"At Coscob Station we got out and hid one of the bags in a pile of lumber. We then walked up the track a mile toward Stamford, where we hid in a stone wall the large carpet-bag. The three of us then, uninc.u.mbered, walked to Stamford. Here Grady lived, and he wished us to go to a barn, and said he would bring us something to eat; but McGuire and I thought it best to go back to New York as soon as possible; so we got aboard a freight train for Norwalk and took the Owl, a midnight train, from there. Going to New York we sat in different parts of the car and did not speak. The train stopped for some reason or other at One Hundred and Twentieth street, and there McGuire and I got out.

"We were then on our way to Tristram's house, and there we met Allen, Hudson and Tristram. They told us they had got on the car as agreed upon, and had got off at Harlem Bridge, and walked up the track about six miles, but, failing to find us, had become disgusted and returned home. That evening Tristram, McGuire and I started for Norwalk in the five o'clock train. We all got off at Stamford, and I went to a livery stable, for the purpose of hiring a horse and wagon in order to remove the stolen property. I told the stable keeper I was going to Norwalk, but it was so cold he would not hire his horses. We could not get a horse at Stamford, so we arranged to take the next train to Norwalk. We reached Norwalk the next day, and stopped at the house of old Josiah Tristram till Tuesday evening. On Monday evening we were joined by Hudson. He came to the house with Tristram in a Rockaway carriage. We then went to Coscob Bridge, got the hidden bags, and returned to Tristram's house. We here unpacked and repacked the bags, tying a couple of skate straps about them, so as to be handy for Josiah Tristram to carry them to New York next day, January 9. We remained here Tuesday evening, when Tristram and I were arrested."

The effect of Clark's evidence was thrilling in the extreme. The story was too potent for cross-examination. The enemy was badly shattered and demoralized. Ex-Judge Stuart, counsel for the prisoners, maintained the currency was not money because it was incomplete without the bank officers' signatures, but he was overruled by the court.

A host of witnesses were then produced to prove that Allen, Wells and some of the other prisoners were elsewhere on the night of the robbery. The characters of the witnesses for the defense broke down under cross-examination; but no matter, the jury disagreed--a result which had been antic.i.p.ated owing to certain a.s.sociations of one of the jurors with friends of some of the prisoners.

A second trial was ordered, and took place in Danbury during the latter part of the year. During the interval that elapsed before the second trial, McGuire, who was out on bail, took part in the bold robbery of the Bowdoinham Bank, in Maine, for which he is now serving out a fifteen years' sentence in State Prison.

Hudson managed to escape before the first arrest of the prisoners, and with ten thousand dollars of the stolen money went to Europe, where he has been ever since.

One of Allen's friends, who was visiting Danbury with his family during the first trial, and who was on visiting terms with one of the jurors, represented to an old friend who met him in the hotel that he "had found Jesus" and was "leading a new life." He was congratulated, but carefully watched.

One of the female witnesses for the _alibi_, a handsome brunette, said, on cross examination, that she was a dressmaker, but seldom made dresses, as she was the recipient of two hundred dollars every week from a New York merchant, who admired her for her beauty.

At the second trial the four remaining prisoners, McGuire having gone into business in Maine, fared not so well. They were convicted and sent to Wethersfield, from whence some of them may have emerged wiser and better members of society. Some of them could not reform. The stolen money was nearly all recovered, and the Adams Express Company had, long previous to the end of the trial, indemnified all their customers for any loss sustained by the robbery.

CHAPTER XIX.

_The Jail at Bridgeport._--_An Important Arrest._--_Bucholz Finds a Friend._--_A Suspicious Character who Watches and Listens._--_Bucholz Relates His Story._

A few days had elapsed after my taking charge of the case of William Bucholz, when two arrests were made by the officials of Bridgeport, one of which promised to have an important bearing upon the investigation in hand.

One was that of a shrewdly-educated young Irishman, whose sharp, piercing black eyes, and closely-cut black hair, gave him a look of acuteness that was apparent to the most casual observer. He had been charged with false pretense in a.s.suming to be the agent of a publisher of chromos, and his practice was to take orders for the pictures which he exhibited, from his unsuspecting customers, the same to be delivered at some future time. He would then receive a part of the purchase money in advance, and take his departure, while the innocent subscriber would look in vain for the fulfillment of his contract.

The other arrest was that of a handsome and gentlemanly-looking man of about thirty-five years of age. His hair, which was prematurely gray, curled gracefully about his brow and temples, but his moustache, which was of a brownish color and carefully trimmed, lessened the indication of greater age on account of the color of his hair. He evinced a quiet reserve of manner, and a general air of respectability scarcely in accord with his appearing to answer for the commission of a crime, and many sympathetic remarks were made by the bystanders on the occasion of his hearing.

He was charged with forgery, and had been arrested in the act of presenting a forged order for a money package, at the office of the Adams Express Company at Bridgeport. The evidence of the forgery was unmistakable, and the agent of the company detecting it, at once had the man arrested.

These two arrests were almost coincident; their hearing at the preliminary examination took place at the same session of the court, and as each of them waived a hearing and were unable to procure bail, they were both consigned to the jail to await their trial at the next sitting of the general court.

As a general thing there seems to be a sort of community of interest or fraternity of feeling existing between prisoners during their confinement. At certain hours in the day, in many places of imprisonment, the authorities permit the prisoners to leave their cells and to take exercise in the corridors. At such times they mingle together indiscriminately and indulge in general conversation, and many interesting episodes could be gathered from their recitals of the various scenes through which they have pa.s.sed during their vicarious life, and the experiences thus related would tend to prove, beyond question, that the imagination of the romancer falls far short of the actual realities of life.

Many wild and seemingly extravagant stories are related, which fill the listener with incredulity, but which, upon inquiry, are usually found to be but truthful relations of actual occurrences.

But in this jail at Bridgeport there was one person, who, upon finding himself a prisoner, held himself aloof from the rest, declining to make any acquaintances or to engender any friendships, and this person was the quiet-looking man who had been arrested by the express company, and whose name was ascertained to be Edward Sommers. He studiously avoided his fellow-prisoners and maintained a degree of reserve which repelled their advances and at once induced their respect.

Thomas Brown, the black-haired, false pretender, however, immediately placed himself on friendly terms with every one within reach, and his merry stories were fully appreciated by the residents of the correctional inst.i.tution in which they found themselves thrown together.

But how fared William Bucholz during the days that had intervened since his incarceration? His mind, it is true, had grown calmer since the first paroxysm of his grief had spent itself, and he had composed himself sufficiently to look the future hopefully in the face. As day after day was pa.s.sed in the seclusion of his cell, he had grown reconciled to a certain extent to the existing state of affairs, but he still looked forward anxiously to the day which was to deliver him from the enclosing walls that restrained him of his liberty.

He was moody and silent, and his mind was much disturbed. His waking thoughts were ever busy with the weighty and depressing consideration of his position and of the fate that hung over him like a pall. Hour after hour he would pace the corridors, seeking no companionship and taking no pleasure in the mirth-provoking actions of those who surrounded him, or in any of the events that transpired within the jail.

Mechanically he would walk backward and forward, apparently in deep and dejected thoughtfulness, and when the time came for the keepers to lock him up again he would yield a ready but listless obedience, and spend the remainder of the time in reading and profound meditation.

He appeared to have no visitors except his counsel and a few friends from South Norwalk. But his attorneys would invariably exercise a cheering influence upon him, and their visits were always looked forward to with pleasure.

Under their ministrations Bucholz seemed to have buoyed himself up with a certain well-grounded hope of ultimate acquittal, and the thought of the possibility of conviction, while it would frequently occur to him, never found a firm place in his mind.

During the infrequent and invariably short conversations that took place between himself and any of his fellow prisoners, he always spoke hopefully of his approaching trial, and ever a.s.serted, with an air of conviction, that upon its completion he would walk out of the court-room a free man. His counsel had solemnly warned him against making a confidant of any one with whom he conversed, and he was always very careful in his utterances when speaking about his connection with the murder of Henry Schulte.

Thus the days sped on until Edward Sommers entered the jail, and then it seemed as though his disposition for reserve entirely left him.

There appeared to be some feeling of personal attraction between Bucholz and the newcomer almost unaccountable, for as they both had avoided the companionship of the other inmates, they, strange to say, soon quietly, almost imperceptibly, drifted into a friendship for each other seemingly as profound as it was demonstrative.

Both being natives of Germany, they conversed in the language of the Fatherland, and as they were familiar with many localities of joint interest, they became quite intimate, and many hours were whiled away in the relation of their earlier experiences and in fond recollections of bygone days.

During the entire time in which they were allowed to mingle with each other, these two would sit together, and their friendship soon became the topic of general conversation. Thomas Brown, however, seemed to be exceedingly uneasy under its manifestations, and he would oftentimes steal upon them unawares and endeavor to catch some fleeting words of their apparently interesting conversations.

Under the inspiration of a mutual interchange of thoughts the two friends became warmly attached to each other, particularly so far as Bucholz was concerned. They shared together their stores and the delicacies which would be furnished them by visiting ladies or by the counsel of Bucholz, who frequently visited his client and supplied him with needed articles of diet, which were not furnished by the authorities of the prison.

Thus matters went on, the friendship of Sommers and William Bucholz seeming to increase with every recurring day, and the watchful Brown still jealously watching their movements and attempting to listen to their confidences.

They were sitting together one day shortly after this, when Bucholz, in a jocular manner, addressing his companion, said:

"Ah, my dear Sommers, I am surprised to find you here in jail and upon such a charge as they have brought against you."

"Yes, but my dear Bucholz, consider my surprise to find you here, and upon the charge of murder, too. You must remember you are not clear yet," answered Sommers, with a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but whether it was his tone or the language used that brought the color to the face of the accused man, Sommers did not then know.

"Ah, you should not joke upon such a serious matter," he answered, with a degree of confusion that could not have escaped the attention of his friend.

"Never mind, my friend," replied Sommers. "It will all come out right in the end, only you must not talk to your fellow-prisoners about their troubles, nor allow them to talk to you about yours."

"Oh, no!" said Bucholz; "my lawyers always tell me to say nothing to anybody."

"That is right. You cannot tell who would be your friend or who your enemy, in a place of this kind."

The next day, as they were sitting together, two German newspapers were handed to Sommers by the hall-man, and upon receiving them he handed them at once to his companion. Bucholz opened the paper carelessly, but as his eyes glanced over its contents, he stopped, started to his feet, and then throwing the paper suddenly down upon the floor, he buried his face in his hands.

"What is the matter now?" asked Sommers, astonished at this strange behavior, and picking up the discarded paper.

"Look there!" exclaimed Bucholz, pointing to a pa.s.sage in the paper.

"Read that. That is the first time that paper ever said I was guilty."

The article to which he alluded was in regard to a statement which Bucholz had made at the time of his arrest. In explaining the fact of his having several large sums of money in his possession, he had declared that his sister had sent them to him from Germany. This statement had just been discovered to be untrue, and the denial of the sister of the fact of her having sent any money at all, was the basis of the article in question.

"This looks rather bad for you, William," said Sommers, sorrowfully.

"It does look bad," he replied, "but I never did say that I received any money from my sister. I never did say anything of that kind."

The black eyes of the ubiquitous Brown were upon the two men as they stood talking, but he was too far away to hear what was transpiring between them.

"What can they have against you any how?" inquired Sommers. "Surely there must be some ground of suspicion upon which to base their charge."

"Ah, you do not know. After the old man was murdered; I was arrested; I was closely questioned, and I did say some things that I should not have said. I had no lawyer, and a white-haired fox whose name was Illing did every thing he could against me. I did not have an opportunity to explain myself at all."