A Child Of The Rain
A Difficult Problem
A Grammatical Ghost
A Memorable Night
A Mysterious Case
A Mystery With A Moral
A Spectral Collie
A Terribly Strange Bed
American Horses
An Astral Onion
An Intangible Clue
As Told By Mr Gryce
From The Loom Of The Dead
His Last Bow
Hunted Down
Introduction To A Mystery With A Moral
Introduction To Melmoth The Wanderer
Melmoth The Wanderer
Missing: Page Thirteen
My Fascinating Friend
No 1 Branch Line: The Signal-man
On Being Found Out
On The Northern Ice
Problem Ix Violet's Own
Satire Of The Sea
Shall He Wed Her?
Story Of An Obstinate Corpse
Story Of The Vanishing Patient
The Adventure Of Black Peter
The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange
The Adventure Of The Bruce-partington Plans
The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box
The Adventure Of The Dancing Men
The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot
The Adventure Of The Dying Detective
The Adventure Of The Empty House
The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-nez
The Adventure Of The Missing Three-quarter
The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder
The Adventure Of The Priory School
The Adventure Of The Red Circle
The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons
The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure Of The Three Students
The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge
The Affair Of The Tortoise
The Avenger
The Birth-mark
The Black Cross
The Box With The Iron Clamps
The Bronze Hand
The Cambered Foot
The Case Of He Golden Bullet
The Case Of Mr Foggatt
The Case Of The Dixon Torpedo
The Case Of The Pocket Diary Found In The Snow
The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study
The Case Of The Registered Letter
The Closed Cabinet
The Coin Of Dionysius
The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax
The Doctor His Wife And The Clock
The Dreaming Lady
The End Of The Road
The Fortune Teller
The Golden Slipper
The Gray Madam
The Great Valdez Sapphire
The Grotto Spectre
The Haunted And The Haunters Or The House And The Brain
The Hermit Of Street
The Hole In The Mahogany Panel
The House By The Loch
The House Of Clocks
The House That Was Not
The Incantation
The Jew's Breastplate
The Knight's Cross Signal Problem
The Last Adventure
The Last Exploit Of Harry The Actor
The Lenton Croft Robberies
The Loss Of Sammy Crockett
The Lost Lady
The Lost Room
The Man In The Green Hat
The Mortals In The House
The Mysterious Card
The Notch On The Ax - A Story A La Mode
The Oblong Box
The Old Stone House
The Piano Next Door
The Pumpkin Coach
The Quinton Jewel Affair
The Reward
The Room Of The Evil Thought
The Second Bullet
The Shape Of Fear
The Spread Rails
The Stanway Cameo Mystery
The Thing On The Hearth
The Torture By Hope
The Tragedy At Brookbend Cottage
The Wrong Sign
The Yellow Flower
Their Dear Little Ghost

The Sleuth Of St. James's Square

American Horses
Satire Of The Sea
The Cambered Foot
The End Of The Road
The Fortune Teller
The Hole In The Mahogany Panel
The House By The Loch
The Last Adventure
The Lost Lady
The Man In The Green Hat
The Pumpkin Coach
The Reward
The Spread Rails
The Thing On The Hearth
The Wrong Sign
The Yellow Flower

The Man In The Green Hat

"Alas, monsieur, in spite of our fine courtesies, the conception
of justice by one race must always seem outlandish to another!"

It was on the terrace of Sir Henry Marquis' villa at Cannes. The
members of the little party were in conversation over their
tobacco - the Englishman, with his brier-root pipe; the American
Justice, with a Havana cigar; and the aged Italian, with his
cigarette. The last was speaking.

He was a very old man, but he gave one the impression of
incredible, preposterous age. He was bald; he had neither
eyebrows nor eyelashes. A wiry mustache, yellow with nicotine,
alone remained. Great wrinkles lay below the eyes and along the
jaw, under a skin stretched like parchment over the bony
protuberances of the face.

These things established the aspect of old age; but it was the
man's expression and manner that gave one the sense of
incalculable antiquity. The eyes seemed to look out from a
window, where the man behind them had sat watching the human race
from the beginning. And his manners had the completion of one
whose experience of life is comprehensive and finished.

"It seems strange to you, monsieur" - he was addressing, in
French, the American Justice - "that we should put our prisoners
into an iron cage, as beasts are exhibited in a circus. You are
shocked at that. It strikes you as the crudity of a race not
quite civilized.

"You inquire about it with perfect courtesy; but, monsieur, you
inquire as one inquires about a custom that his sense of justice

He paused.

"Your pardon, monsieur; but there are some conceptions of justice
in the law of your admirable country that seem equally strange to

The men about the Count on the exquisite terrace, looking down
over Cannes into the arc of the sea, felt that the great age of
this man gave him a right of frankness, a privilege of direct
expression, they could not resent. Somehow, at the extremity of
life, he seemed beyond pretenses; and he had the right to omit
the digressions by which younger men are accustomed to approach
the truth.

"What is this strange thing in our law, Count?" said the

The old man made a vague gesture, as one who puts away an
inquiry until the answer appears.

"Many years ago," he continued, "I read a story about the red
Indians by your author, Cooper. It was named `The Oak Openings,'
and was included, I think, in a volume entitled Stories of the
Prairie. I believe I have the names quite right, since the
author impressed me as an inferior comer with an abundance of
gold about him. In the story Corporal Flint was captured by the
Indians under the leadership of Bough of Oak, a cruel and
bloodthirsty savage.

"This hideous beast determined to put his prisoner to the torture
of the saplings, a barbarity rivaling the crucifixion of the
Romans. Two small trees standing near each other were selected,
the tops lopped off and the branches removed; they were bent and
the tops were lashed together. One of the victim's wrists was
bound to the top of each of the young trees; then the saplings
were released and the victim, his arms wrenched and dislocated,
hung suspended in excruciating agony, like a man nailed to a

"It was fearful torture. The strain on the limbs was hideous,
yet the victim might live for days. Nothing short of crucifixion
- that beauty of the Roman law - ever equaled it."

He paused and flicked the ashes from his cigarette.

"Corporal Flint, who seemed to have a knowledge of the Indian
character, had endeavored so to anger the Indians by taunt and
invective that some brave would put an arrow into his heart, or
dash his brains out with a stone ax.

"In this he failed. Bough of Oak controlled his braves and
Corporal Flint was lashed to the saplings. But, as the trees
sprang apart, wrenching the man's arms out of their sockets, a
friendly Indian, Pigeonwing, concealed in a neighboring thicket,
unable to rescue his friend and wishing to save him from the long
hours of awful torture, shot Corporal Flint through the forehead.

"Now," continued the Count, "if there was no question about these
facts, and Bough of Oak stood for trial before any civilized
tribunal on this earth, do you think the laws of any country
would acquit him of the murder of Corporal Flint?"

The whole company laughed.

"I am entirely serious," continued the Count. "What do you
think? There are three great nations represented here."

"The exigencies of war," said Sir Henry Marquis, "might
differentiate a barbarity from a crime."

"But let us assume," replied the Count, "that no state of war
existed; that it was a time of peace; that Corporal Flint was
innocent of wrong; and that Bough of Oak was acting entirely from
a depraved instinct bent on murder. In other words, suppose this
thing had occurred yesterday in one of the Middle States of the
American Republic?"

The American felt that this question was directed primarily to
himself. He put down his cigar and indicated the Englishman by a

"Your great jurist, Sir James Stephen," he began, "constantly
reminds us that the criminal law is a machine so rough and
dangerous that we can use it only with every safety device

"And so, Count," he continued, to the Italian, "the
administration of the criminal law in our country may seem to you
subject to delays and indirections that are not justified. These
abuses could be generally corrected by an intelligent presiding
judge; but, in part, they are incidental to a fair and full
investigation of the charge against the prisoner. I think,
however, that our conception of justice does not differ from that
of other nations."

The old Count shrugged his shoulders at the digression.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I do not refer to the mere
administration of the criminal law in your country; though,
monsieur, we have been interested in observing its peculiarities
in such notable examples as the Thaw trials in New York, and the
Anarchist cases in Chicago some years ago. I believe the judge
in the latter trial gave about one hundred instructions on the
subject of reasonable doubt - quite intelligible, I dare say, to
an American jury; but, I must confess, somewhat beyond me in
their metaphysical refinements.

"I should understand reasonable doubt if I were uninstructed, but
I do not think I could explain it. I should be, concerning it,
somewhat as Saint Augustine was with a certain doctrine of the
Church when he said: `I do not know if you ask me; but if you do
not ask me I know very well.'"

He paused and blew a tiny ring or smoke out over the terrace
toward the sea.

"There was a certain poetic justice finally in that case," he

"The prisoners were properly convicted of the Haymarket murders,"
said the American Justice.

"Ah, no doubt," returned the Count; "but I was not thinking of
that. Following a custom of your courts, I believe, the judge at
the end of the trial put the formal inquiry as to whether the
prisoners had anything to say. Whereupon they rose and addressed
him for six days!"

He bowed.

"After that, monsieur, I am glad to add, they were all very
properly hanged.

"But, monsieur, permit me to return to my question: Do you think
any intelligent tribunal on this earth would acquit Bough of Oak
of the murder of Corporal Flint under the conditions I have

"No," said the American. "It would be a cold-blooded murder; and
in the end the creature would be executed."

The old Count turned suddenly in his chair.

"Yes," he said, "in a Continental court, it is certain; but in
America, monsieur, under your admirable law, founded on the
common law of England?"

"I am sure we should hang him," replied the American.

"Monsieur," cried the old Count, "you have me profoundly

It seemed to the little group on the terrace that they, and not
the Count, were indicated by that remark. He had stated a case
about which there could be no two opinions under any civilized
conception of justice. Sir Henry Marquis had pointed out the
only element - a state of war - which could distinguish the case
from plain premeditated murder in its highest degree. They
looked to him for an explanation; but it did not immediately

The Count noticed it and offered a word of apology.

"Presently - presently," he said. "We have these two words in
Italian - sparate! and aspetate! Monsieur."

He turned to the American:

"You do not know our language, I believe. Suppose I should
suddenly call out one of these words and afterward it should
prove that a life hung on your being able to say which word it
was I uttered. Do you think, monsieur, you could be certain?

"No, monsieur; and so courts are wise to require a full
explanation of every extraordinary fact. George Goykovich, an
Austrian, having no knowledge of the Italian language, swore in
the court of an American state that he heard a prisoner use the
Italian word sparate! and that he could not be mistaken.

"I would not believe him, monsieur, on that statement; but he
explained that he was a coal miner, that the mines were worked by
Italians, and that this word was called out when the coal was
about to be shot down with powder.

"Ah, monsieur, the explanation is complete. George Goykovich
must know this word; it was a danger signal. I would believe now
his extraordinary statement."

The Count stopped a moment and lighted another cigarette.

"Pardon me if I seem to proceed obliquely. The incident is
related to the case I approach; and it makes clear, monsieur, why
the courts of France, for example, permit every variety of
explanation in a criminal trial, while your country and the great
English nation limit explanations.

"You do not permit hearsay evidence to save a man's life; with a
fine distinction you permit it to save only his character!"

"The rule," replied the American justice, "everywhere among
English-speaking people is that the best evidence of which the
subject is capable shall be produced. We permit a witness to
testify only to what he actually knows. That is the rule. It is
true there are exceptions to it. In some instances he may
testify as to what he has heard."

"Ah, yes," replied the Count; "you will not permit such evidence
to take away a man's horse, but you will permit it to take away a
woman's reputation! I shall never be able to understand these
delicate refinements of the English law!"

"But, Count," suggested Sir Henry Marquis, "reputation is
precisely that what the neighborhood says about one."

"Pardon, monsieur," returned the Count. "I do not criticize your
customs. They are doubtless excellent in every variety of way.
I deplore only my inability to comprehend them. For example,
monsieur, why should you hold a citizen responsible in all other
cases only for what he does, but in the case of his own character
turn about and try him for what people say he does?

"Thus, monsieur, as I understand it, the men of an English
village could not take away my pig by merely proving that
everybody said it was stolen; but they could brand me as a liar
by merely proving what the villagers said! It seems incredible
that men should put such value on a pig."

Sir Henry Marquis laughed.

"It is not entirely a question of values, Count."

"I beg you to pardon me, monsieur," the Italian went on.
"Doubtless, on this subject I do nothing more than reveal an
intelligence lamentably inefficient; but I had the idea that
English people were accustomed to regard property of greater
importance than life."

"I have never heard," replied the Englishman, smiling, "that our
courts gave more attention to pigs than to murder."

"Why, yes, monsieur," said the Count - "that is precisely what
they have been accustomed to do. It is only, I believe, within
recent years that one convicted of murder in England could take
an appeal to a higher court; though a controversy over pigs - or,
at any rate, the pasture on which they gathered acorns - could
always be carried up."

The great age of the Count - he seemed to be the representative
in the world of some vanished empire - gave his irony a certain
indirection. Everybody laughed. And he added: "Even your word
`murder,' I believe, was originally the name of a fine imposed by
the Danes on a village unless it could be proved that the person
found dead was an Englishman!

"I wonder when, precisely, the world began to regard it as a
crime to kill an Englishman?"

The parchment on the bones of his face wrinkled into a sort of
smile. His greatest friend on the Riviera was this pipe-smoking

Then suddenly, with a nimble gesture that one would not believe
possible in the aged, he stripped back his sleeve and exhibited a
long, curiously twisted scar, as though a bullet had plowed along
the arm.

"Alas, monsieur," he said, "I myself live in the most primitive
condition of society! I pay a tribute for life . . . . Ah! no,
monsieur; it is not to the Camorra that I pay. It is quite
unromantic. I think my secretary carries it in his books as a
pension to an indigent relative."

He turned to the American

"Believe me, monsieur, my estates in Salerno are not what they
were; the olive trees are old and all drains on my income are a
burden - even this gratuity. I thought I should be rid of it;
but, alas, the extraordinary conception of justice in your

He broke the cigarette in his fingers, and flung the pieces over
the terrace.

"In the great range of mountains," he began, "slashing across the
American states and beautifully named the Alleghanies, there is a
vast measure of coal beds. It is thither that the emigrants from
Southern Europe journey. They mine out the coal, sometimes
descending into the earth through pits, or what in your language
are called shafts, and sometimes following the stratum of the
coal bed into the hill.

"This underworld, monsieur - this, sunless world, built
underneath the mountains, is a section of Europe slipped under
the American Republic. The language spoken there is not English.
The men laboring in those buried communities cry out sparate when
they are about to shoot down the coal with powder. It is Italy
under there. There is a river called the Monongahela in those
mountains. It is an Indian name."

He paused.

"And so, monsieur, what happened along it doubtless reminded me
of Cooper's story - Bough of Oak and the case of Corporal Flint."

He took another cigarette out of a box on the table, but he did
not light it.

"In one of the little mining villages along this river with the
enchanting name there was a man physically like the people of the
Iliad; and with that, monsieur, he had a certain cast of mind not
unHellenic. He was tall, weighed two hundred and forty pounds,
lean as a gladiator, and in the vigor of golden youth.

"There were no wars to journey after and no adventures; but there
was danger and adventure here. This land was full of cockle,
winnowed out of Italy, Austria and the whole south of Europe. It
took courage and the iron hand of the state to keep the peace.
Here was a life of danger; and this Ionian - big, powerful,
muscled like the heroes of the Circus Maximus - entered this
perilous service.

"Monsieur, I have said his mind was Hellenic, like his big,
wonderful body. Mark you how of heroic antiquity it was! It was
his boast, among the perils that constantly beset him, that no
criminal should ever take his life; that, if ever he should
receive a mortal wound from the hand of the assassins about him,
he would not wait to die in agony by it. He himself would sever
the damaged thread of life and go out like a man!

"Observe, monsieur, how like the great heroes of legend - like
the wounded Saul when he ordered his armor-bearer to kill him;
like Brutus when he fell on his sword!"

He looked intently at the American.

"Doubtless, monsieur," he went on, "those near this man along the
Monongahela did not appreciate his attitude of grandeur; but to
us, in the distance, it seemed great and noble."

He looked out over the Mediterranean, where the great adventurers
who cherished these lofty pagan ideals once beat along in the
morning of the world.

"On an afternoon of summer," he continued like one who begins a
saga, "this man, alone and fearless, followed a violator of the
law and arrested him in a house of the village. As he led the
man away he noticed that an Italian followed. He was a little
degenerate, wearing a green hat, and bearing now one name and now
another. They traversed the village toward, the municipal
prison; and this creature, featured like a Parisian Apache,
skulked behind.

"As they went along, two Austrians seated on the porch of a house
heard the little man speak to the prisoner. He used the word
sparate. They did not know what he meant, for he spoke in
Italian; but they recognized the word, for it was the word used
in the mines before the coal was shot down. The prisoner made
his reply in Italian, which the Austrians did not understand.

"It seemed that this man who had made the arrest did not know
Italian, for he stopped and asked the one behind him whether the
prisoner was his brother. The man replied in the negative."

The Count paused, as though for an explanation. "What the Apache
said was: `Shall I shoot him here or wait until we reach the
ravine?' And the prisoner replied: `Wait until we come to the

"They went on. Presently they reached a sort of hollow, where
the reeds grew along the road densely and to the height of a
man's head. Here the Italian Apache, the degenerate with the
green hat, following some three steps behind, suddenly drew a
revolver from his pocket and shot the man twice in the back. It
was a weapon carrying a lead bullet as large as the tip of one's
little finger. The officer fell. The Apache and the prisoner

"The wounded man got up. He spread out his arms; and he shouted,
with a great voice, like the heroes of the Iliad. The two wounds
were mortal; they were hideous, ghastly wounds, ripping up the
vital organs in the man's body and severing the great arteries.
The splendid pagan knew he had received his death wounds; and,
true to his atavistic ideal, the ideal of the Greek, the Hebrew
and the Roman, the ideal of the great pagan world to which he in
spirit belonged, and of which the poets sing, he put his own
weapon to his head and blew his brains out."

The old Count, his chin up, his withered, yellow face vitalized,
lifted his hands like one before something elevated and noble.
After some moments had passed he continued:

"On the following day the assassin was captured in a neighboring
village. Feeling ran so high that it was with difficulty that
the officers of the law saved him from being lynched. He was
taken about from one prison to another. Finally he was put on
trial for murder.

"There was never a clearer case before any tribunal in this

"Many witnesses identified the assassin - not merely
English-speaking men, who might have been mistaken or prejudiced,
but Austrians, Poles, Italians - the men of the mines who knew
him; who had heard him cry out the fatal Italian word; who saw
him following in the road behind his victim on that Sunday
afternoon of summer; who knew his many names and every feature of
his cruel, degenerate face. There was no doubt anywhere in the
trial. Learned surgeons showed that the two wounds in the dead
man's back from the big-calibered weapon were deadly, fatal
wounds that no man could have survived.

"There was nothing incomplete in that trial.

"Everything was so certain that the assassin did not even
undertake to contradict; not one statement, not one word of the
evidence against him did he deny. It was a plain case of
willful, deliberate and premeditated murder. The judge presiding
at the trial instructed the jury that a man is presumed to intend
that which he does; that whoever kills a human being with malice
aforethought is guilty of murder; that murder which is
perpetrated by any kind of willful, deliberate and premeditated
killing is murder in the first degree. The jury found the
assassin guilty and the judge sentenced him to be hanged."

The Count paused and looked at his companions about him on the

"Messieurs," he said, "do you think that conviction was just?"

There was a common assent. Some one said: "It was a cruel murder
if ever there was one." And another: "It was wholly just; the
creature deserved to hang."

The old Count bowed, putting out his hands.

"And so I hoped he would."

"What happened?" said the American.

The Count regarded him with a queer, ironical smile.

"Unlike the great British people, monsieur," he replied, "your
courts have never given the pig, or the pasture on which he
gathers his acorns, a consideration above the human family. The
case was taken to your Court of Appeals of that province."

He stopped and lighted his cigarette deliberately, with a match
scratched slowly on the table.

"Monsieur," he said, "I do not criticize your elevated court. It
is composed of learned men - wise and patriotic, I have no doubt.
They cannot make the laws, monsieur; they cannot coin a
conception of justice for your people. They must enforce the
precise rules of law that the conception of justice in your
country has established.

"Nevertheless, monsieur" - and his thin yellow lips curled - "for
the sake of my depleted revenues I could have wished that the
decision of this court had been other than it was."

"And what did it decide?" asked the American.

"It decided, monsieur," replied the Count, "that my estates in
Salerno must continue to be charged with the gratuity to the
indigent relative.

"That is to say, monsieur, it decided, because the great pagan
did not wait to die in agony, did not wait for the mortal wounds
inflicted by the would-be assassin to kill him, that interesting
person - the man in the green hat - was not guilty of murder in
the first degree and could not be hanged!"

Note - See State versus Angelina; 80 Southeastern Reporter, 141:
"The intervening responsible agent who wrongfully accelerates
death is guilty of the murder, and not the one who inflicted the
first injury, though in itself mortal."

Next: The Wrong Sign

Previous: The Cambered Foot

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