So far, the prosecution had touched but lightly on the possible motive for a crime—­the woman.  But on the third day, to my surprise, a Mrs. Agnes Murray was called.  It was the Mrs. Murray I had seen at the morgue.

I have lost the clipping of that day’s trial, but I remember her testimony perfectly.

She was a widow, living above a small millinery shop on Federal Street, Allegheny.  She had one daughter, Alice, who did stenography and typing as a means of livelihood.  She had no office, and worked at home.  Many of the small stores in the neighborhood employed her to send out their bills.  There was a card at the street entrance beside the shop, and now and then strangers brought her work.

Early in December the prisoner had brought her the manuscript of a play to type, and from that time on he came frequently, sometimes every day, bringing a few sheets of manuscript at a time.  Sometimes he came without any manuscript, and would sit and talk while he smoked a cigarette.  They had thought him unmarried.

On Wednesday, February twenty-eighth, Alice Murray had disappeared.  She had taken some of her clothing—­not all, and had left a note.  The witness read the note aloud in a trembling voice: 

    “DEAR MOTHER:  When you get this I shall be married to Mr. Ladley. 
    Don’t worry.  Will write again from N.Y.  Lovingly,

    “ALICE.”

From that time until a week before, she had not heard from her daughter.  Then she had a card, mailed from Madison Square Station, New York City.  The card merely said: 

    “Am well and working.  ALICE.”

The defense was visibly shaken.  They had not expected this, and I thought even Mr. Ladley, whose calm had continued unbroken, paled.

So far, all had gone well for the prosecution.  They had proved a crime, as nearly as circumstantial evidence could prove a crime, and they had established a motive.  But in the identification of the body, so far they had failed.  The prosecution “rested,” as they say, although they didn’t rest much, on the afternoon of the third day.

The defense called, first of all, Eliza Shaeffer.  She told of a woman answering the general description of Jennie Brice having spent two days at the Shaeffer farm at Horner.  Being shown photographs of Jennie Brice, she said she thought it was the same woman, but was not certain.  She told further of the woman leaving unexpectedly on Wednesday of that week from Thornville.  On cross-examination, being shown the small photograph which Mr. Graves had shown me, she identified the woman in the group as being the woman in question.  As the face was in shadow, knew it more by the dress and hat:  she described the black and white dress and the hat with red trimming.

The defense then called me.  I had to admit that the dress and hat as described were almost certainly the ones I had seen on the bed in Jennie Brice’s room the day before she disappeared.  I could not say definitely whether the woman in the photograph was Jennie Brice or not; under a magnifying-glass thought it might be.