Mrs Peixada. Harland Henry

physiognomy, as the story of her crime is told.”

      Recorder Hewitt ordered the prisoner to remove her veil.

      “Go on, Mr. Martin,” said the prosecutor to the witness.

      “Well, sir, as I was saying, there I seen Mrs. Peix-ada, half crouching and half sitting there in the road. And when I got over the start she gave me, ’Excuse me, ma’am,’ says I, ’but didn’t I hear you hollering out for help?’ ’Faith, you did,’ says she. ’Well, here I am, ma’am,’ says I; ’and now, will you be kind enough to inform me what’s the trouble?’ says I. ’The trouble?’ says she. ’The trouble is that there’s two men kilt up at the house, that’s what’s the trouble,’ says she. ’Kilt?’ says I. ’Yes, shot,’ says she. ’And who shot them?’ says I. ’Myself,’ says she. ’Mother o’ God!’ says I. ’Well,’ says she, ’wont you be after going up to the house and trying to help the poor wretches?’ says she. ’I don’t know but I will,’ says I. And on up the road to the house I went. The front door, your honor, was open wide, and the gas blazing at full head within. I ran up the steps and through the vestibil, and there in the hall I seen that what Mrs. Peixada had said was the truest word she ever spoke in her life. Old Peixada, he lay there on one side, as dead as sour beer, with blood all around him; and on the other side lay Mr. Bolen—whom I knew well, for he was a good customer of my own, your honor—more dead than the Jew, if one might say so. I, sir, I just remained long enough to cross myself and whisper, ’God have mercy on them and then off I went to call an officer. On the way down the hill, I passed Mrs. Peixada again; and this time she was laying out stiff in the road, with her eyes closed and her mouth open, like she was in a fit. She had nothing on but that white gown I spoke of before; and very elegant she looked, your honor, flat there, like a corpse.”

      Again the district-attorney stopped the witness.

      “Your honor,” he said, “I must again direct your attention to the irregular conduct of the prisoner. She has now turned her back to the jury, and covered her face with her hands. This is merely a method of evading the injunction which your honor saw fit to impose upon her with respect to her veil. I must insist upon her displaying her full face to the jury.”

      Mr. Sondheim, of counsel for the defendant: “If the Court please, it strikes me that my learned brother is really a trifle too exacting. I can certainly see no objection to my client’s holding her hands to her face. Considering the painfulness of her situation, it is no more than natural that she should desire to shield her face. I must beg the Court to remember that this prisoner is no ordinary criminal, but a lady of refined and sensitive instincts. A little indulgence, it seems to me, is due to her on account of her sex.”

      The district-attorney: “The prisoner had better understand once for all that her sex isn’t going to protect her in this prosecution. The law is no respecter of sex. As for her refined and sensitive instincts, if she has any, I advise her to put them into her pocket. This jury has too much good sense to be affected by any exhibition that she may make for their benefit. I submit the matter to the Court’s good judgment.”

      The recorder: “Madam, you will turn your chair toward the jury, and keep your face uncovered.”

      The district-attorney: “Well, Mr. Martin, what next?”

      The witness: “Weil, sir, I hurried along down as fast as ever I could, and stopped at my own place just long enough to tell my wife what had happened, and to send her up to Mrs. Peixada with a bottle of spirits to bring her around. Then I went to the station-house, and informed the gentleman at the desk of the state of affairs. Him and a couple of officers came back with me; and they, your honor, took charge of the premises, and—and that’s all I know about it.”

      Martin was not cross-examined. Police Sergeant Riley, succeeding him, gave an account of the prisoner’s arrest and of her subsequent demeanor at the station-house. “The lady,” said he, “appeared to be unable to walk—leastwise, she limped all the way with great difficulty. We thought she was shamming, and treated her accordingly. But afterwards it turned out that she had a sprained ankle.” She had answered the formal questions—name? age? residence?—in full; and to the inquiry whether she desired to make any statement or remark relative to the charge preferred against her, had replied, “Nothing, except that I shot them both—Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen.” They had locked her up in the captain’s private room for the rest of the night; and the following morning she had been transferred to the Tombs.

      The next witness was Miss Ann Doyle.

      “Miss Doyle, what is your occupation?” asked the district-attorney.

      “I am a cook, sir.”

      “Have you a situation, at present?”

      “I have not, sir.”

      “How long have you been idle?”

      “Since the 31st of July, sir.”

      “Prior to that date where were you employed?”

      “In the family of Mr. Peixada, sir.”

      “Were you present at Mr. Peixada’s house on the night of July 30th?”

      “I was not, sir.”

      “Tell us, please, how you came to be absent?”

      “Well, sir, just after dinner, along about seven o’clock, Mrs. Peixada, who was laying abed with a sore foot, she called me to her, sir, and, ’Ann,’ says she, ’you can have the evening out, and you needn’t come home till to-morrow morning,’ sir, says she.”

      “And you availed yourself of this privilege?”

      “Sure, I did, sir. I came home the next morning, sir, in time to get breakfast, having passed the night at my sister’s; and when I got there, sir—”

      “Never mind about that, Miss Doyle. Now, tell us, was it a customary thing for Mrs. Peixada to let you go away for the entire night?”

      “She never did it before, sir. Of course I had my regular Thursday and Sunday, but I was always expected to be in the house by ten o’clock, sir.”

      “That will do, Miss Doyle. Miss Katharine Mahoney, take the stand.”

      Miss Mahoney described herself as an “upstairs girl,” and said that she, too, until the date of the murder, had been employed in Mr. Peixada’s household. To her also, on the evening of July 30th, Mrs. Peixada had accorded leave of absence for the night.

      “So that,” reasoned the district-attorney, “all the servants were away, by the prisoner’s prearrangement, at the hour of the perpetration of the crime?”

      “Yes, sir; since me and Ann were the only servants they kept. Mr. Bolen staid behind, to his sorrow.”

      In the case of each of these witnesses, the prisoner’s counsel waived cross-examination, saying, “If the court please, we shall not take issue on the allegations of fact.”

      The prosecution rested, reserving, however, the right to call witnesses in rebuttal, if need should be. The defense started with a physician, Dr. Leopold Jetz, of Lexington Avenue, near Fifty-ninth Street.

      “Dr. Jetz, how long have you known Mrs. Peix-ada, the prisoner at the bar?”

      “Ever since she was born. I helped to bring her into the world.”

      “When did you last attend her professionally?”

      “I paid her my last professional visit on the 1st of August, 1878; eight days before she was married.”

      “What was her trouble at that time?”

      “General depression of the nervous system. To speak technically, cerebral anemia, or insufficient nourishment of the brain, complicated by sacral neuralgia—neuralgia at the base of the spine.”

      “Were these ailments of long standing?”

      “I