two, and then sur 
 render him for those rewards." 
 
 "Where is Hardmuth?" 
 
 "HidinV 
 
 "Naturally," Brookfield commented. 
 
 " You remember ' Big George' ?" 
 
 "The darky?" 
 
 "Yes; used to be on the door at Phil Kelly's." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He's there in 'Big George's' cottage long 
 story." Lew turned with an air of importance to the 
 ladies. " ' Big George's ' wife that is she " El- 
 linger hesitated as his eyes fell on Viola. " Well, his 
 wife used to be pantry-maid for Hardmuth's mother. 
 When they raided Kelly's game 'Big George' pre 
 tended to turn State's evidence, but he really hates 
 Hardmuth like a rattler so it all comes back to me. 
 You see, if I'd win a couple of hundred at Kelly's I 
 used to slip George a ten goin' out." This explana 
 tion was unctuously given to the ladies: "Your luck 
 always stays by you if you divide a little with a 
 nigger or a hump-back, and in Louisville it's easier 
 to find a nigger. So " 
 
 "He's there now?" Brookfield interrupted. 
 
 232
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 " Yes. He wants to get away. He's got two guns, 
 and he'll shoot before he gives up, so I'd have to 
 'con* him some way. George's wife is to open the 
 door to Kelly's old signal you remember one 
 knock, then two, and then one." Ellinger acted out 
 the signal, rapping on the table. 
 
 "Where is the cottage?" 
 
 "Hundred and seven Jackson Street little door- 
 yard border of arbor- vitae on the path." 
 
 Jack took a sheet of paper and envelope from the 
 table-rack and began to write. 
 
 "One knock, then two, and then one?" he asked, 
 without looking up. 
 
 "What you goin' to do?" Ellinger inquired, alertly. 
 
 "Send for him." 
 
 " Who you goin' to send ?" There was a suggestion 
 of physical recoil as the old sport asked the question. 
 
 "That boy there," Brookfield answered. 
 
 "Me?" Clay rose to his feet. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh no no!" Helen exclaimed, aghast. 
 
 "And my niece," Brookfield added. 
 
 "What!" Viola cried, in alarm. "To arrest a 
 man?" 
 
 " My machine is at the door," Brookfield instructed 
 Clay. " Give Hardmuth this note he will come with 
 you quietly. Bring him here. We will decide what 
 to do with him after that." 
 
 " I can't allow Viola to go on such an errand," Mrs. 
 Campbell protested to her brother. 
 
 " When the man she has promised to marry is going 
 into danger?" Brookfield upbraided his sister. 
 
 233
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "If Mr. Hardmuth will come for that note, why 
 can't I deliver it?" Viola inquired, with an undefined 
 impulse for the heroic. 
 
 "You may," her uncle answered, smiling, "if Clay 
 will let you." He extended the note to the girl ; Clay 
 took it from him before Viola could do so. 
 
 "I'll hand it to him." 
 
 "I hope so," Brookfield answered. He took his 
 fur coat and goggles from the chair where he had 
 laid them. "Take these," he said, handing them to 
 Clay. "Remember: one rap, then two, then one." 
 
 "I understand," said the boy; "number " 
 
 " Hundred and seven Jackson Street," Ellinger sup 
 plied. 
 
 "I protest," Mrs. Campbell once more interposed. 
 
 "So do I," said Helen, joining her. 
 
 Jack turned to the younger couple. 
 
 " You're both of age I ask you to do it. If you 
 give Hardmuth the goggles nobody will recognize 
 him, and with a lady beside him you'll get him safely 
 here." 
 
 "Come!" said Clay, decisively, to Viola. 
 
 "I ought to be in the party!" Ellinger called, bus 
 tling after them. 
 
 "No," Brookfield commanded, "you stay here." 
 
 "That's scandalous!" Mrs. Campbell pronounced, 
 in high dudgeon with her brother. 
 
 "But none of us will start the scandal, will we?" 
 Brookfield asked his sister, in aggravating calm. 
 
 Helen turned to him and said: "Clay knows noth 
 ing of that kind of work. A man with two guns 
 think of it!" 
 
 234
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "After he's walked barehanded up to a couple of 
 guns a few times he'll quit fearing men armed only 
 with a scarf-pin," Brookfield replied. 
 
 "It's cruel to keep constantly referring to that 
 mistake of Clay's. I want to forget it." 
 
 Jack took Helen's hand tenderly in his own. 
 
 "The way to forget it, my dear Helen, is not to 
 guard it, a sensitive spot in your memory, btft to 
 grasp it as the wise ones grasp a nettle crush all its 
 power to harm you in one courageous contact. We 
 think things are calamities and trials and sorrows 
 only names; they are spiritual gymnastics, and have 
 an eternal value when once you confront them and 
 make them crouch at your feet. Say once for all 
 to your soul, and thereby to the world: 'Yes, my 
 boy killed a man because I'd brought him up a 
 half -effeminate, hysterical weakling; but he's been 
 through the fire, I've been through the fire, and we're 
 both the better for it.'" 
 
 "I can say that truthfully," Helen half sobbed, 
 "but I don't want to make a policeman of him just 
 the same." She withdrew her hand from Jack's, and, 
 on the verge of tears, went out of the room, followed 
 by Mrs. Campbell, who added, disapprovingly, as she 
 left: 
 
 "Your treatment is a little too heroic, Jack!" 
 
 16
 
 XVI 
 
 T EW waited anxiously until Jack had lighted a cigar, 
 JL*/ and then, unable to restrain his impatience longer, 
 he asked: 
 
 "Think they'll fetch him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He'll come, of course, if he does under the idea 
 that you'll help him when he gets here." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Pretty hard double-cross," Lew ruminated, "but 
 he deserves it." There was a pause, and then he went 
 on, confidentially: "I've got a note of fifteen thou 
 sand to meet to-morrow or, damn it, I don't think 
 I'd fancy this man-huntin'. I put up some Louis 
 ville & Nashville bonds for security, and the holder 
 of the note will be only too anxious to pinch 'em." 
 
 Brookfield took a check-book from the drawer of 
 the table and began to write, saying as he did so : 
 
 "You can't get your rewards in time for that." 
 
 "I know, and that's one reason I come to you, 
 Jack. If you see I'm in a fair way to get the re 
 wards " 
 
 "I'll lend you the money " Jack took him up. 
 
 "Thank you I thought you would. If I lose those 
 bonds they'll have me selling programmes for a livin' 
 at a grandstand. You see, I thought hatin' Hardmuth 
 
 236
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 as you do, and your reputation bein* up through that 
 stuff in the papers " 
 
 "There." Brookfield handed Ellinger the check. 
 
 "Thank you, old man." Lew scanned the check. 
 "I'll hand this back to you in a week." 
 
 "You needn't." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "You needn't hand it back. It's only fifteen thou 
 sand, and you've lost a hundred of them at poker in 
 these rooms." 
 
 "Never belly-ached, did I?" 
 
 "Never." Brookfield smiled. "But you don't owe 
 me that fifteen." 
 
 "Rot! I'm no baby. Square game, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "And I'll sit in a square game any time I get a 
 chance." Ellinger folded the check and put it into 
 his vest-pocket. 
 
 "I know, Lew, all about that." 
 
 " I'll play you for this fifteen right now. ' ' Ellinger's 
 fingers had not left the paper, and they reproduced it 
 from his pocket with comical eagerness. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Ain't had a game in three weeks." There was 
 a genuine note of appeal in the voice. "Besides, I 
 think my luck's changin'. When 'Big George' told 
 me about Hardmuth, I took George's hand before I 
 thought what I was doin', and you know what shakin' 
 hands with a nigger does just before any play." 
 
 "No, thank you, Lew," Jack repeated. 
 
 "My money's good as anybody else's, ain't it?" the 
 old gamester badgered. 
 
 237
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Just as good, but " 
 
 "Tain't a phoney check, is it?" EUinger scanned 
 the paper with close scrutiny. 
 
 "The check is all right," Brookfield said, restrain 
 ing his amusement with difficulty. 
 
 "Losing your nerve?" Ellinger taunted. 
 
 ' ' No !' ' Brookfield was immediately ashamed of the 
 anger in his tone. "Suppose you shuffle those cards 
 and deal a hand." He pointed to the side-table upon 
 which a deck of cards was lying. 
 
 ' 'That's like old times." Lew brightened. "What 
 is it stud-horse or draw?" 
 
 "Draw, if you say so." Brookfield went to the 
 opposite side of the room, where he stood in front of 
 the fireplace. 
 
 "I cut 'em?" Lew inquired, as he finished the 
 shuffle. 
 
 "You cut them." 
 
 Ellinger was dealing. "Table stakes this check 
 goes for a thousand." 
 
 "That suits me." 
 
 "Sit down," Lew invited, eager for the game. 
 
 "I don't need to sit down just yet,-" Brookfield said, 
 from his position before the fire. 
 
 "As easy as that, am I?" Ellinger grumbled. He 
 was squeezing his five cards and cautiously reading 
 their marginal characters. There was a moment's 
 pause as Brookfield gazed into the fire. 
 
 "Lew." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you happen to have three queens?" 
 
 Ellinger drew his cards toward him in instinctive 
 
 238
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 defence, gave a startled look at Brookfield, whose 
 back was to him, turned the cards over, examining 
 them with expert eye and touch, then looked at the 
 remaining cards in the deck. 
 
 "Well, I can't see it," he said. 
 
 "No use looking they're not marked." 
 
 "Well, I shuffled them all right?" 
 
 "Yes," Brookfield assented. 
 
 "And cut 'em?" 
 
 Brookfield nodded. 
 
 "Couldn't have been a cold deck?" 
 
 "No," said Jack. 
 
 "Then how did you know I had three queens?" 
 
 "I didn't know it I just thought you had." Brook- 
 field spoke slowly and sadly as he returned to the cen 
 tre of the room. 
 
 "Can you do it again?" 
 
 "I don't know." Brookfield paused. "Draw one 
 card." 
 
 Ellinger obeyed. "All right." 
 
 "Is it the ace of hearts ?" Brookfield asked, without 
 looking toward him. 
 
 "It is." Ellinger put down the card in a hush of 
 wonderment. Brookfield took the cigar from his lips 
 and slowly ground out its light in the bronze ash 
 tray on the table. He was as visibly affected as 
 Ellinger, though in quite a different way. 
 
 "Turns me into a rotter, doesn't it?" he commented, 
 sadly. 
 
 "Can you do that every time?" Lew's inquiry had 
 a suspicious alertness. 
 
 "I never tried it until to-night," Brookfield an- 
 
 239
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 swered, slowly "that is, consciously. I've always 
 had luck, and I thought it was because I took chances 
 on a guess, same as any player; but that doesn't 
 look like it, does it?" 
 
 "Beats me," Ellinger confessed. 
 
 "And what a monster it makes of me these years 
 I've been in the business." 
 
 "You say you didn't know it before?" Ellinger re 
 peated, his little eyes a-glitter with interest. 
 
 "I didn't know it no; but some things have hap 
 pened lately that made me think it might be so : that 
 jury yesterday" Brookfield recurred to the event 
 with impressive solemnity "some facts I've had from 
 Justice Prentice telepathy of a very common kind, 
 and I guess it's used in a good many games, old man, 
 we aren't on to." Brookfield was half sitting on the 
 large table in the centre of the room. Lew leaned 
 forward on the edge of his chair at the little card- 
 table opposite him. 
 
 "Well, have you told anybody?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 ' ' Good ! ' * Lew stood up in great excitement. ' ' Now 
 see here, Jack" he came quickly to Brookfield "if 
 you can do that right along I know a game in Cincin 
 nati where it would be like takin' candy from children." 
 
 "Good God!" Brookfield exploded. He turned 
 with an impulse of denunciation upon the old gambler 
 at his side. One look into Lew's keen face, however, 
 convinced him that there was no room for moral con 
 sideration in the undiluted rascality of Lew's inten 
 tion. Brookfield could only say: "You're not sug 
 gesting that I keep it up?" 
 
 240
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Don't overdo it no," said the old man, cautiously; 
 "or you show me the trick and I'll collect all right." 
 
 Brookfield was thinking. 
 
 "Lew," he said, slowly, when at length he spoke, 
 "some of the fellows I've won from in this house 
 have gone over into the park and blown their heads 
 off." 
 
 "Some of the fellows anybody wins from, in any 
 house, go somewhere and blow their heads off," Lew 
 drawled, discouragingly. 
 
 "True," Brookfield said. 
 
 "Three queens," Ellinger murmured, with growing 
 wonder "before the draw well, you could have 
 had me all right. And you won't tell me how you do 
 it?" he pleaded, sadly. 
 
 "I don't know how I do it the thought just comes 
 to my mind stronger than any other thought." 
 
 Lew fixed his disapproving gaze upon Brookfield, 
 and in the very superlative of rebuke exclaimed: 
 
 "God A'mighty gives you a mind like that, and you 
 won't go with me to Cincinnati!" 
 
 Jo entered, and announced Justice Prentice. 
 
 "Ask him to step up here," Brookfield ordered. 
 He then went to the door of the dining-room, and 
 called to his sister and Helen: "Justice Prentice is 
 coming up, and I'd like you to join us!" 
 
 Lew was again affectionately regarding the five 
 cards he had dealt himself. 
 
 "Can the old man call a hand like that, too?" he 
 asked Brookfield. 
 
 "I'm sure he could," said Jack. 
 
 "And are there others?" Ellinger inquired, his 
 
 241
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 sense of wonder at the trick overborne by sudden 
 hopelessness. 
 
 " I believe there are a good many others who un 
 consciously have the same ability." 
 
 "Well, it's a God's blessin' there's a sucker born 
 every minute. I'm a widow and an orphan 'long- 
 side of that." Lew threw the cards on the table in 
 disgust. 
 
 "Been losing, Mr. Ellinger?" Mrs. Campbell in 
 quired, as she and Helen came into the room. 
 
 " Losing ? I just saved fifteen thousand I was goin* 
 to throw away like sand in a rat-hole. I'm a babe 
 eatin' spoon- victuals, and only gettin' half at that." 
 Lew sorrowfully replaced the check in his pocket. 
 
 The Justice came into the room. 
 
 "I stopped at your hotel, Mr. Justice," Jack said, 
 "but you were out." 
 
 "Yes," Prentice explained, "I have been making 
 a few parting calls, and I stopped " 
 
 The hurried entrance of Viola and Mrs. Campbell's 
 exclamation at sight of her interrupted the Justice. 
 
 "Where's Clay?" Helen asked, with repressed ex 
 citement. 
 
 "Down-stairs." 
 
 Viola greeted the Justice and turned to Brookfield, 
 who excused himself to the others, and, stepping aside 
 with his niece, inquired: 
 
 "Did the gentleman come with you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Ellinger overheard this reply, and his own ner 
 vousness added to the uneasiness of the group. 
 
 "Won't you ask Clay, my dear," Brookfield con- 
 
 242
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 tinued to Viola, " to take him through the lower hall 
 and into the dining-room until I'm at liberty?" 
 
 "Certainly." Viola left on her errand. 
 
 "I am keeping you from other appointments," 
 Prentice said. 
 
 "Nothing that can't wait." 
 
 Brookfield offered him a chair, but the Justice de 
 clined it, and going to the ladies he extended his 
 hand. 
 
 "I am leaving for Washington in the morning." 
 
 "We shall all be at the train to see you off, Mr. 
 Justice," said Brookfield. 
 
 "That's good, because I should like to say good 
 bye to the young people I can see them there. I 
 sha'n't see you then, Mr. Ellinger?" Prentice crossed 
 to where Lew was still standing by the three queens, 
 gone but not forgotten. He extended his hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Justice," said Lew; "you've given 
 me more of a 'turnover' than you know." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " I'd 'a' saved two hundred thousand dollars if I'd 
 met you thirty years ago." 
 
 "Well, that's only a little over six thousand a 
 year, isn't it?" 
 
 "That's so; and, damn it, I have lived!" At this 
 statement, and with the recollection behind it, there 
 came into Lew's ruddy-duck smile that unctuous 
 suggestion of good feeling which was peculiarly his 
 own. The smile abided, and the retrospection grew 
 during the succeeding moments in which the Justice 
 was bidding farewell to the ladies and leaving Jack 
 in the hallway. 
 
 243
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 As Jack returned, his sister, who had been looking 
 into the dining-room, came quickly to him. 
 
 "Is that Hardmuth in there?" she asked, nodding 
 over her shoulder. 
 
 "Yes," Jack answered. 
 
 "I don't want to see him." 
 
 "Very well, dear; I'll excuse you." 
 
 "Come, Helen." Mrs. Campbell left the room. 
 
 "I'd like you to stay," Jack said to Helen. 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Left alone with Helen and Ellinger, Brookfield 
 crossed to the dining-room door and opened it. 
 
 "Come in," he said. 
 
 Viola entered, followed by Hardmuth and Clay. 
 In her excitement she had forgotten to lay off the fur 
 coat which she had worn in the automobile. As 
 Brookfield removed the coat from her shoulders he 
 said to her: 
 
 " Your mother has just left us, Viola ; you had bet 
 ter join her." 
 
 "Very well." As the girl started to go out her 
 uncle took her hand, detaining her a moment. 
 
 " I want you to know, my dear, how thoroughly I 
 appreciate your going on this errand for me. You're 
 the right stuff!" Jack kissed her affectionately; 
 Viola left the room. 
 
 Brookfield turned to Hardmuth, who was standing 
 by the side of Clay. Hardmuth was haggard and 
 had a hunted look. He wore a dark overcoat of 
 some light material; in his hand he held the auto 
 mobile goggles which Clay had given him. Brook- 
 
 244
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 field found it difficult to put into speech the severity 
 which he felt the situation demanded. 
 
 "You are trying to get away?" he began, inter 
 rogatively. 
 
 "This your note?" Hardmuth said, in reply, ex 
 tending Brookfield's letter. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Hardmuth glanced at the page. "You say you 
 will help me get out of the State?" 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Whenever you are ready." 
 
 "I'm ready now." 
 
 "Then I'll help you now." 
 
 "Now?" Ellinger cried out, in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Doesn't that render you liable in some way, Jack, 
 to the law?" Helen said, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes; but I've been liable to the law in some way 
 for the last twenty years." Brookfield turned to 
 Clay. " You go down and tell the chauffeur to leave 
 the machine and walk home; I'm going to run it 
 myself, and I'll turn it in." 
 
 "Yes, sir." Clay left the room. 
 
 " You're going to run it yourself ?" Hardmuth asked, 
 with quick suspicion. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "Across the river, if that's agreeable to you or 
 any place you name." 
 
 "Anybody waiting for you across the river?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 245
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Again Hardmuth extended Brookfield's letter. " Is 
 this all on the level?" 
 
 "Completely." 
 
 "Why, I believe you mean that," Ellinger said, in 
 perplexity to Jack. 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "But I've got something to say, haven't I?" 
 
 "I hope not." Brookfield's answer was full of 
 authority. 
 
 "Well, if you're in earnest, of course," Lew apolo 
 gized; "but I don't see your game." 
 
 "I'm not fully convinced of Mr. Hardmuth's guilt." 
 
 "Why, he's runnin' away!" 
 
 "I know what a case they would make against 
 me," Hardmuth blustered; "but I'm not guilty in 
 any degree." 
 
 "Frank," Brookfield sternly interrupted, "I want 
 to do this thing for you; don't make it too difficult 
 by any lying. When I said I wasn't fully convinced 
 of your guilt, my reservation was one you wouldn't 
 understand." He crossed to the mantel and pushed 
 the electric button. Clay had entered the room while 
 he was speaking, and stood respectfully waiting to 
 report. Brookfield now inquired of the boy: 
 
 "Is he gone?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My coat and goggles?" 
 
 "Below in the reception-room," Clay said. 
 
 "Thank you. I wish now you would go to Viola 
 and her mother, and keep them wherever they are." 
 
 "All right, sir." Clay left the room; Brookfield 
 turned to Hardmuth. 
 
 246
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Hungry?" 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 "Got money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The darky boy came in answer to the bell. "Jo, 
 take Mr. Hardmuth below and lend him one of the 
 fur coats." And then to Hardmuth, "I'll join you 
 immediately." 
 
 Hardmuth followed the boy from the room. 
 
 Again left alone with Ellinger and Helen, Brook- 
 field turned to Lew and said : 
 
 "Lew, I called that ace of hearts, didn't I?" 
 
 "And the three queens," Lew answered, with rem 
 iniscent regret. 
 
 "Because the three queens and the ace were in 
 your mind." 
 
 "I don't see any other explanation." 
 
 "But suppose instead of the cards there had been 
 in your mind a well-developed plan of assassination 
 the picture of a murder " 
 
 "Did you drop to him that way?" 
 
 ' ' No ; Raynor told me all I know of Hardmuth. But 
 here's the very hell of it." It was evident to Helen 
 that Brookfield's mental agony was unfeigned. "Long 
 before Scovil was killed I thought he deserved killing, 
 and I thought it could be done just as it was done." 
 
 "Jack!" Helen exclaimed, in a whisper. 
 
 "I never breathed a word of it to a living soul, 
 but Hardmuth planned it exactly as I dreamed it, 
 and, by God, a guilty thought is almost as criminal 
 as a guilty deed! I've always had a considerable in 
 fluence over that poor devil that's running away to- 
 
 247
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 night, and I'm not sure that before the Judge of 
 both of us the guilt isn't mostly mine." 
 
 In her wish to diminish Brookfield's mental suffer 
 ing, Helen sympathetically took his hand. "That's 
 morbid, Jack, dear," she urged "perfectly morbid." 
 
 "I hope it is- we'll none of us ever know in this 
 life." He turned to Ellinger. "But we can all of 
 us" 
 
 "What?" asked Lew, as Brookfield paused. 
 
 "Live as if it were true." With an effort Brook- 
 field threw off the sombreness of his mood and pre 
 pared for action. "I'm going to help him over the 
 line. The roads are watched, but the police won't 
 suspect me, and they won't suspect Lew, and all the 
 less if there is a lady with us." He turned again 
 briskly to Ellinger. "Will you go?" 
 
 "The limit," the old sport answered, in character 
 istic phrase. 
 
 "Get a heavy coat from Jo." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Brookfield was left alone with Helen. He turned 
 to where she was sitting at one end of the library- 
 table. The hour, the lighting of the room, their 
 relative positions recalled with photographic vivid 
 ness their conversation on the night of the opera, the 
 conversation in which he had received the first hint 
 of the power of which he had since become so respon 
 sibly conscious, and which had worked such regenera 
 tion in his life. He put one hand over her hand, rest 
 ing on the table as it had rested then. 
 
 "You know you said I used to be able to make you 
 write to me when I was a boy at college?" 
 
 248
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you were a thousand miles away while this 
 fellow Hardmuth was just at my elbow half the 
 time." 
 
 Helen rose quickly and came to him close. "It 
 can't help you to brood over it, Jack." 
 
 He took both her hands in his, laying them upon 
 h ; .s breast in the protective and tender way that had 
 grown upon him. 
 
 "It can help me to know it and make what amends 
 I can. Will you go with me while I put this poor 
 devil over the line?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll go with you," she answered at once. 
 She turned and got from the sofa the great-coat that 
 Viola had worn. 
 
 Brookfield took it from her and held it, assisting 
 her to put it on. As he hooked the chain fastening 
 of the collar under her chin, he said: 
 
 "Helen, you stood by your boy in the fight for his 
 life." 
 
 "Didn't you?^ 
 
 Brookfield looked pleadingly into the eyes of the 
 woman he loved. "Will you stand by me," he 
 asked, "while I make my fight?" 
 
 She answered, simply: "You've made your fight, 
 Jack and you've won." 
 
 THE END
 
 A FEW OF 
 
 GROSSE1 & DUNLAP'S 
 Great Books at Little Prices 
 
 THE MUSIC MASTER. By Charles Klein. Illustrated 
 
 by John Rae. 
 
 This marvelously vivid narrative turns upon the search of a Ger 
 man musician in JNew York for his little daughter. Mr. Klein has 
 well portrayed his pathetic struggle with poverty, his varied expe 
 riences in endeavoring to meet the demands of a public not trained 
 to an appreciation of the classic, and his final great hour when, in 
 the rapidly shifting events of a big city, his little daughter, now a 
 beautifnl young woman, is brought to his very door. A superb bit 
 of fiction, palpitating with the life of the great metropolis. The 
 play in which David Warfield scored his highest success. 
 
 DR. LAVENDAR'S PEOPLE. By Margaret Deland. 
 
 Illustrated by Lucius Hitchcock. 
 
 Mrs. Deland won so many friends through Old Chester Tales 
 that this volume needs no introduction beyond its title. The lova 
 ble doctor is more ripened in this later book, and the simple come 
 dies and tragedies of the old village are told with dramatic charm. 
 
 OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated 
 by Howard Pyle. 
 
 Stories portraying with delightful humor and pathos a quaint peo- 
 pie in a sleepy old town. Dr. Lavendar, a very human and lovable 
 "preacher," is the connecting link between these dramatic stor\es 
 from life. 
 
 HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. By E. P.fc.oe. 
 With frontispiece. 
 
 The hero is a farmer a man with honest, sincere views of life. 
 Beieft of his wife, his home is cared for by a succession of domes 
 tics of varying degrees of inefficiency until, from a most unpromis 
 ing source, comes a young woman who not only becomes his wife 
 but commands his respect and eventually wins his love. A bright 
 and delicate romance, revealing on both sides a love that surmounts 
 all difficulties and survives the censure of friends as well as the bit 
 terness of enemies. 
 THE YOKE. By Elizabeth Miller. 
 
 Against the historical background of the days when the children 
 of Israel were delivered fr-om the bondage of Egypt, the author has 
 sketched a romance of compelling charm. A biblical novel as great 
 as any since " Ben Hur." 
 
 SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Illustrated by 
 Andre* Castaigne. 
 
 The scenes of this story are laid in Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome 
 and Damascus. The Apostle Paul, the Martyr Stephen, Herod 
 Agrippa and the Emperors Tiberius and Caligula are among the 
 mighty figures that move through the pages. Wonderful descrip 
 tions, and a love story of the purest and noblest type mark this 
 most remarkable religious romance. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
 
 TITLES SELECTED FROM 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIS7 
 
 REALISTIC. ENGAGING PICTURES OF LIFE 
 
 THE GARDEN OF FATE. By Roy Norton. Illustrated 
 by Joseph Clement ColL 
 
 The colorful romance of an American girl in Morocco, an 
 of a beautiful garden, whose beauty and traditions of strange 
 subtle happenings were closed to the world by a Sultan's seal. 
 
 THE MAN HIGHER UP. By Henry Russell Miller, 
 
 Full page vignette illustrations by M. Leone Bracker. 
 
 The story of a tenement waif who rose by his own ingenuity 
 
 to the office of mayor of his native city. His experiences 
 
 while "climbing," make a most interesting example of the 
 
 possibilities of human nature to rise above circumstances. 
 
 THE KEY TO YESTERDAY. By Charles Neville 
 Buck. Illustrated- by R. Schabelitz. 
 
 Robert Saxon, a prominent artist, has an accident, while in 
 Paris, which obliterates his memory, and the only clue he has 
 *o his former life is a rusty key. What door in Paris will it 
 unlock? He must know that before he woos the girl he ioves. 
 
 THE DANGER TRAIL. By James Oliver Curwood. 
 
 Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. 
 The danger trail is over the snow-smothered North. A 
 young Chicago engineer, who is building a road through the 
 Hudson Bay region, is involved in mystery, and is led into 
 tmbush by a young woman. 
 
 THE GAY LORD WARING. By Houghton Townley. 
 Illustrated by Will Grefe. 
 
 A story of the smart hunting set in England. A gay young 
 lord wins in love against his selfish and cowardly brother and 
 apparently against fate itself. 
 
 'BY INHERITANCE. By Octave Thanet. Illustrated 
 
 by Thomas Fogarty. Elaborate wrapper in colors. 
 
 A wealthy New England spinster with the most elaborate 
 
 plans for the education of the negro goes to visit her nephew 
 
 m Arkansas, where she learns the needs of the colored race 
 
 first hand and begins to lose her theories. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
 
 n fill 
 
 Date Due /\/\ ( 
 
 NOV 27 
 
 1QR3 
 
 
 
 MOV 2 u , 
 
 'o33' 
 
 
 
 MAR 9 
 
 1970 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 HUVi 
 
 i mf\ 
 
 
 
 NOV 2 
 
 f QOO II 
 v IjQQ IH 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Library Bureau Cat. No. 1137 
 
 HUI W58