The Leavenworth Case. John Curran

belonging to a recognised type and very commonplace—there was still visible, on this occasion at least, a certain self-possession in his carriage, which went far towards making up for the want of impressiveness in his countenance and expression. Not that even this was in any way remarkable. Indeed, there was nothing remarkable about the man, any more than there is about a thousand others you meet every day on Broadway, unless you except the look of concentration and solemnity which pervaded his whole person; a solemnity which at this time would not have been noticeable, perhaps, if it had not appeared to be the habitual expression of one who in his short life had seen more of sorrow than joy, less of pleasure than care and anxiety.

      The coroner, to whom his appearance one way or the other seemed to be a matter of no moment, addressed him immediately and without reserve:

      ‘Your name?’

      ‘James Trueman Harwell.’

      ‘Your business?’

      ‘I have occupied the position of private secretary and amanuensis to Mr Leavenworth for the past eight months.’

      ‘You are the person who last saw Mr Leavenworth alive, are you not?’

      The young man raised his head with a haughty gesture which well-nigh transfigured it.

      ‘Certainly not, as I am not the man who killed him.’

      This answer, which seemed to introduce something akin to levity or badinage into an examination the seriousness of which we were all beginning to realise, produced an immediate revulsion of feeling toward the man who, in face of facts revealed and to be revealed, could so lightly make use of it. A hum of disapproval swept through the room, and in that one remark, James Harwell lost all that he had previously won by the self-possession of his bearing and the unflinching regard of his eye. He seemed himself to realise this, for he lifted his head still higher, though his general aspect remained unchanged.

      ‘I mean,’ the coroner exclaimed, evidently nettled that the young man had been able to draw such a conclusion from his words, ‘that you were the last one to see him previous to his assassination by some unknown individual?’

      The secretary folded his arms, whether to hide a certain tremble which had seized him, or by that simple action to gain time for a moment’s further thought, I could not then determine. ‘Sir,’ he replied at length, ‘I cannot answer yes or no to that question. In all probability I was the last to see him in good health and spirits, but in a house as large as this I cannot be sure of even so simple a fact as that.’ Then, observing the unsatisfied look on the faces around, added slowly, ‘It is my business to see him late.’

      ‘Your business? Oh, as his secretary, I suppose?’

      He gravely nodded.

      ‘Mr Harwell,’ the coroner went on, ‘the office of private secretary in this country is not a common one. Will you explain to us what your duties were in that capacity; in short, what use Mr Leavenworth had for such an assistant and how he employed you?’

      ‘Certainly. Mr Leavenworth was, as you perhaps know, a man of great wealth. Connected with various societies, clubs, institutions, etc., besides being known far and near as a giving man, he was accustomed every day of his life to receive numerous letters, begging and otherwise, which it was my business to open and answer, his private correspondence always bearing a mark upon it which distinguished it from the rest. But this was not all I was expected to do. Having in his early life been engaged in the tea-trade, he had made more than one voyage to China, and was consequently much interested in the question of international communication between that country and our own. Thinking that in his various visits there, he had learned much which, if known to the American people, would conduce to our better understanding of the nation, its peculiarities, and the best manner of dealing with it, he has been engaged for some time in writing a book on the subject, which same it has been my business for the last eight months to assist him in preparing, by writing at his dictation three hours out of the twenty-four, the last hour being commonly taken from the evening, say from half-past nine to half-past ten, Mr Leavenworth being a very methodical man and accustomed to regulate his own life and that of those about him with almost mathematical precision.’

      ‘You say you were accustomed to write at his dictation evenings? Did you do this as usual last evening?’

      ‘I did, sir.’

      ‘What can you tell us of his manner and appearance at the time? Were they in any way unusual?’

      A frown crossed the secretary’s brow.

      ‘As he probably had no premonition of his doom, why should there have been any change in his manner?’

      This giving the coroner an opportunity to revenge himself for his discomfiture of a moment before, he said somewhat severely:

      ‘It is the business of a witness to answer questions, not to put them.’

      The secretary flushed and the account stood even.

      ‘Very well, then, sir; if Mr Leavenworth felt any forebodings of his end, he did not reveal them to me. On the contrary, he seemed to be more absorbed in his work than usual. One of the last words he said to me was, “In a month we will have this book in press, eh, Trueman?” I remember this particularly, as he was filling his wine-glass at the time. He always drank one glass of wine before retiring, it being my duty to bring the decanter of sherry from the closet the last thing before leaving him. I was standing with my hand on the knob of the hall-door, but advanced as he said this and replied, “I hope so, indeed, Mr Leavenworth.” “Then join me in drinking a glass of sherry,” said he, motioning me to procure another glass from the closet. I did so, and he poured me out the wine with his own hand. I am not especially fond of sherry, but the occasion was a pleasant one and I drained my glass. I remember being slightly ashamed of doing so, for Mr Leavenworth set his down half full. It was half full when we found him this morning.’

      Do what he would, and being a reserved man he appeared anxious to control his emotion, the horror of his first shock seemed to overwhelm him here. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his forehead. ‘Gentlemen, that is the last action of Mr Leavenworth I ever saw. As he set the glass down on the table, I said good-night to him and left the room.’

      The coroner, with a characteristic imperviousness to all expressions of emotion, leaned back and surveyed the young man with a scrutinising glance. ‘And where did you go then?’ he asked.

      ‘To my own room.’

      ‘Did you meet anybody on the way?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Hear anything or see anything unusual?’

      The secretary’s voice fell a trifle. ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Mr Harwell, think again. Are you ready to swear that you neither met anybody, heard anybody, nor saw anything which lingers yet in your memory as unusual?’

      His face grew quite distressed. Twice he opened his lips to speak, and as often closed them without doing so. At last, with an effort, he replied:

      ‘I saw one thing, a little thing, too slight to mention, but it was unusual, and I could not help thinking of it when you spoke.’

      ‘What was it?’

      ‘Only a door half open.’

      ‘Whose door?’

      ‘Miss Eleanore Leavenworth’s.’ His voice was almost a whisper now.

      ‘Where were you when you observed this fact?’

      ‘I cannot say exactly. Probably at my own door, as I did not stop on the way. If this frightful occurrence had not taken place I should never have thought of it again.’

      ‘When you went into your room did you close your door?’

      ‘I did, sir.’

      ‘How soon did you retire?’

      ‘Immediately.’

      ‘Did