``I was at our window. And I saw Hilda come along and go in at the family entrance over at Meinert's. And I'd seen Mr. Feuerstein go in the front door about an hour before. Hilda came out and went away. She looked so queer that I wanted to see. I ran across the street and looked in. Mr. Feuerstein was sitting there with a knife in his hand. And all at once he stood up and stabbed himself in the neck--and there was blood--and he fell--and--I ran away.''
``And did the police come to you and threaten you?'' asked the magistrate.
``Your Honor,'' protested Captain Hanlon with an injured air, ``SHE came to US.''
``Is that true?'' asked the magistrate of Sophie.
Sophie wept loudly. ``Your Honor,'' Hanlon went on, ``she came to me and said it was her duty to tell me, though it involved her friend. She said positively that this girl went in, stayed several minutes, then came out looking very strange, and that immediately afterward there was the excitement. Of course, we believed her.''
``Of course,'' echoed the magistrate ironically. ``It gave you an opportunity for an act of oppression.''
``I didn't mean to get Hilda into trouble. I swear I didn't,''
Sophie exclaimed. ``I was scared. I didn't know what I was doing. I swear I didn't!''
Hilda's look was pity, not anger. ``Oh, Sophie,'' she said brokenly.
``What did your men do with the letter Feuerstein wrote?'' asked the magistrate of Hanlon suspiciously.
``Your Honor, we--'' Hanlon looked round nervously.
Wielert, who had been gradually rising in his own estimation, as he realized the importance of his part in the proceedings, now pushed forward, his face flushed with triumph. ``I know where it is,'' he said eagerly. ``When I ran for the police I mail it.''
There was a tumult of hysterical laughter, everybody seeking relief from the strain of what had gone before. The magistrate rapped down the noise and called for Doctor Wharton. While he was giving his technical explanation a note was handed up to the bench. The magistrate read:
GERMAN THEATER, 3 September.
YOUR HONOR--I hasten to send you the inclosed letter which I found in my mail this morning. It seems to have an important bearing on the hearing in the Feuerstein case, which I see by the papers comes up before you to-day.
Very truly yours, WILLIAM KONIGSMARCK, Manager.
The magistrate handed the inclosure to a clerk, who was a German.
``Read it aloud,'' he said. And the clerk, after a few moments' preparation, slowly read in English:
To the Public:
Before oblivion swallows me--one second, I beg!
I have sinned, but I have expiated. I have lived bravely, fighting adversity and the malice which my superior gifts from nature provoked. I can live no longer with dignity. So, proud and fearless to the last, I accept defeat and pass out.
I forgive my friends. I forget my enemies.
Exit Carl Feuerstein, soldier of fortune, man of the world. A sensitive heart that was crushed by the cruelty of men and the kindness of women has ceased to beat.
CARL FEUERSTEIN.
P. S. DEAR. MR. KONIGSMARCK-- Please send a copy of the above to the newspapers, English as well as German.
C. F.
The magistrate beamed his kindliest upon Hilda. ``The charge against you is absurd. Your arrest was a crime. You are free.''
Hilda put her hand on Otto's arm. ``Let us go,'' she murmured wearily.
As they went up the aisle hand in hand the crowd stood and cheered again and again; the magistrate did not touch his gavel--he was nodding vigorous approval. Hilda held Otto's hand more closely and looked all round. And her face was bright indeed.
Thus the shadow of Mr. Feuerstein-- of vanity and false emotion, of pose and pretense, passed from her life. Straight and serene before her lay the pathway of ``work and love and home.''
