One of My Sons

" – me if I know," he protested, in a high state of impatience, as he snatched up the tickets he was looking for. Then, seeing that I was in no condition to be fooled with, he admitted that the name was Rosenthal, and carelessly added, "What do you want to know for? Oh, I see, you are still on the scent; still harping on that Gillespie poisoning case. Well, the Rosenthals may live near the people just mentioned, but there's nothing in that for you or anyone else interested in this crime."

"Why?"

"Because they move in a totally different set from the Gillespies. They have absolutely no connection with them."

"Is there a young man in the family?"

"Yes."

"Well, I want to know him. Find a way of presenting me to him, will you?"

Sam's amazement was amusing.

"You want an introduction to Israel Rosenthal?"

"I have said so."

"Well, everyone to his taste. I'll procure you one this evening at the theatre. He's a great patron of the Lyceum."

"And are you going there?"

"As soon as you release me."

"Very good; expect to find me in the lobby after the first act."

"I'm obliged to you." This because I had moved out of his way. I have seen Sam when he was personally more agreeable to me.

It would be impossible for me to say what play I saw that night. It was one of the well-known successes of the season, but it meant nothing to me. All my mind and attention were on the young man I had come there to see.

He was in one of the boxes; this I found out before the first act was over; and though I caught flitting glimpses of his face, I did not see him closely enough to form any judgment of his temper or disposition. When the first act was over I went into the lobby, but Sam did not join me there till it was nearly time for the curtain to rise again. Then he came alone.

"He'll be out at the end of the third act," he remarked. "The wait is a long one and he will be sure to improve it in the usual way."

I nodded and Sam went back. Strange to say, he was interested in the play, if I was not.

I had no intention of forcing an immediate disclosure from Mr. Rosenthal. Neither the time nor place was propitious for that. When, therefore, the anticipated moment arrived and Sam sauntered out from one aisle and Rosenthal from another, I merely pulled myself together to the point of making myself agreeable to the rather unpromising subject of my present interest. We were introduced offhand by Sam, who, if he did not like the job (and it was very evident he did not), at least went through his part in a way not to disturb the raw pride of my new acquaintance. Then we began to talk, and I thought I saw more than ordinary satisfaction in the manner with which young Rosenthal received my advances, a satisfaction which led me to mentally inquire whether his pleasure rose from gratification at Underhill's attention or from any erroneous idea he may have had of my being a stepping-stone to certain desirable acquaintances. Or, more important still, was he, for reasons I was not as yet ready to dwell upon, glad to know a man whom all recognised as an important witness in the great affair whose unsolved mystery was still the theme of half the town? I curbed my impatience and was eagerly pursuing the conversation towards a point which might settle this disturbing question, when, presto! the curtain rose on the fourth act and he flew to regain his box.

But not before Sam, with a self-denial I shall not soon forget, had asked him round to our apartments after the play; which invitation young Rosenthal seemed glad to accept, for he nodded with great eagerness as he disappeared around the curtains of the doorway.

"So much to humour a friend!" growled Sam, as he, too, started for his seat.

I smiled and went home.

At about midnight Sam came in with my expected guest, and we had a rarebit and ale. In the midst of the good feeling thus established, Rosenthal broke forth in the very explanation I had been expecting from the first.

"I say! you were with old Gillespie when he died."

"The fact is well known," I returned, refraining from glancing at Sam, though much inclined to do so.

"Well, I've a mighty curiosity about that case; seems somehow as if I had had a hand in it."

There was champagne on the table; I pushed the bottle towards Sam, who proceeded to open it. While this was going on I answered Mr. Rosenthal, with all the appearance of surprise he doubtless expected:

"How's that? Oh, I think I understand. You are a neighbour. All who live near them must feel somewhat as you do."

"It isn't that," he protested, draining his glass, which Sam immediately refilled. "I have never told anyone, – I don't know why I tell you fellows, – but I was almost in at that death. You see, the windows of my room look directly down on the little den in which he died, and I chanced to be looking in its direction just as – "

Here he stopped to enjoy his second glass. As the rim slowly rose, obscuring his eyes, I caught an admiring Hm! from Sam, which filled, without relieving, this moment of suspense. As the glass rang down again on the table, Rosenthal finished his sentence:

" – just as Mr. Gillespie lifted his window to empty out a glass of something. Now, what was that something? I have asked myself a dozen times since his death."

"But this is evidence! This is a fact you ought to have communicated to the police," broke in Underhill, with momentary fire. Perhaps it was a real one, perhaps it was the means he used to draw Rosenthal out.

"And be dragged up before a thousand people, all whispering and joggling to see me? No, I have too much self-respect. I only speak of it now," said he with great dignity, "because I'm so deuced curious to know whether it was poison he threw out, a dose of chloral, or just plain wine. It might have been any of these three, but I have always thought it was the first, because he seemed so afraid of being seen."

"Afraid of being seen drinking it or of throwing it out?"

"Throwing it out."

"Oh!"

Sam and I stopped helping ourselves to wine and left the bottle to him.

"Do you know what time this was?" I asked.

"No; how should I? It was before ten, for at ten he was dead."

"It could not have been poison he threw out or even the remains of it," I remarked, "for that would imply suicide; and the verdict was one of murder."

Mr. Rosenthal was just far enough gone to accept this assertion.

"That's so. I wonder I never thought of that before. Then it must have been wine. Now, I wouldn't have thought so badly of Mr. Gillespie as that. I always considered him a sensible man, and no sensible man pours wine out of a window," he sapiently remarked, raising his glass.

It was empty, and he set it down again; then he took up the bottle. That was empty, too. Grumbling some unintelligible words, he glanced at the cabinet.

We failed to understand him.

"There are but two excuses for a man who deliberately wastes wine," he proceeded, in tipsy argument with himself. "Either he has had enough – hard to think that of Mr. Gillespie at so early an hour in the evening – or else the liquor's bad. Now, only a fool would accuse a man like Mr. Gillespie of having bad liquor in his house, unless – unless – something got into it – Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, with the complacency of one who has unexpectedly made a remarkable discovery, "there was something in it, something which gave it a bad taste. Prussic acid has a bad taste, hasn't it? – and not liking the taste he flung the wine away. No man would go on drinking wine with prussic acid in it," he mumbled on. "Now, which of those fellows was it who poured him out that wine?"

We sat silent; both bound that he should supply his own answer.

"I ought to know; I've read about it enough. It was the slick one; the fellow who goes by me as if I were dirt – Oh, I know; it's Leighton! Leighton!" And he stumbled to his feet with a sickening leer.

"I'm going down to the police station," he cried. "I'm going to inform the authorities – "

"Not to-night," I protested, rising and speaking somewhat forcibly in his ear. "If you go there to-night they will shut you up till morning – jail you!"

He laughed boisterously. "That would be a joke. None of that for me. I'll see them dashed first." And he looked at us with a sickly smile, the remembrance of which will make me hate him forever. Suddenly he began to search for his hat. "I think I'll go home," he observed, with an air of extreme condescension. "Leighton Gillespie, eh? Well, I'm glad the question is settled. Here's to his health! and yours – and yours – "