She was a writing medium. This is what she wrote:--
I can remember some things upon that evening most distinctly, and others are
like some vague, broken dreams. That is what makes it so difficult to tell a
connected story. I have no idea now what it was that had taken me to London and
brought me back so late. It just merges into all my other visits to London. But
from the time that I got out at the little country station everything is
extraordinarily clear. I can live it again--every instant of it.
I remember so well walking down the platform and looking at the illuminated
clock at the end which told me that it was half-past eleven. I remember also my
wondering whether I could get home before midnight. Then I remember the big
motor, with its glaring headlights and glitter of polished brass, waiting for me
outside. It was my new thirty-horse-power Robur, which had only been delivered
that day. I remember also asking Perkins, my chauffeur, how she had gone, and
his saying that he thought she was excellent.
"I'll try her myself," said I, and I climbed into the driver's seat.
"The gears are not the same," said he. "Perhaps, sir, I had better drive."
"No; I should like to try her," said I.
And so we started on the five-mile drive for home.
My old car had the gears as they used always to be in notches on a bar. In
this car you passed the gear-lever through a gate to get on the higher ones. It
was not difficult to master, and soon I thought that I understood it. It was
foolish, no doubt, to begin to learn a new system in the dark, but one often
does foolish things, and one has not always to pay the full price for them. I
got along very well until I came to Claystall Hill. It is one of the worst hills
in England, a mile and a half long and one in six in places, with three fairly
sharp curves. My park gate stands at the very foot of it upon the main London road.
We were just over the brow of this hill, where the grade is steepest, when
the trouble began. I had been on the top speed, and wanted to get her on the
free; but she stuck between gears, and I had to get her back on the top again.
By this time she was going at a great rate, so I clapped on both brakes, and one
after the other they gave way. I didn't mind so much when I felt my footbrake
snap, but when I put all my weight on my side-brake, and the lever clanged to
its full limit without a catch, it brought a cold sweat out of me. By this time
we were fairly tearing down the slope. The lights were brilliant, and I brought
her round the first curve all right. Then we did the second one, though it was a
close shave for the ditch. There was a mile of straight then with the third
curve beneath it, and after that the gate of the park. If I could shoot into
that harbour all would be well, for the slope up to the house would bring her to a stand.
Perkins behaved splendidly. I should like that to be known. He was perfectly
cool and alert. I had thought at the very beginning of taking the bank, and he read my intention.
"I wouldn't do it, sir," said he. "At this pace it must go over and we should
have it on the top of us."
Of course he was right. He got to the electric switch and had it off, so we
were in the free; but we were still running at a fearful pace. He laid his hands on the wheel.
"I'll keep her steady," said he, "if you care to jump and chance it. We can
never get round that curve. Better jump, sir."
"No," said I; "I'll stick it out. You can jump if you like."
"I'll stick it with you, sir," said he.
If it had been the old car I should have jammed the gear-lever into the
reverse, and seen what would happen. I expect she would have stripped her gears
or smashed up somehow, but it would have been a chance. As it was, I was
helpless. Perkins tried to climb across, but you couldn't do it going at that
pace. The wheels were whirring like a high wind and the big body creaking and
groaning with the strain. But the lights were brilliant, and one could steer to
an inch. I remember thinking what an awful and yet majestic sight we should
appear to anyone who met us. It was a narrow road, and we were just a great,
roaring, golden death to anyone who came in our path.
We got round the corner with one wheel three feet high upon the bank. I
thought we were surely over, but after staggering for a moment she righted and
darted onwards. That was the third corner and the last one. There was only the
park gate now. It was facing us, but, as luck would have it, not facing us
directly. It was about twenty yards to the left up the main road into which we
ran. Perhaps I could have done it, but I expect that the steering-gear had been
jarred when we ran on the bank. The wheel did not turn easily. We shot out of
the lane. I saw the open gate on the left. I whirled round my wheel with all the
strength of my wrists. Perkins and I threw our bodies across, and then the next
instant, going at fifty miles an hour, my right wheel struck full on the
right-hand pillar of my own gate. I heard the crash. I was conscious of flying
through the air, and then--and then--!
When I became aware of my own existence once more I was among some brushwood
in the shadow of the oaks upon the lodge side of the drive. A man was standing
beside me. I imagined at first that it was Perkins, but when I looked again I
saw that it was Stanley, a man whom I had known at college some years before,
and for whom I had a really genuine affection. There was always something
peculiarly sympathetic to me in Stanley's personality; and I was proud to think
that I had some similar influence upon him. At the present moment I was
surprised to see him, but I was like a man in a dream, giddy and shaken and
quite prepared to take things as I found them without questioning them.
"What a smash!" I said. "Good Lord, what an awful smash!"
He nodded his head, and even in the gloom I could see that he was smiling the
gentle, wistful smile which I connected with him.
I was quite unable to move. Indeed, I had not any desire to try to move. But
my senses were exceedingly alert. I saw the wreck of the motor lit up by the
moving lanterns. I saw the little group of people and heard the hushed voices:
There were the lodge-keeper and his wife, and one or two more. They were taking
no notice of me, but were very busy round the car. Then suddenly I heard a cry
"The weight is on him. Lift it easy," cried a voice.
"It's only my leg!" said, another one, which I recognised as Perkins's.
"Where's master?" he cried.
"Here I am," I answered, but they did not seem to hear me. They were all
bending over something which lay in front of the car.
Stanley laid his hand upon my shoulder, and his touch was inexpressibly
soothing. I felt light and happy, in spite of all.
"No pain, of course?" said he.
"None," said I.
"There never is," said he.
And then suddenly a wave of amazement passed over me. Stanley! Stanley! Why,
Stanley had surely died of enteric at Bloemfontein in the Boer War!
"Stanley!" I cried, and the words seemed to choke my throat--"Stanley, you are dead."
He looked at me with the same old gentle, wistful smile.
"So are you," he answered.
IX. - THE PRISONER'S DEFENCE
The circumstances, so far as they were known to the public, concerning the
death of the beautiful Miss Ena Gamier, and the fact that Captain John Fowler,
the accused officer, had refused to defend himself on the occasion of the
proceedings at the police-court, had roused very general interest. This was
increased by the statement that, though he withheld his defence, it would be
found to be of a very novel and convincing character. The assertion of the
prisoner's lawyer at the police-court, to the effect that the answer to the
charge was such that it could not yet be given, but would be available before
the Assizes, also caused much speculation. A final touch was given to the
curiosity of the public when it was learned that the prisoner had refused all
offers of legal assistance from counsel and was determined to conduct his own
defence. The case for the Crown was ably presented, and was generally considered
to be a very damning one, since it showed very clearly that the accused was
subject to fits of jealousy, and that he had already been guilty of some
violence owing to this cause. The prisoner listened to the evidence without
emotion, and neither interrupted nor cross-questioned the witnesses. Finally, on
being informed that the time had come when he might address the jury, he stepped
to the front of the dock. He was a man of striking appearance, swarthy,
black-moustached, nervous, and virile, with a quietly confident manner. Taking a
paper from his pocket he read the following statement, which made the deepest
impression upon the crowded court:
I would wish to say, in the first place, gentlemen of the jury, that, owing
to the generosity of my brother officers for my own means are limited I might
have been defended to-day by the first talent of the Bar. The reason I have
declined their assistance and have determined to fight my own case is not that I
have any confidence in my own abilities or eloquence, but it is because I am
convinced that a plain, straightforward tale, coming direct from the man who has
been the tragic actor in this dreadful affair, will impress you more than any
indirect statement could do. If I had felt that I were guilty I should have
asked for help. Since, in my own heart, I believe that I am innocent, I am
pleading my own cause, feeling that my plain words of truth and reason will have
more weight with you than the most learned and eloquent advocate. By the
indulgence of the Court I have been permitted to put my remarks upon paper, so
that I may reproduce certain conversations and be assured of saying neither more
nor less than I mean.
It will be remembered that at the trial at the police-court two months ago I
refused to defend myself. This has been referred to to-day as a proof of my
guilt. I said that it would be some days before I could open my mouth. This was
taken at the time as a subterfuge. Well, the days are over, and I am now able to
make clear to you not only what took place, but also why it was impossible for
me to give any explanation. I will tell you now exactly what I did and why it
was that I did it. If you, my fellow-countrymen, think that I did wrong, I will
make no complaint, but will suffer in silence any penalty which you may impose
I am a soldier of fifteen years' standing, a captain in the Second
Breconshire Battalion. I have served in the South African Campaign and was
mentioned in despatches after the battle of Diamond Hill. When the war broke out
with Germany I was seconded from my regiment, and I was appointed as adjutant to
the First Scottish Scouts, newly raised. The regiment was quartered at
Radchurch, in Essex, where the men were placed partly in huts and were partly
billeted upon the inhabitants. All the officers were billeted out, and my
quarters were with Mr. Murreyfield, the local squire. It was there that I first
met Miss Ena Garnier.
It may not seem proper at such a time and place as this that I should
describe that lady. And yet her personality is the very essence of my case. Let
me only say that I cannot believe that Nature ever put into female form a more
exquisite combination of beauty and intelligence. She was twenty-five years of
age, blonde and tall, with a peculiar delicacy of features and of expression. I
have read of people falling in love at first sight, and had always looked upon
it as an expression of the novelist. And yet from the moment that I saw Ena
Garnier life held for me but the one ambition that she should be mine. I had
never dreamed before of the possibilities of passion that were within me. I will
not enlarge upon the subject, but to make you understand my action for I wish
you to comprehend it, however much you may condemn it you must realise that I
was in the grip of a frantic elementary passion which made, for a time, the
world and all that was in it seem a small thing if I could but gain the love of
this one girl. And yet, in justice to myself, I will say that there was always
one thing which I placed above her. That was my honour as a soldier and a
gentleman. You will find it hard to believe this when I tell you what occurred,
and yet though for one moment I forgot myself my whole legal offence consists in
my desperate endeavour to retrieve what I had done.
I soon found that the lady was not insensible to the advances which I made to
her. Her position in the household w r as a curious one. She had come a year
before from Montpelier, in the South of France, in answer to an advertisement
from the Murreyfields in order to teach French to their three young children.
She was, however, unpaid, so that she was rather a friendly guest than an
employee. She had always, as I gathered, been fond of the English and desirous
to live in England, but the outbreak of the war had quickened her feelings into
passionate attachment, for the ruling emotion of her soul was her hatred of the
Germans. Her grandfather, as she told me, had been killed under very tragic
circumstances in the campaign of 1870, and her two brothers were both in the
French army. Her voice vibrated with passion when she spoke of the infamies of
Belgium, and more than once I have seen her kissing my sword and my revolver
because she hoped they would be used upon the enemy. With such feelings in her
heart it can be imagined that my wooing was not a difficult one. I should have
been glad to marry her at once, but to this she would not consent. Everything
was to come after the war, for it was necessary, she said, that I should go to
Montpelier and meet her people, so that the French proprieties should be
She had one accomplishment which was rare for a lady; she was a skilled
motor-cyclist. She had been fond of long, solitary rides, but after our
engagement I was occasionally allowed to accompany her. She was a woman,
however, of strange moods and fancies, which added in my feelings to the charm
of her character. She could be tenderness itself, and she could be aloof and
even harsh in her manner. More than once she had refused my company with no
reason given, and with a quick, angry flash of her eyes when I asked for one.
Then, perhaps, her mood would change and she would make up for this unkindness
by some exquisite attention which would in an instant soothe all my ruffled
feelings. It was the same in the house. My military duties were so exacting that
it was only in the evenings that I could hope to see her, and yet very often she
remained in the little study which was used during the day for the children's
lessons, and would tell me plainly that she wished to be alone. Then, when she
saw that I was hurt by her caprice, she would laugh and apologise so sweetly for
her rudeness that I was more her slave than ever.
Mention has been made of my jealous disposition, and it has been asserted at
the trial that there were scenes owing to my jealousy, and that once Mrs.
Murreyfield had to interfere. I admit that I was jealous. When a man loves with
the whole strength of his soul it is impossible, I think, that he should be
clear of jealousy. The girl was of a very independent spirit. I found that she
knew many officers at Chelmsford and Colchester. She would disappear for hours
together upon her motor-cycle. There were questions about her past life which
she would only answer with a smile unless they were closely pressed. Then the
smile would become a frown. Is it any wonder that I, with my whole nature
vibrating with passionate, whole-hearted love, was often torn by jealousy when I
came upon those closed doors of her life which she was so determined not to
open? Reason came at times and whispered how foolish it was that I should stake
my whole life and soul upon one of whom I really knew nothing. Then came a wave
of passion once more and reason was submerged.
I have spoken of the closed doors of her life. I was aware that a young,
unmarried Frenchwoman has usually less liberty than her English sister. And yet
in the case of this lady it continually came out in her conversation that she
had seen and known much of the world. It was the more distressing to me as
whenever she had made an observation which pointed to this she would afterwards,
as I could plainly see, be annoyed by her own indiscretion, and endeavour to
remove the impression by every means in her power. We had several small quarrels
on this account, when I asked questions to which I could get no answers, but
they have been exaggerated in the address for the prosecution. Too much has been
made also of the intervention of Mrs. Murreyfield, though I admit that the
quarrel was more serious upon that occasion. It arose from my finding the
photograph of a man upon her table, and her evident confusion when I asked her
for some particulars about him. The name "H. Vardin" was written underneath
evidently an autograph. I was worried by the fact that this photograph had the
frayed appearance of one which has been carried secretly about, as a girl might
conceal the picture of her lover in her dress. She absolutely refused to give me
any information about him, save to make a statement which I found incredible,
that it was a man whom she had never seen in her life. It was then that I forgot
myself. I raised my voice and declared that I should know more about her life or
that I should break with her, even if my own heart should be broken in the
parting. I was not violent, but Mrs. Murreyfield heard me from the passage, and
came into the room to remonstrate. She was a kind, motherly person who took a
sympathetic interest in our romance, and I remember that on this occasion she
reproved me for my jealousy and finally persuaded me that I had been
unreasonable, so that we became reconciled once more. Ena was so madly
fascinating and I so hopelessly her slave that she could always draw me back,
however much prudence and reason warned me to escape from her control. I tried
again and again to find out about this man Vardin, but was always met by the
same assurance, which she repeated with every kind of solemn oath, that she had
never seen the man in her life. Why she should carry about the photograph of a
man a young, somewhat sinister man, for I had observed him closely before she
snatched the picture from my hand was what she either could not, or would not,
Then came the time for my leaving Radchurch. I had been appointed to a junior
but very responsible post at the War Office, which, of course, entailed my
living in London. Even my weekends found me engrossed with my work, but at last
I had a few days' leave of absence. It is those few days which have ruined my
life, which have brought me the most horrible experience that ever a man had to
undergo, and have finally placed me here in the dock, pleading as I plead to-day
for my life and my honour.
It is nearly five miles from the station to Radchurch. She was there to meet
me. It was the first time that we had been reunited since I had put all my heart
and my soul upon her. I cannot enlarge upon these matters, gentlemen. You will
either be able to sympathise with and understand the emotions which overbalance
a man at such a time, or you will not. If you have imagination, you will. If you
have not, I can never hope to make you see more than the bare fact. That bare
fact, placed in the baldest language, is that during this drive from Radchurch
Junction to the village I was led into the greatest indiscretion the greatest
dishonour, if you will of my life. I told the woman a secret, an enormously
important secret, which might affect the fate of the war and the lives of many
thousands of men.
It was done before I knew it before I grasped the way in which her quick
brain could place various scattered hints together and weave them into one idea.
She was wailing, almost weeping, over the fact that the allied armies were held
up by the iron line of the Germans. I explained that it was more correct to say
that our iron line was holding them up, since they were the invaders. "But is
France, is Belgium, never to be rid of them?" she cried. "Are we simply to sit
in front of their trenches and be content to let them do what they will with ten
provinces of France? Oh, Jack, Jack, for God's sake, say something to bring a
little hope to my heart, for sometimes I think that it is breaking! You English
are stolid. You can bear these things. But we others, we have more nerve, more
soul! It is death to us. Tell me! Do tell me that there is hope! And yet it is
foolish of me to ask, for, of course, you are only a subordinate at the War
Office, and how should you know what is in the mind of your chiefs?"
"Well, as it happens, I know a good deal," I answered. "Don't fret, for we
shall certainly get a move on soon."
"Soon! Next year may seem soon to some people."
"It's not next year."
"Must we wait another month?"
"Not even that."
She squeezed my hand in hers. "Oh, my darling boy, you have brought such joy
to my heart! What suspense I shall live in now! I think a week of it would kill
"Well, perhaps it won't even be a week."
"And tell me," she went on, in her coaxing voice, "tell me just one thing,
Jack. Just one, and I will trouble you no more. Is it our brave French soldiers
who advance? Or is it your splendid Tommies? With whom will the honour lie?"
"Glorious!" she cried. "I see it all. The attack will be at the point where
the French and British lines join. Together they will rush forward in one
"No," I said. "They will not be together."
"But I understood you to say of course, women know nothing of such matters,
but I understood you to say that it would be a joint advance."
"Well, if the French advanced, we will say, at Verdun, and the British
advanced at Ypres, even if they were hundreds of miles apart it would still be a
"Ah, I see," she cried, clapping her hands with delight. "They would advance
at both ends of the line, so that the Boches would not know which way to send
"That is exactly the idea a real advance at Verdun, and an enormous feint at
Then suddenly a chill of doubt seized me. I can remember how I sprang back
from her and looked hard into her face. "I've told you too much!" I cried. "Can
I trust you? I have been mad to say so much."
She was bitterly hurt by my words. That I should for a moment doubt her was
more than she could bear. "I would cut my tongue out, Jack, before I would tell
any human being one word of what you have said." So earnest was she that my
fears died away. I felt that I could trust her utterly. Before we had reached
Radchurch I had put the matter from my mind, and we were lost in our joy of the
present and in our plans for the future.
I had a business message to deliver to Colonel Worral, who commanded a small
camp at Pedley-Woodrow. I went there and was away for about two hours. When I
returned I inquired for Miss Gamier, and was told by the maid that she had gone
to her bedroom, and that she had asked the groom to bring her motor-bicycle to
the door. It seemed to me strange that she should arrange to go out alone when
my visit was such a short one. I had gone into her little study to seek her, and
here it was that I waited, for it opened on to the hall passage, and she could
not pass without my seeing her.
There was a small table in the window of this room at which she used to
write. I had seated myself beside this when my eyes fell upon a name written in
her large, bold hand-writing. It was a reversed impression upon the
blotting-paper which she had used, but there could be no difficulty in reading
it. The name was Hubert Vardin. Apparently it was part of the address of an
envelope, for underneath I was able to distinguish the initials S. W., referring
to a postal division of London, though the actual name of the street had not
been clearly reproduced.
Then I knew for the first time that she was actually corresponding with this
man whose vile, voluptuous face I had seen in the photograph with the frayed
edges. She had clearly lied to me, too, for was it conceivable that she should
correspond with a man whom she had never seen? I don't desire to condone my
conduct. Put yourself in my place. Imagine that you had my desperately fervid
and jealous nature. You would have done what I did, for you could have done
nothing else. A wave of fury passed over me. I laid my hands upon the
wooden-writing desk. If it had been an iron safe I should have opened it. As it
was, it literally flew to pieces before me. There lay the letter itself, placed
under lock and key for safety, while the writer prepared to take it from the
house. I had no hesitation or scruple. I tore it open. Dishonourable, you will
say, but when a man is frenzied with jealousy he hardly knows what he does. This
woman, for whom I was ready to give everything, was either faithful to me or she
was not. At any cost I would know which.
A thrill of joy passed through me as my eyes fell upon the first words. I had
wronged her. "Cher Monsieur Vardin." So the letter began. It was clearly a
business letter, nothing else. I was about to replace it in the envelope with a
thousand regrets in my mind for my want of faith when a single word at the
bottom of the page caught my eyes, and I started as if I had been stung by an
adder. "Verdun" that was the word. I looked again. "Ypres" was immediately below
it. I sat down, horror-stricken, by the broken desk, and I read this letter, a
translation of which I have in my hand:
MURREYFIELD HOUSE, RADCHURCH.
Dear M. Vardin, Stringer has told me that he has kept you sufficiently
informed as to Chelmsford and Colchester, so I have not troubled to write. They
have moved the Midland Territorial Brigade and the heavy guns towards the coast
near Cromer, but only for a time. It is for training, not embarkation.
And now for my great news, which I have straight from the War Office itself.
Within a week there is to be a very severe attack from Verdun, which is to be
supported by a holding attack at Ypres. It is all on a very large scale, and you
must send off a special Dutch messenger to Von Starmer by the first boat. I hope
to get the exact date and some further particulars from my informant to-night,
but meanwhile you must act with energy.
I dare not post this here you know what village postmasters are, so I am
taking it into Colchester, where Stringer will include it with his own report
which goes by hand.
I was stunned at first as I read this letter, and then a kind of cold,
concentrated rage came over me. So this woman was a German and a spy! I thought
of her hypocrisy and her treachery towards me, but, above all, I thought of the
danger to the Army and the State. A great defeat, the death of thousands of men,
might spring from my misplaced confidence. There was still time, by judgment and
energy, to stop this frightful evil. I heard her step upon the stairs outside,
and an instant later she had come through the doorway. She started, and her face
was bloodless as she saw me seated there with the open letter in my hand.
"How did you get that?" she gasped. "How dared you break my desk and steal my
I said nothing. I simply sat and looked at her and pondered what I should do.
She suddenly sprang forward and tried to snatch the letter. I caught her wrist
and pushed her down on to the sofa, where she lay, collapsed. Then I rang the
bell, and told the maid that I must see Mr. Murreyfield at once.
He was a genial, elderly man, who had treated this woman with as much
kindness as if she were his daughter. He was horrified at what I said. I could
not show him the letter on account of the secret that it contained, but I made
him understand that it was of desperate importance.
"What are we to do?" he asked. "I never could have imagined anything so
dreadful. What would you advise us to do?"
"There is only one thing that we can do," I answered. "This woman must be
arrested, and in the meanwhile we must so arrange matters that she cannot
possibly communicate with any one. For all we know, she has confederates in this
very village. Can you undertake to hold her securely while I go to Colonel
Worral at Pedley and get a warrant and a guard?"
"We can lock her in her bedroom."
"You need not trouble," said she. "I give you my word that I will stay where
I am. I advise you to be careful, Captain Fowler. You've shown once before that
you are liable to do things before you have thought of the consequence. If I am
arrested all the world will know that you have given away the secrets that were
confided to you. There is an end of your career, my friend. You can punish me,
no doubt. What about yourself?"
"I think," said I, "you had best take her to her bedroom."
"Very good, if you wish it," said she, and followed us to the door. When we
reached the hall she suddenly broke away, dashed through the entrance, and made
for her motor-bicycle, which was standing there. Before she could start we had
both seized her. She stooped and made her teeth meet in Murreyfield's hand. With
flashing eyes and tearing fingers she was as fierce as a wild cat at bay. It was
with some difficulty that we mastered her, and dragged her almost carried her up
the stairs. We thrust her into her room and turned the key, while she screamed
out abuse and beat upon the door inside.
"It's a forty-foot drop into the garden," said Murreyfield, tying up his
bleeding hand. "I'll wait here till you come back. I think we have the lady
"I have a revolver here," said I. "You should be armed." I slipped a couple
of cartridges into it and held it out to him. "We can't afford to take chances.
How do you know what friends she may have?"
"Thank you," said he. "I have a stick here, and the gardener is within call.
Do you hurry off for the guard, and I will answer for the prisoner."
Having taken, as it seemed to me, every possible precaution, I ran to give
the alarm. It was two miles to Pedley, and the colonel was out, which occasioned
some delay. Then there were formalities and a magistrate's signature to be
obtained. A policeman was to serve the warrant, but a military escort was to be
sent in to bring back the prisoner. I was so rilled with anxiety and impatience
that I could not wait, but I hurried back alone with the promise that they would
The Pedley-Woodrow r Road opens into the high-road to Colchester at a point
about half a mile from the village of Radchurch. It was evening now and the
light was such that one could not see more than twenty or thirty yards ahead. I
had proceeded only a very short way from the point of junction when I heard,
coming towards me, the roar of a motor-cycle being ridden at a furious pace. It
was without lights, and close upon me. I sprang aside in order to avoid being
ridden down, and in that instant, as the machine flashed by, I saw clearly the
face of the rider. It was she the woman whom I had loved. She was hatless, her
hair streaming in the wind, her face glimmering white in the twilight, flying
through the night like one of the Valkyries of her native land. She was past me
like a flash and tore on down the Colchester Road. In that instant I saw all
that it would mean if she could reach the town. If she once was allowed to see
her agent we might arrest him or her, but it would be too late. The news would
have been passed on. The victory of the Allies and the lives of thousands of our
soldiers were at stake. Next instant I had pulled out the loaded revolver and
fired two shots after the vanishing figure, already only a dark blur in the
dusk. I heard a scream, the crashing of the breaking cycle, and all was
I need not tell you more, gentlemen. You know the rest. When I ran forward I
found her lying in the ditch. Both of my bullets had struck her. One of them had
penetrated her brain. I was still standing beside her body when Murreyfield
arrived, running breathlessly down the road. She had, it seemed, with great
courage and activity scrambled down the ivy of the wall; only when he heard the
whirr of the cycle did he realise what had occurred. He was explaining it to my
dazed brain when the police and soldiers arrived to arrest her. By the irony of
fate it was me whom they arrested instead.
It was urged at the trial in the police-court that jealousy was the cause of
the crime. I did not deny it, nor did I put forward any witnesses to deny it. It
was my desire that they should believe it. The hour of the French advance had
not yet come, and I could not defend myself without producing the letter which
would reveal it. But now it is over gloriously over and so my lips are unsealed
at last. I confess my fault my very grievous fault. But it is not that for which
you are trying me. It is for murder. I should have thought myself the murderer
of my own countrymen if I had let the woman pass.
These are the facts, gentlemen. I leave my future in your hands. If you
should absolve me I may say that I have hopes of serving my country in a fashion
which will atone for this one great indiscretion, and will also, as I hope, end
forever those terrible recollections which weigh me down. If you condemn me, I
am ready to face whatever you may think fit to inflict.