CHAPTER XXV
SIMPLE JUSTICE
All eyes were turned upon Mr. Hathaway, who had laid a hand upon the
head of his grandchild and was softly stroking her hair. At last he said
brokenly, repeating his former assertion:
"I cannot prove my innocence."
"But I can," declared O'Gorman positively, "and I'm going to do it."
"No--no!" said Hathaway, startled at his tone.
"It's this way, sir," explained the little man in a matter-of-fact
voice, "this chase after you has cost the government a heavy sum
already, and your prosecution is likely to make public an affair which,
under the circumstances, we consider it more diplomatic to hush up. Any
danger to our country has passed, for information obtained ten years ago
regarding our defenses, codes, and the like, is to-day worthless because
all conditions are completely changed. Only the crime of treason
remains; a crime that deserves the severest punishment; but the guilty
persons have escaped punishment and are now facing a higher tribunal--
both the principal in the crime and his weak and foolish tool. So it is
best for all concerned, Mr. Hathaway, that we get at the truth of this
matter and, when it is clearly on record in the government files,
declare the case closed for all time. The State Department has more
important matters that demand its attention."
The old man's head was bowed, his chin resting on his breast. It was now
the turn of Mary Louise to smooth his thin gray locks.
"If you will make a statement, sir," continued O'Gorman, "we shall be
able to verify it."
Slowly Hathaway raised his head.
"I have no statement to make," he persisted.
"This is rank folly," exclaimed O'Gorman, "but if you refuse to make the
statement, I shall make it myself."
"I beg you--I implore you!" said Hathaway pleadingly.
The detective rose and stood before him, looking not at the old man but
at the young girl--Mary Louise.
"Tell me, my child," he said gently, "would you not rather see your
grandfather--an honorable, high-minded gentleman--acquitted of an unjust
accusation, even at the expense of some abasement and perhaps heart-
aches on your part, rather than allow him to continue to suffer disgrace
in order to shield you from so slight an affliction?"
"Sir!" cried Hathaway indignantly, starting to his feet; "how dare you
throw the burden on this poor child? Have you no mercy--no compassion?"
"Plenty," was the quiet reply. "Sit down, sir. This girl is stronger
than you think. She will not be made permanently unhappy by knowing the
truth, I assure you."
Hathaway regarded him with a look of anguish akin to fear. Then he
turned and seated himself, again putting an arm around Mary Louise as if
to shield her.
Said Irene, speaking very slowly:
"I am quite sure Mr. O'Gorman is right. Mary Louise is a brave girl, and
she loves her grandfather."
Then Mary Louise spoke--hesitatingly, at first, for she could not yet
comprehend the full import of the officer's words.
"If you mean," said she, "that it will cause me sorrow and humiliation
to free my grandfather from suspicion, and that he refuses to speak
because he fears the truth will hurt me, then I ask you to speak out,
Mr. O'Gorman."
"Of course," returned the little man, smiling at her approvingly; "that
is just what I intend to do. All these years, my girl, your grandfather
has accepted reproach and disgrace in order to shield the good name of a
woman and to save her from a prison cell. And that woman was your
mother."
"Oh!" cried Mary Louise and covered her face with her hands.
"You brute!" exclaimed Hathaway, highly incensed.
"But this is not all," continued O'Gorman, unmoved; "your mother, Mary
Louise, would have been condemned and imprisoned--and deservedly so in
the eyes of the law--had the truth been known; and yet I assure you she
was only guilty of folly and of ignorance of the terrible consequences
that might have resulted from her act. She was weak enough to be loyal
to a promise wrung from her in extremity, and therein lay her only
fault. Your grandfather knew all this, and she was his daughter--his
only child. When the accusation for your mother's crime fell on him, he
ran away and so tacitly admitted his guilt, thus drawing suspicion from
her. His reason for remaining hidden was that, had he been caught and
brought to trial, he could not have lied or perjured himself under oath
even to save his dearly loved daughter from punishment. Now you
understand why he could not submit to arrest; why, assisted by a small
but powerful band of faithful friends, he has been able to evade capture
during all these years. I admire him for that; but he has sacrificed
himself long enough. Your mother's recent death renders her prosecution
impossible. It is time the truth prevailed. In simple justice I will not
allow this old man to embitter further his life, just to protect his
grandchild from a knowledge of her mother's sin."
Again a deathly silence pervaded the room.
"You--you are speaking at random," said Hathaway, in a voice choked with
emotion. "You have no proof of these dreadful statements."
"But _I_ have!" said Irene bravely, believing it her duty to support
O'Gorman.
"And so have I," asserted the quiet voice of Sarah Judd, who had entered
the room unperceived.
Hathaway regarded both the girls in surprise, but said nothing.
"I think," said Officer O'Gorman, "it will be best for us to read to Mr.
Hathaway that letter."
"The letter which I found in the book?" asked Irene eagerly.
"Yes. But do not disturb yourself," as she started to wheel her chair
close to the wall. "Josie will get it."
To Irene's astonishment Sarah Judd walked straight to the repeating
rifle, opened the sliding plate in its stock and took out the closely
folded letter. Perhaps Nan Shelley and Agatha Lord were no less
surprised than Irene; also they were deeply chagrined. But O'Gorman's
slip in calling Sarah Judd "Josie" had conveyed to his associates
information that somewhat modified their astonishment at the girl's
cleverness, for everyone who knew O'Gorman had often heard of his
daughter Josie, of whom he was accustomed to speak with infinite pride.
He always said he was training her to follow his own profession and that
when the education was complete Josie O'Gorman would make a name for
herself in the detective service. So Nan and Agatha exchanged meaning
glances and regarded the freckled-faced girl with new interest.
"I'm not much of a reader," said Josie, carefully unfolding the paper.
"Suppose we let Miss Irene read it?"
Her father nodded assent and Josie handed the sheet to Irene.
Mr. Hathaway had been growing uneasy and now addressed Officer O'Gorman
in a protesting voice:
"Is this reading necessary, sir?"
"Very necessary, Mr. Hathaway."
"What letter is this that you have referred to?"
"A bit of information dating nearly ten years ago and written by one who
perhaps knew more of the political intrigues of John and Beatrice
Burrows than has ever come to your own knowledge."
"The letter is authentic, then?"
"Quite so."
"And your Department knows of its existence?"
"I am acting under the Department's instructions, sir. Oblige us, Miss
Macfarlane," he added, turning to Irene, "by reading the letter in
full."
