Throughout his testimony, Roland had held on to his elegant kidskin gloves, toying with them, lightly slapping them against his crossed knee or waving them in the air to make a point. It was another pair of kid gloves, however—the metaphorical ones with which Assistant District Attorney Osborne had handled the witness—that drew the sharpest comments from the press.
Predictably, Hearst’s Journal adopted the most scathing tone. Osborne—the “fearless cross-examiner who had browbeaten Cornish into contradiction and confusion”—had inexplicably become “gentle as a lamb” in his questioning of Molineux. Instead of being “placed upon the rack” and reduced to “a tattered remnant” of himself, the witness had been treated with an almost fawning deference. No wonder Roland and his father had left the courtroom looking “supremely happy.” “It was whitewashing day for Molineux,” the paper jeered, “and the brush was wielded by Mr. Osborne.”1
If Osborne was stung by these criticisms, he showed no sign of it when the proceedings resumed on Tuesday, February 14. Over the intervening weekend, the city had been hit with a blizzard of such ferocity that entire streets were blocked with six-foot-high drifts. By Tuesday, however, the skies were clear, and when the doors opened at 10:00 A.M., the little courtroom was quickly filled to overflowing.2
Looking “bright and fresh, his face free from worry,” Molineux took the stand shortly after eleven, his fine tan gloves held, as before, in his right hand. Throughout his testimony, he was, as one observer noted, the very picture of seemingly “unstudied grace.”
By contrast, Harry Cornish—seated near the front where he had an obstructed view of the witness chair—“looked careworn and nervous, as if there was a great load of some kind weighing upon his mind.” As he listened to the testimony of his debonair rival, his face took on a “look full of bitterness and hate.”3
To the delight of the more prurient-minded spectators—who “manifested an air of intense expectancy,” according to the papers—Osborne picked up where he had left on Friday, with the matter of Henry Barnet’s relationship with Blanche. Those who hoped to see Osborne conduct a more aggressive grilling of the witness, however, were in for a disappointment. If anything, he seemed even more solicitous of Molineux’s feelings, prefacing his most probing questions with elaborate apologies.
“I ask these questions with considerable regret, Mr. Molineux,” he began. “I have no wish to pry into your personal life, but I must do so in the interest of justice.”
“I realize that, Mr. Osborne,” Roland said with an understanding smile. “And I will answer you in the same spirit.”
Acknowledging Roland’s gracious reply with a little bow, Osborne said, “Tell me, Mr. Molineux. After you introduced Mr. Barnet to Miss Chesebrough, did he pay her any attention?”
“He was polite to her,” said Roland. “He sent her flowers, took her to dinner—just such attentions as a gentleman would pay to any lady.”
“Then I ask you, Mr. Molineux, was your wife in love with Mr. Barnet?”
“I think she admired him as a friend,” Roland said with a dismissive little wave of his gloves.
“Did you ever have reason to believe that Mr. Barnet was in love with Miss Chesebrough?” asked Osborne.
“Really, Mr. Osborne,” said Roland, as if addressing a child, “I have no way of knowing the state of Mr. Barnet’s feelings. If he were,” he added gallantly, “I’m sure I wouldn’t blame him.”
“Did Barnet ever visit your wife at Mrs. Bellinger’s house before your marriage?” asked Osborne.
“I think he did,” said Roland.
“Was it done with your knowledge and approval?”
“Why, yes, certainly,” said Roland, as though the answer were so obvious it hardly needed stating. “He had a perfect right to call upon her.”
“Did you ever resent it?”
“Never,” said Roland.
Apologizing once more for the necessity of inquiring into Roland’s “private and domestic life,” Osborne then asked if it was true that he had been turned down once by Blanche before she finally consented to marry him. “There is no intention to insult you,” Osborne hastened to assure him.
“I have no such opinion,” Roland said with a smile. He then acknowledged that Blanche had indeed rejected his first proposal.
“After you proposed that first time, did you object to Barnet’s attention to Miss Chesebrough?”
“Upon what grounds could I object, Mr. Osborne?” replied Roland, in the urbane tone of one man of the world to another. “She certainly had the right to receive the attentions of any man she favored.”
“Then you had no reason to be jealous of Mr. Barnet?”
“None whatsoever,” said Roland. “Barnet, Miss Chesebrough, and I were all good friends. He called me ‘Mollie’ and I called him ‘Barney.’ Miss Chesebrough did, too.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice, as though his heart had been pierced by the sudden recollection of happier times.
Osborne paused for a moment to consult his notes. When he resumed, the subject he raised was even more titillating than the reputed romantic triangle involving Mollie, Barney, and Blanche.
Had Roland ever visited the so-called Oriental room described in recent newspapers? Osborne asked.
The question made the spectators sit up in their seats. Osborne was clearly inquiring about one of the most explosive aspects of the whole affair—the rumored “coterie of degenerates” within the Knickerbocker Athletic Club. The ringleader of this sinister bunch, who had never been publicly identified, was said to inhabit an “Oriental apartment fashioned after the rooms occupied by Oscar Wilde”—shocking proof of his depravity.4
In response to Osborne’s question, Roland now conceded that he had, in fact, once visited the apartment, though he denied that there was “anything Oriental about it.”
And what, Osborne asked, had occasioned the visit?
Molineux said that he had gone there to speak to its occupant—Mr. John Adams.
The mention of this name caused a stir in the courtroom. Adams was the secretary of the Knickerbocker Athletic Club. It was Adams who first noticed the supposed similarity between the penmanship on the poison package and the handwriting on Roland’s letter of resignation. And it was Adams who first brought this resemblance to Harry Cornish’s attention.
Now it appeared—from Osborne’s line of questioning—that Adams himself was a person of highly dubious character, a member, if not the leader, of the homosexual gang that had allegedly conspired to eliminate the two men who threatened them with exposure: Harry Cornish and Henry Barnet. Could Adams have pointed the finger of suspicion at Roland in order to deflect attention from the true culprits—that is, himself and his fellow “degenerates”?
“Do you know a young man by the name of Glohr?” asked Osborne.
“Paul Glohr?” said Molineux, as if slightly surprised by the introduction of this name. “Yes, I know him.”
“Tell me what you know about him,” Osborne said.
Molineux explained that Glohr had been an office boy at the club—and not, in Roland’s opinion, a very good one. He had been remiss in his duties and had once used the tip of his forefinger to inscribe an obscenity on the frost of a windowpane facing Forty-fifth Street.
Roland had taken it upon himself to complain about Glohr to John Adams, who had called the boy to his room, presumably to reprimand him. The next thing Roland knew, Glohr had been made a member of the club and was visiting Adams’s room almost every evening to receive a “history lesson.” Eventually, Adams moved out of the club and took an apartment nearby, bringing the boy to live with him as his “ward.” It was this apartment that had reportedly been furnished in the scandalous “Oriental” style.
After questioning Roland about several other boys who had reportedly been taken under Adams’s wing, Osborne suddenly changed tack again. This time, he focused on published reports about Roland’s own supposedly immoral behavior. As before, however, he seemed almost abashed at having to raise such distasteful matters, apologizing in advance for the “personal questions” he was compelled to ask.
“I shall be glad to answer them if they give me a chance to deny some rumors,” said Roland with his usual urbanity.
“Did you ever smoke opium?” asked Osborne.
Roland did not miss a beat. “Yes, over a year ago,” he said. “I will qualify that by saying once or twice to see what it was like.”
“But you are not an opium fiend?”
Roland chuckled softly. “No, sir. I was in Chinatown sightseeing and wanted to see what opium smoking was like. Just curiosity.”
“I’m told,” said Osborne, “that you know all the bartenders in Newark, and that you associate with that sort of men. Is that true?”
“It is false,” said Roland flatly.
“I’m also told you took your wife out there and introduced her to a bartender,” said Osborne.
For the first time, Roland appeared to bristle. “Are you in earnest, Mr. Osborne?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a lie,” Roland said angrily.
“Tell me, if you please, Mr. Molineux,” said Osborne. “Have you ever rented a letter box in your life? A private letter box?”
“Never,” answered Roland.
“What do you know about cyanide of mercury?”
“I don’t think I even knew such a poison existed except perhaps in a general way before this Adams case,” Roland said.
“But aren’t you a chemist?” Osborne asked.
“A very bad chemist,” Roland said with a self-deprecating smile. “My specialty is the study of pigments. I’m merely a color-maker at a factory.”
Osborne then asked Roland if he had ever written any requests to patent medicine firms. Roland denied that he had.
Stepping to the counsel’s table, Osborne sifted through a stack of documents, then approached the witness box with a single sheet in one hand.
“Have you ever seen paper like this, Mr. Molineux?” asked Osborne, handing him the sheet—a piece of eggshell blue stationery embossed with three interlinked silver crescents.
Roland studied it for a moment before saying, “Not that I remember, Mr. Osborne.”
“You have never seen any paper like that in your life?” Osborne repeated. “I mean, with that crest on it?”
“Not that I recall,” said Roland.
Shortly afterward, Osborne excused Molineux from the witness stand, thanking him for his cooperation and asking if he would be willing to return for further questioning should the need arise.
“I shall be very glad to come whenever you send for me,” Roland said with a smile as he rose from his chair. He then returned to his place, where his father welcomed him with an affectionate little rub on the back.5
Interviewed by reporters at the close of the day’s proceedings, Osborne, as before, was effusive in his praise for Roland, whose testimony—in contrast to Cornish’s grudging answers—had been so frank and forthright.
The warm feelings were reciprocated by Roland and his representatives. Until that moment, Weeks and his co-counsel, George Gordon Battle, had refused to permit their client to supply the authorities with a penmanship sample. Now, believing that the district attorney and his men were focusing their suspicions on the surly athletic director, they agreed.
Late that afternoon, in the presence of his attorneys, Roland sat down at a table in James Osborne’s office and, to the dictation of handwriting expert William Kinsley, penned a number of samples. These included the address on the poison package sent to Harry Cornish, which Kinsley read aloud to Roland.
When he was finished, Roland shook hands all around and took his leave, “pleased and confident.”
Kinsley carefully put the samples in an envelope. He would need some time to analyze them closely. But even at a glance, he had noticed something interesting.
In writing out the address of the Knickerbocker Athletic Club, Roland had spelled the street number “Fourty Fifth Street,” adding a superfluous u.
It was the same error made by the anonymous sender of the poisoned bromo-seltzer.6