The matron brought her up into the front room of the station house at eight in the morning. Casey looked at her haggard face with an expression of satisfaction. ``Her nerve's going,'' he said to the sergeant. ``I guess she'll break down and confess to-day.''
They drove her to court in a Black Maria, packed among thieves, drunkards and disorderly characters. Upon her right side pressed a slant-faced youth with a huge nose and wafer-thin, flapping ears, who had snatched a purse in Houston Street. On her left, lolling against her, was an old woman in dirty calico, with a faded black bonnet ludicrously awry upon scant white hair--a drunkard released from the Island three days before and certain to be back there by noon.
``So you killed him,'' the old woman said to her with a leer of sympathy and admiration.
At this the other prisoners regarded her with curiosity and deference. Hilda made no answer, seemed not to have heard. Her eyes were closed and her face was rigid and gray as stone.
``She needn't be afraid at all,'' declared a young woman in black satin, addressing the company at large. ``No jury'd ever convict as good-looking a girl as her.''
``Good business!'' continued the old woman. ``I'd 'a' killed mine if I could 'a' got at him--forty years ago.'' She nodded vigorously and cackled. Her cackle rose into a laugh, the laugh into a maudlin howl, the howl changing into a kind of song--``My love, my love, my love and I--we had to part, to part! And it broke, it broke, it broke my heart --it broke my heart!''
``Cork up in there!'' shouted the policeman from the seat beside the driver.
The old woman became abruptly silent. Hilda moaned and quivered.
Her lips moved. She was murmuring, ``I can't stand it much longer--I can't. I'll wake soon and see Aunt Greta's picture looking down at me from the wall and hear mother in the kitchen--''
``Step lively now!'' They were at the Essex Market police court; they were filing into the waiting-pen. A lawyer, engaged by her father, came there, and Hilda was sent with him into a little consultation room. He argued with her in vain. ``I'll speak for myself,'' she said. ``If I had a lawyer they'd think I was guilty.''
After an hour the petty offenders had been heard and judged. A court officer came to the door and called: ``Hilda Brauner!''
Hilda rose. She seemed unconcerned, so calm was she. Her nerves had reached the point at which nerves refuse to writhe, or even to record sensations of pain. As she came into the dingy, stuffy little courtroom she didn't note the throng which filled it to the last crowded inch of standing-room; did not note the scores of sympathetic faces of her anxious, loyal friends and neighbors; did not even see her father and Otto standing inside the railing, faith and courage in their eyes as they saw her advancing.
The magistrate studied her over the tops of his glasses, and his look became more and more gentle and kindly. ``Come up here on the platform in front of me,'' he said.
Hilda took her stand with only the high desk between him and her.
The magistrate's tone and his kind, honest, old face reassured her. And just then she felt a pressure at her elbow and heard in Otto's voice: ``We're all here. Don't be afraid.''
``Have you counsel--a lawyer?'' asked the magistrate.
``No,'' replied Hilda. ``I haven't done anything wrong. I don't need a lawyer.''
The magistrate's eyes twinkled, but he sobered instantly to say, ``I warn you that the case against you looks grave. You had better have legal help.''
Hilda looked at him bravely. ``I've only the truth to tell,'' she insisted. ``I don't want a lawyer.''
``We'll see,'' said the magistrate, giving her an encouraging smile. ``If it is as you say, you certainly won't need counsel.
Your rights are secure here.'' He looked at Captain Hanlon, who was also on the platform. ``Captain,'' said he, ``your first witness--the man who found the body.''
``Meinert,'' said the captain in a low tone to a court officer, who called loudly, ``Meinert! Meinert!''
A man stood up in the crowd. ``You don't want me!'' he shouted, as if he were trying to make himself heard through a great distance instead of a few feet.
``You want--''
``Come forward !'' commanded the magistrate sharply, and when Meinert stood before him and beside Hilda and had been sworn, he said, ``Now, tell your story.''
``The man--Feuerstein,'' began Meinert, ``came into my place about half-past one yesterday. He looked a little wild-- as if he'd been drinking or was in trouble. He went back into the sitting-room and I sent in to him and--''
``Did you go in?''
``No, your Honor.''
``When did you see him again?''
``Not till the police came.''
``Stand down. I want evidence, not gossip. Captain Hanlon, who found the body? Do you know?''
``Your Honor, I understood that Mr. Meinert found it.''
The magistrate frowned at him. Then he said, raising his voice, ``Does ANY ONE know who found the body?''
``My man Wielert did,'' spoke up Meinert.
A bleached German boy with a cowlick in the center of his head just above his forehead came up beside Hilda and was sworn.
``You found the body?''
``Yes,'' said Wielert. He was blinking stupidly and his throat was expanding and contracting with fright.
``Tell us all you saw and heard and did.''
``I take him the brandy in. And he sit and talk to himself. And he ask for paper and ink. And then he write and look round like crazy. And he make luny talk I don't understand. And he speak what he write--''
Captain Hanlon was red and was looking at Wielert in blank amazement.
``What did he write?'' asked the magistrate.
``A letter,'' answered Wielert. ``He put it in a envelope with a stamp on it and he write on the back and make it all ready. And then I watch him, and he take out a knife and feel it and speak with it. And I go in and ask him for money.''
``Your Honor, this witness told us nothing of that before,'' interrupted Hanlon. ``I understood that the knife--''
``Did you question him?'' asked the magistrate.