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Title: The Light that Lies

Author: George Barr McCutcheon

Release Date: February 3, 2017 [EBook #54098]
Last Updated: March 12, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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THE LIGHT THAT LIES

By George Barr McCutcheon

The McClure Publications. Inc.

Copyright, 1916

The Dodd Mead And Company, Inc.




CHAPTER I

Sampson had been uncommonly successful in evading jury service. By some
hook or crook he always had managed to “get off,” and he had begun
to regard his trips down to General or Special Sessions--coming with
monotonous regularity about three times a year--as interruptions instead
of annoyances. Wise men advised him to serve and get it over with for
the time being, but he had been so steadfastly resourceful in confining
his jury service to brief and uneventful “appearances,” and to
occasional examinations as to his fitness to serve as a juror, that he
preferred to trust to his smartness rather than to their wisdom. Others
suggested that he get on the “sheriff's jury,” a quaintly distinguished
method of serving the commonwealth in that the members perform their
duty as citizens in such a luxurious and expensive way that they
never appear in the newspapers as “twelve good men and true” but as
contributors to somewhat compulsory festivities in which justice is done
to the inner man alone. But Sampson, though rich, abhored the sheriff's
jury. He preferred to invent excuses rather than to have them thrust
upon him.

Having escaped service on half-a-dozen murder trials by shrewd and
original responses to important questions by counsel for one side or the
other--(it really didn't matter to Sampson which side it was so long as
he saw the loophole)--he found himself at last in the awkward position
of having exhausted all reasonable excuses, and was obliged to confess
one day in court that he had reconsidered his views in regard to capital
punishment. This confession resulted, of course, in his name being
dropped from the “special panel,” for the jury commissioner did not want
any man in that august body who couldn't see his way clear to taking
the life of another. He “got off” once on the ground that he was quite
certain he could not convict on circumstantial evidence, despite the
assurance of learned experts that it is the _best_ evidence of all, and
he escaped another time because he did not consider insanity a defence
in homicidal cases.

Then they drew him for Special Sessions and eventually for the
humiliating lower courts, the result being that his resourcefulness
was under a constant and ever increasing strain. Where once he had
experienced a rather pleasing interest in “getting off” in important
cases, he now found himself very hard put to escape service in the most
trifling of criminal trials.

He began to complain bitterly of the injustice to himself, an honest,
upright citizen who was obliged to live in a constant state of
apprehension. He felt like a hunted animal. He was no sooner safely out
of one case when he was called for another.

It was all wrong. Why should he be hounded like this when the city was
full of men eager to earn two dollars a day and who would not in
the least mind sitting cross-legged and idle all day long in a jury
box--snoozing perhaps--in order to do their duty as citizens? Moreover,
there were men who actually _needed_ the money, and there were lots
of them who were quite as honest as the prisoners on trial or even the
witnesses who testified.

He was quite sure that if he ever was sworn in as a juror, his entire
sympathy would be with the prisoner at the bar, for he would have a
fellow feeling for the unhappy wretch who also was there because he
couldn't help it. The jury system was all wrong, claimed Sampson. For
example, said he, a man is supposed to be tried by twelve of his peers.
That being the case, a ruffian from the lower East Side should be tried
by his moral and mental equals and not by his superiors. By the same
argument, a brainy, intelligent bank or railway president, an editor,
or a college professor, should not be tried by twelve incompetent though
perfectly honest window-washers. Any way you looked at it, the jury
system was all wrong. The more Sampson thought about it the more fully
convinced was he that something ought to be done about it.

He had been obliged to miss two weddings, a private-car jaunt to Aiken,
one of the Harvard-Yale football matches, the docking of the _Olympic_
when she carried at least one precious passenger, the sailing of the
_Cedric_ when she carried an equally precious but more exacting object
of interest, a chance to meet the Princess Pat, and a lot of other
things that he wouldn't have missed for anything in the world
notwithstanding the fact that he couldn't remember, off hand, just what
they were. Suffice it to say, this miserable business of “getting off”
 juries kept Sampson so occupied that he found it extremely difficult to
get on with anything else.

He was above trying to “fix” any one. Other men, he knew, had some one
downtown who could get them off with a word to the proper person, and
others were of sufficient importance politically to make it impossible
for them to be in contempt of court. That's what he called “fixing
things.”

Shortly after the holidays he was served with a notice to appear and be
examined as to his fitness to serve as juror in the case of the State
vs. James W. Hildebrand. Now, he had made all his arrangements for
a trip to California. In fact, he planned to leave New York on the
twenty-first of January, and here he was being called into court on the
twentieth. Something told him that the presiding justice was sure to be
one of those who had witnessed one or more of his escapes from service
on previous occasions, and that the honourable gentleman in the long
black gown would smile sadly and shake his head if he protested that
he was obliged to get off because he had to go to California for his
health. The stupidest judge on earth would know at a glance that Sampson
didn't have to go anywhere for his health. He really had more of it than
was good for him.

If he hadn't been so healthy he might have relished an occasional
fortnight of indolence in a drowsy, stuffy, little court-room with
absolutely nothing to do but to look at the clock and wonder, with the
rest of the jurors, how on earth the judge contrived to wake up from a
sound sleep whenever a point came up for decision and always to settle
it so firmly, so confidently, so promptly that even the lawyers were
fooled into believing that he had been awake all the time.

Sampson entered the little court-room at 9:50 o'clock on the morning of
the twentieth.

He was never to forget the morning of the twentieth.

Fifteen or twenty uneasy, sour-faced men, of all ages, sizes and
condition sat outside the railing, trying to look unconcerned. They
couldn't fool him. He knew what they were and he knew that in the
soul of each lurked the selfish, cruel prayer that twelve men would be
snatched from among them and stuffed into the jury box to stay before
the clerk could draw his own dreaded name from the little box at his
elbow.

Other men came in and shuffled into chairs. The deputy clerk of the
court emerged from somewhere and began fussing with the papers on his
desk. Every man there envied him. He had a nice job, and he looked as
though he rather liked being connected with an inhuman enterprise. He
was immune. He was like the man who already has had smallpox. Lazy court
attendants in well-worn uniforms ambled about freely. They too were
envied. They were thoroughly court-broken. A couple of blithe, alert
looking young men from the district attorney's office came and, with
their hands in their pockets, stared blandly at the waiting group, very
much as the judges at a live-stock show stare at the prize pigs, sheep
and cattle. They seemed to be appraising the supply on hand and, to
judge by their manner, they were not at all favourably impressed with
the material. Indeed, they looked unmistakably annoyed. It was bad
enough to have to select a jury in any event, but to have to select one
from _this_ collection of ignoramuses was--well, it was _too_ much!

The hour hand on the clock said ten o'clock, but everybody was watching
the minute hand. It had to touch twelve before anything, could happen.
Then the judge would steal out of his lair and mount the bench, while
every one stood and listened to the unintelligible barking of the
attendant who began with something that sounded suspiciously like
“Oy-yoy!” notwithstanding the fact that he was an Irish and not a Jewish
comedian.

Two uninteresting, anxious-eyed, middle-aged men, who looked a trifle
scared and uncertain as to their right to be there, appeared suddenly
inside the railing, and no one doubted for an instant that they were the
defendant's lawyers. Sampson always had wondered why the men from the
district attorney's office were so confident, so cocky, and so spruce
looking while their opponents invariably appeared to be a seedy,
harassed lot, somewhat furtive in their movements and usually labouring
under the strain of an inward shyness that caused a greasy polish of
perspiration to spread over their countenances.

Sampson was to find that these timid, incompetent looking individuals
had every reason in the world to be perspiring even so early in the
proceedings. They turned out to be what is known in rhetorical circles
as “fire-eaters” The judge took his seat and the clerk at once called
the case of the State vs. James W. Hildebrand. Sampson speculated. What
had Hildebrand done to get himself into a mess of this sort? Was
it grand or petit larceny, or was it house-breaking, entering,
safe-cracking, or--Two burly attendants came up the side aisle and
between them walked a gaunt, grey, stooped old man, his smooth shaven
face blanched by weeks of sunless existence.

Sampson had expected to see a sullen-faced, slouching young fellow,
shaved and brushed and combed into an unnatural state of comeliness for
the purpose of hoodwinking the jury into the belief that his life was as
clean as his cheek. He could not deny himself a stare of incredulity
on beholding this well-dressed, even ascetic looking man who strode
haltingly, almost timidly through the little gate and sank into the
chair designated by his counsel. Once seated, he barely glanced at his
lawyers, and then allowed his eyes to fall as if shame was the drawing
power. Somehow, in that instant, Sampson experienced the sudden
conviction that this man James W. Hildebrand was no ordinary person, for
it was borne in upon him that he despised the men who were employed to
defend him. It was as if he were more ashamed of being seen with them
than he was of being haled into a court of justice charged with crime.

The assistant district attorney in charge of the case addressed the
waiting talesmen, briefly outlining the case against the defendant, and
for the first time in his experience Sampson listened with a show of
interest.

James W. Hildebrand was charged with embezzlement. Judging by the
efforts of his counsel to have the case set over for at least ten
days and the Court's refusal to grant a delay, together with certain
significant observations as to the time that would probably be required
to produce and present the evidence--a week or more--Sampson realised
that this was a case of considerable magnitude. He racked his brain in
the futile effort to recall any mention of it in the newspapers. It was
his practice to read every line of the criminal news printed, for this
was the only means he had of justifying the declaration that he had
formed an opinion. Nothing escaped him--or at least he thought so--and
yet here was a case, evidently important, that had slipped through
without having made the slightest impression on him. It was most
disturbing. This should not have happened.

His heart sank as he thought of the California reservations uptown.
He was expected to take up the transportation and Pullman that very
afternoon.

The old man--he was seventy--was accused of having misappropriated
something like fifty thousand dollars of the funds belonging to a
real-estate and investment concern in which he was not only a partner
but also its secretary and treasurer. The alleged crime had been
committed some five years prior to the day on which he was brought to
trial.

After having evaded capture for four years and a half by secluding
himself in Europe, he voluntarily had returned to the States, giving
himself up to the authorities. Sampson abused himself secretly for
having allowed such a theatric incident as this to get by without notice
on his part. Other prospective jurors sitting nearby appeared to
know all about the case, for he caught sundry whispered comments that
enlightened him considerably. He realised that he had been singularly
and criminally negligent.

A protracted and confidential confab took place between the Court and
the counsel for both sides. Every juror there hoped that they were
discussing some secret and imperative reason for indefinitely postponing
the case after all--or, perhaps, better than that, the prisoner was
going to plead guilty and save all of them!

Finally the little group before the bench broke up and one of the
attorneys for Hildebrand approached the rail and held open the gate. A
woman entered and took a seat beside the prisoner. Sampson, with scant
interest in the woman herself--except to note that she was slender and
quite smartly attired--was at once aware of a surprising politeness
and deference on the part of the transmogrified lawyers, both of whom
smirked and scraped and beamed with what they evidently intended to be
gallantry.

The attorneys for the state regarded the lady with a very direct
interest, and smiled upon her, not condescendingly or derisively as is
their wont, but with unmistakable pleasure. A close observer would
have detected a somewhat significant attentiveness on the part of the
justice, a middle-aged gentleman whose business it was to look severe
and ungenial. He gave his iron-grey moustache a tender twist at each end
and placed an elbow on the desk in front of him, revealing by that act
that he was as human as any one else.

I have neglected to state that Sampson was thirty, smooth-faced,
good-looking, a consistent member of an athletic club and a Harvard man
who had won two H's and a _cum laude_ with equal ease. You will discover
later on that he was unmarried.

He was the seventeenth talesman called. Two jurors had been secured. The
other fourteen had been challenged for cause and, for the life of him,
he couldn't see why. They all looked pretty satisfactory to him. He
garnered a little hope for himself in the profligate waste of good
material. If he could sustain his customary look of intelligence there
was a splendid chance that he too would be rejected.

It seemed to him that the attendant in announcing his name and place
“of residence after the oath vociferated with unusual vehemence. Never
before had he heard his name uttered with such amazing gusto.

“You have heard the statement concerning the charge against the
defendant, Mr. Sampson,” said the assistant district attorney, taking
his stand directly in front of him. “Before going any farther, I will
ask if you know of any reason why you cannot act as a juror in this
case?”

Sampson had always been honest in his responses. He never had lied in
order to “get off.” Subterfuges and tricks, yes--but never deliberate
falsehood.

“No,” he answered.

“Have you heard of this case before?”

“No,” admitted Sampson, distinctly mortified.

“Then you have formed no opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the
defendant?”

“No.”

“Are you acquainted with the defendant, James W. Hildebrand?”

“No.”

“Have you had any business dealings with either of his counsel, Mr.
Abrams or Mr. O'Brien?”

“No.”

“Are you acquainted with either of his former partners, the gentlemen
who are to appear as witnesses against him, Thomas Stevens and John L.
Drew?”

Sampson's face brightened. “I know a John Drew,” he said. The lawyer
shook his head and smiled. “But he's not in the loan business,” he
added.

“Do you know Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, the granddaughter of this
defendant? The lady sitting beside him?”

[Illustration: 0029]

For the first time, Sampson directed his attention to the woman. His
glance, instead of being casual and perfunctory, as he had expected
it would be, developed into a prolonged stare that left him shy and
confused. She was looking into his eyes, calmly, seriously, and, he
thought, a bit speculatively, as if she were estimating his mental
displacement. As a matter of fact, she was merely detaching him from the
others who had gone before. He had the strange, uncomfortable feeling
that he was being appraised by a most uncompromising judge. His stare
was not due to resentment on his part because of her cool inspection. It
was the result of suddenly being confronted by the loveliest girl he had
ever seen--unquestionably the loveliest.

It seemed an affront to this beautiful, clear-eyed creature to say that
he did not know her. To say it to her face, too--with her eyes upon
him--why, it was incomprehensibly rude and ungallant. He ought to have
been spared this unnecessary humiliation, he thought. How would she
feel when he deliberately, coldly insulted her by uttering a bald, harsh
negative to the question that had been asked?

“I--I am afraid not,” he managed to qualify, hoping for a slight smile
of acknowledgement.

“Would you be inclined to favour the defendant because of his age, Mr.
Sampson?”

Sampson hesitated. Here was his chance. He looked again at Miss
Alexandra Hildebrand. She was still regarding him coolly, impersonally.
After all, he was nothing to her but a juror--just an ordinary,
unwholesome specimen undergoing examination. If he was rejected, he
would pass out of her mind on the instant and never again would he be
permitted to enter. He felt very small and inconsequential.

“Well, naturally, I suppose, I should be influenced to some extent by
his age,” he replied.

“You would, however, keep your mind open to the evidence in the case and
render a verdict according to that evidence? You would not discharge him
solely because he is an old man?”

“I don't know where my sympathy would carry me,” said Sampson evasively.

“I see. Well, if you should be accepted by both sides as a juror to sit
in this case you would at least try to divide your sympathy as fairly as
possible between us, wouldn't you? You would not deny the long-suffering
State of New York a share of your sympathy, would you?”

Miss Hildebrand, at that juncture, touched her grandfather on the arm
and whispered something in his ear. For the first time the old man
looked at the talesman in the chair. Sampson was acutely aware of a
sudden flash of interest in the prisoner's eyes. Moreover, the young
woman was regarding him rather less impersonally.

Sampson assumed an air of extreme hauteur “If I am accepted by both
sides in this case, my sympathy will be, first of all, with myself,
I am not eager to serve. I shall, however, do my best to render an
intelligent, just verdict.”

“According to the evidence and the law as laid down by the honourable
Court?”

“According to the circumstances as I see them.”

“That is not a direct answer to my question, Mr. Sampson.”

“I am not willing to say that I will be governed entirely by the
evidence. I can only say, that I should render what I consider to be a
just and reasonable verdict, depending on circumstances.”

“Ahem! You are quite sure that you could render a just and reasonable
verdict?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you admit that you cannot answer for your sympathies?”

“Are you cross-examining me?”

“Not at all, Mr. Sampson,” responded the other smoothly. “I am merely
trying to ascertain whether you are competent to serve as a juror in
this case.”

Sampson was saying to himself: “Thank the Lord, he will never accept
me.” Aloud he said: “Pray, overlook my stupidity and proceed--”

The Court leaned forward and tapped smartly on the desk with a lead
pencil. “We are wasting time, gentlemen. Please omit the persiflage.”

“Have you ever served as a juror in a criminal case, Mr. Sampson?”
 inquired the lawyer. Sampson had turned pink under the Court's mild
irony.

“No,” he answered, and glanced at Miss Hildebrand, expecting to see a
gleam of amusement in her eyes. She was regarding him quite solemnly,
however.

“You are a Harvard man, I believe, Mr. Sampson?”

“Yes.”

“If it should be shown that this defendant is also a Harvard graduate,
would that fact serve to prejudice you in his favour?”

“Certainly not,” said Sampson, warmly. This was _too_ much!

“What is your business, Mr. Sampson?”

“I am connected with the Sampson Steamship and Navigation Company.”

“In what capacity?”

“I am its president.”

“You are, I believe, the son of the late Peter Stuyvesant Sampson,
founder of the company?”

“I am.”

“The only son?”

“And heir,” said Sampson curtly. “I inherited my job, if that's what you
are trying to get at. And it is more or less of an honorary position, if
that will help you any. I am president of the company because I happen
to own all but five shares of the capital stock, and not because I
really want to hold, or because I am in any sense competent to fill the
office. Now you know all that there is to know about my connection with
the company.”

“Thanks,” said the assistant district attorney, drily. “And now, Mr.
Sampson, could you sit as a juror in this case and give, on your honour
as a man, despite a very natural sympathy that may be aroused for this
aged defendant, a verdict in favour of the State if it is proved to you
beyond all doubt that he is guilty as charged?”

There was but one answer that Sampson could give. He felt exceedingly
sorry for himself. “Yes.” Then he made haste to qualify: “Provided, as I
said before, that there are no extenuating circumstances.”

“But you would not deliberately discharge a guilty man just because you
happened to feel sorry for him, would you? We, as individuals, are all
sorry for the person we are obliged to punish, Mr. Sampson. But the
law is never sorry. The mere fact that one man disregards the law is no
reason why the rest of us should do the same, is it?”

“Of course not,” said Sampson, feeling himself in a trap.

“The State asks no more of you than you would, as a citizen, ask of
the State, Mr. Sampson. The fact that this defendant, after five years,
voluntarily surrendered himself to the authorities--would that have any
effect on your feelings?”

“Yes, it would. I should certainly take that into consideration. As a
citizen, I could not ask more of any man than that he surrender himself
to my State if it couldn't catch him.”

The Court tapped with his pencil, and a raucous voice from somewhere
called for order.

“Are you a married man, Mr. Sampson?”

“I am not.”

“The State is satisfied,” said the assistant district attorney, and sat
down.

Sampson caught his breath. Satisfied? It meant that he was acceptable
to the State! After all he had said, he was acceptable to the State. He
could hardly believe his ears. Landed! Landed, that's what it meant. The
defence would take him like a shot. A cold perspiration burst out all
over him. And while he was still wondering how the district attorney
could have entrusted the case to such an incompetent subordinate,
counsel for the defence began to ply him with questions--perfunctory,
ponderous questions that might have been omitted, for any one with half
an eye could see that Sampson was doomed the instant the State said it
was satisfied.

His spirit was gone. He recognised the inevitable; in a dazed sort of
way he answered the questions, usually in monosyllables and utterly
without spunk. Miss Hildebrand was no longer resting her elbows on
the table in front of her in an attitude of suspense. She was leaning
comfortably back in her chair, her head cocked a little to one side,
and she gazed serenely at the topmost pane of glass in the tall window
behind the jury box. She appeared to be completely satisfied.

He saw the two lawyers lean across the table in consultation with the
prisoner and his granddaughter, their heads close together. They were
discussing him as if he were the criminal in the case. Miss Hildebrand
peered at him as she whispered something in her grandfather's ear, and
then he caught a fleeting, though friendly smile in her eyes. He
was reminded, in spite of his extreme discomfiture, that she was an
amazingly pretty girl.

“No challenge,” said the defendant's attorney, and Sampson was told to
take seat No. 3 in the jury box.

“Defendant, look upon the juror. Juror, look upon the defendant,” said
the clerk, and with his hand on the Bible Sampson took the oath to
render a true verdict according to the law and the evidence, all the
while looking straight into the eyes of the gaunt old man who stood and
looked at him wearily, drearily, as if from a distance that rendered his
vision useless.

Then Sampson sank awkwardly into the third seat, and sighed so
profoundly that juror No. 2 chuckled.

He certainly was in for it now.




CHAPTER II

You needn't pack,” said Sampson to his valet that evening. “I'm stuck.”

“Stuck, sir?”

“Caught on the jury, Turple. Landed at last. But,” he sighed, “I've
given 'em a good run though, haven't I?”

“You 'ave, sir. I dare say you will like it 'owever, now that you've
been stuck, as you say. My father, when he was alive, was very fond
of serving on the juries, sir. He was constantly being 'ad up in small
cases, and it was 'is greatest ham--ambition to get a whack at a good
'orrifying murder trial. I 'ope as 'ow you 'ave been stuck on a murder
case, sir. In England we--”

“It isn't a murder case. Merely embezzlement. But I must not discuss the
case, Turple, not even with you.”

“What a pity, sir. You usually consult me about any think that--”

“Call up the New York Central office at Thirtieth Street and cancel my
reservations, and lay out a blue serge suit for to-morrow.”

“Isn't it a bit coolish to be wearing a serge--”

“Those court-rooms are frightfully close, Turple. A blue serge.''

“You look better in a blue serge than anythink you--”

“It is comfort, not looks, that I'm after, Turple,” explained Sampson,
who perhaps lied.

“Sets a man off as no other goods--I beg pardon, sir. I will call up the
booking office at once, sir. The blue serge, sir?”

“The blue serge,” said Sampson, brightly. “Anythink else, sir?”

Sampson grew facetious. “You might give me a shirt and a collar and a
necktie, Turple.” The man bowed gravely and retreated. His master, moved
by an increasing exhilaration, called after him: “I might also suggest a
pair of shoes and--well, you know what else I'm in the habit of wearing
in the daytime.”

Turple, knowing his master's feelings about jury service, was very much
amazed later on to hear him whistling cheerily as he made preparations
for a dinner engagement. The mere thought of a jury, heretofore, had
created in his master a mood provocative of blasphemy, and here he
was--actually “landed,” as he had put it himself--whistling as gaily as
a meadow lark. Turple shook his head, completely puzzled, for he also
knew his master to be a most abstemious man. In all his three years
of association with his employer he had never known him to take a
nip during the daytime, and that is what Turple called being most
abstemious.

The next morning Sampson, instead of hanging back aggrievedly as was
his wont, was in the court-room bright and early--(half an hour ahead of
time, in fact)--and he never looked fresher, handsomer or more full
of the joy of living. He passed the time of day with the attendants,
chatted agreeably with No. 2, who also came in early, and subsequently
listened politely to the worries of No. 5, a chubby-faced bachelor
who couldn't for the life of him understand why the deuce manicurers
persisted in cutting the cuticle after having been warned not to do so.

He rather pitied No. 7, who appeared in a cutaway coat a trifle too
small for his person and a very high collar that attracted a great deal
of attention from its wearer if from no one else. No. 7, he recalled,
had been quite indifferently garbed the day before: a shiny, well-worn
sack coat, trousers that had not been pressed since the day they left
the department store, and a “turndown” collar that had been through the
“mangle” no less than a hundred times--and should have been in one at
that instant instead of around his neck. No. 7 was also minus a three
days' growth of beard.

Everybody seemed bright and cheerful. There were still two more jurors
to be secured when court convened. Never in all his experience had
Sampson seen a judge on the bench who behaved so beautifully as this
one. He looked as though he never had had a grouch in his life, and as
if he really enjoyed listening to the same old questions over and over
again. Occasionally he interjected a question or an interpolation that
must have been witty, for he graciously permitted his hearers to
laugh with him; and at no time was he cross or domineering. His hair,
carefully brushed, was sleekly plastered into an enduring neatness, and
his moustache was never so smartly trimmed and twisted as it was on this
sprightly morning. One might have been led into believing that it was
not winter but early spring.

The deputy clerk had taken too much pains in shaving himself that
morning, for in his desire to scrape closely in the laudable effort
to curb the sandy growth on his cheek and chin, he had managed to do
something that called for the application of a long strip of pale pink
court-plaster immediately in front of his left ear. He was particular
about turning the other cheek, however, so that unless you walked
completely around him you wouldn't have noticed the court-plaster. The
attendants, noted for their untidiness, were perceptibly spruced up. If
any one of them was chewing tobacco, he managed to disguise the fact.

The only person in the court-room, aside from the prisoner himself,
who had not changed for the better over night, was Miss Alexandra
Hildebrand. She could not have changed for the better if she had tried.
When she took her seat beside her grandfather, she was attired as on the
day before. Her cool, appraising eyes swept the jury box. More than
one occupant of that despised pen felt conscious of his sartorial
rehabilitation. A faint smile appeared at the corners of her adorable
mouth. Even Sampson, the proud and elegant Sampson, wondered what there
was for her to smile at.

Being utterly disinterested in the composition of the jury of which he
was an integral part, Sampson paid not the slightest attention to the
process of rounding out the even dozen. While counsel struggled over the
selection of talesmen to fill the two vacant places, he devoted himself
to the study of Miss Hildebrand. This study was necessarily of a
surreptitious character, and was interrupted from time to time by the
divergence of the young lady's attention from the men who were being
examined to those already accepted. At such times, Sampson shifted his
gaze quickly. In two instances he was not quite swift enough, and she
caught him at it. He was very much annoyed with himself. Of course, she
would put him in a class with the other members of the jury, and that
was a distinction not to be coveted. They were very honest, reliable
fellows, no doubt, but Heaven knows they were not well-bred. No
well-bred man would stare at Miss Hildebrand as No. 4 was staring, and
certainly No. 7 was the most unmannerly person he bad ever seen. The
fellow sat with his mouth open half the time, his lips hanging limp in
a fixed fatuous smile, bis gaze never wavering. Sampson took the trouble
to dissect No. 7's visage--in some exasperation, it may be said. He
found that he had a receding chin and prominent upper teeth. Just the
sort of a fellow, thought Sampson, who was sure to consider himself
attractive to women.

Miss Hildebrand was twenty-four or -five, he concluded. She was neither
tall nor short, nor was she what one would describe as fashionably
emaciated. Indeed, she was singularly without angles of any description.
Her hair was brown and naturally wavy--at least, so said Sampson, poor
simpleton--and it grew about her neck and temples in a most alluring
manner. Her eyes were clear and dark and amazingly intelligent. Sampson
repented at once of the word intelligent, but he couldn't think of a
satisfactory synonym. Intelligent, he reflected, is a word applied only
to the optics of dumb brutes--such as dogs, foxes, raccoons and the
like--and to homely young women with brains. Understanding--that was the
word he meant to use--she had understanding eyes, and they were shaded
by very long and beautiful lashes.

Her chin was firm and delicate, her mouth--well, it was a mouth that
would bear watching, it had so many imperilling charms.

Her nose? Sampson hadn't the faintest idea how to describe a nose.
Noses, he maintained, are industrial or economic devices provided by
nature for the sole purpose of harbouring colds, and are either lovely
or horrid. There is no intermediate class in noses. You either have
a nose that is fearfully noticeable or you have one that isn't. A
noticeable nose is one that completely and adequately describes itself,
sparing you the effort, while the other kind of a nose--such as Miss
Hildebrand's--is one that you wouldn't see at all unless you made an
especial business of it. That sort of a nose is simply a part of one's
face. There are faces, on the other hand, as you know, that are merely a
part of one's nose.

His rather hasty analysis of yesterday was supported by the more
deliberate observations of to-day. She was a cool-headed, discerning
young woman, and not offensively clever as so many of her sex prove
to be when it is revealed to them that they possess the power to
concentrate the attention of men. Her interest in the proceedings was
keen and extremely one-sided. She was not at all interested in the men
who failed to come up to her notion of what a juror ought to be. It was
always she who put the final stamp of approval on the jurors selected.
Two or three times she unmistakably overcame the contentions of her
grandfather's counsel, and men got into the box who, without her
support, would have been challenged--and rightly, too, thought Sampson.
No. 7 for instance. He certainly was not an ideal juror for the
defendant, thought Sampson. And the fat little bachelor--why, he
actually had admitted under oath that he knew the district attorney
and a number of his assistants, and was a graduate of Yale. But Miss
Hildebrand picked him as a satisfactory juror.

Sampson's reflections--or perhaps his ruminations--were brought to an
end by the completion of the jury. The last man accepted was a callow
young chap with eye-glasses, who confessed to being an automobile
salesman.

They were sworn immediately and then the senior counsel for the State
arose and announced that he had no desire to keep the jury confined
during the course of the trial; the State was satisfied to allow the
members to go to their own homes over night if the defence had no
objections. Promptly the attorneys for the defendant, evidently scenting
something unusual, put their heads together and whispered. A moment
later one of them got up and said that the defence would take the
unusual course of asking that the jury be put in charge of bailiffs. He
did not get very far in his remarks, however. Miss Hildebrand's eyes had
swept the jury box from end to end. She observed the look of dismay that
leaped into the faces of the entire dozen. Sampson had a queer notion
that she looked at him longer than at the others, and that her gaze was
rather penetrating. An instant later she was whispering in the ear of
the second lawyer, and--well, they were all in conference again. After
a period of uncertainty for the victims, the first lawyer, smiling
benignly now, withdrew his motion to confine the jury, and graciously
signified that the defence was ready to proceed.

The first witness for the State was a Mr. Stevens. Sampson was sure from
the beginning that he wasn't going to like Mr. Stevens. He was a prim,
rather precious gentleman of forty-five, with a fond look in his eye
and a way of putting the tips of his four fingers and two thumbs together
that greatly enhanced the value of the aforesaid look. In addition to
these mild charms of person, he had what Sampson always described as
a “prissy” manner of speaking. No. 4 made a friend of Sampson by
whispering--against the rules, and behind his hand, of course--that he'd
like to “slap the witness on the wrist.” Sampson whispered back that
he'd probably break his watch if he did.

Anyhow, Mr. Stevens was recognised at once as the principal witness
for the State. He was the head of the company that had suffered by the
alleged peculations of Mr. Hildebrand. Ably assisted by the district
attorney, the witness revealed the whole history of the Cornwallis
Realty and Investment Company.

James Hildebrand was its founder, some thirty years prior to his
surreptitious retirement, and for the first twenty years of its
existence he was its president. At the end of that period in the history
of the thriving and honourable business, Mr. Stevens became an active
and important member of the firm through the death of his father, who
had long been associated with Mr. Hildebrand as a partner. The other
partners were John L. Drew, Joseph Schoolcraft, Henry R. Kauffman and
James Hildebrand, Jr., the son of the president. The business, according
to Mr. Stevens, was then being conducted along “back number” lines. It
became necessary and expedient to introduce fresh, vigorous, up-to-date
methods in order to compete successfully with younger and more
enterprising concerns. (On cross-examination, Mr. Stevens admitted
that the company was not making money fast enough.) The defendant, it
appears, was a conservative. He held out stubbornly for the old, obsolete
methods, and, the concern being incorporated, it was the wisdom of
the other members (Hildebrand, Jr., dissenting) that a complete
reorganisation be perfected. The witness was made president, Mr. Drew
vice-president, and Mr. Hildebrand secretary and treasurer, without bond.
His son withdrew from the company altogether, repairing to Colorado for
residence, dying there three years later.

The defendant, individually and apart from his holdings in the company,
owned considerable real-estate on Manhattan Island. His income, aside
from his salary and his share of profits in the business, was derived
from rentals and leaseholds on these several pieces of property. Values
in certain districts of New York fell off materially when business
shifted from old established centres and wended its fickle way
northward. Mr. Hildebrand was hard hit by the exodus. His investments
became a burden instead of a help and ultimately he was obliged to make
serious sacrifices. He sold his downtown property. The depreciation was
deplorable, Mr. Stevens admitted.

The former president of the company soon found himself in straitened
circumstances. He was no longer well-to-do and prosperous; instead, he
was confronted by conditions which made it extremely difficult for him
to retain his considerable interest in the business. The company at this
stage in the affairs of their secretary and treasurer, proffered help
to him in what Mr. Stevens considered an extremely liberal way. It was
proposed that Mr. Hildebrand sell out his interest in the company to the
witness and his brother-in-law, Mr. Drew, they agreeing to take all of
his stock at a figure little short of par, notwithstanding it was a very
bad year--1907, to be precise.

The defendant refused to sell. Subsequently he reconsidered, and they
took over his stock, excepting five shares which he retained for obvious
reasons, and he was paid in cash forty-four thousand dollars for the
remaining forty shares. Mr. Stevens already had purchased, at a much
higher price, the fifteen shares belonging to James Hildebrand, Jr. The
defendant was to retain the position of secretary and treasurer at a
fixed salary of six thousand dollars a year.

In brief--although the district attorney was a long time in getting it
all out of Mr. Stevens--it was not until 1908 that the bomb burst and
the company awoke to the fact that its treasury was being, or to put
it exactly, had been systematically robbed of a great many thousands
of dollars. Experts were secretly put to work on the books and after
several weeks they reported that at one time the total shortage had
reached a figure in excess of ninety-five thousand dollars, but that
this amount had been reduced by the restoration of approximately fifty
thousand dollars during a period covering the eleven months immediately
preceding the investigation. It was established beyond all question that
the clerks and bookkeepers in the office were absolutely guiltless, and,
to the profound distress of the directors, the detectives employed on
the case declared in no uncertain terms that there was but one man who
could explain the shortage. That man was the former president of this
old and reliable concern, James W. Hildebrand.

To avoid a scandal and also to spare if possible the man they all loved
and respected, Mr. Stevens was authorised by the other directors to
effect a compromise of some sort whereby the company might regain
at least a portion of the funds on the promise not to prosecute. The
defendant, however, had got wind of the discovery, and, to the utter
dismay of his friends, fled like a thief in the night. Mr. Stevens did
not have the chance to see him.

The defalcation was not made public for several weeks. An effort was
made to get in touch with the fugitive, in the hope that he could be
induced to return without being subjected to open disgrace, but he had
vanished so completely that at first it was feared he had made way with
himself. He was at the time a widower, his wife having died many years
before. His son James was the only child of that marriage, and he was
living--or rather dying, in Colorado. Private detectives watched the
home and the movements of the son for some weeks, hoping to obtain a
clue to the old man's whereabouts.

Then, out of a clear sky, as it were, came letters to each of the
stockholders, posted in Paris and written by the fugitive. In these
letters he made the most unfair charges against the witness and against
Mr. Drew. Without in any way attempting to explain, confess or express
regret for his own defection, he horrified both Mr. Stevens and Mr. Drew
with the staggering accusation that they had tricked him into selling
certain downtown property at an outrageously low figure, when they knew
at the time of the transaction that an insurance company had its eye on
the property with the view to erecting two mammoth office buildings
on the ground. Subsequent events, declared the writer, bore out his
contention, for it was on record that his two partners did sell to the
insurance company for nearly ten times the amount they had paid him for
the property; and, moreover, at that very moment two large buildings
were standing on the ground that had once been occupied by his ancient
and insignificant six story structures.

In so many words, this old defaulter (to use Mr. Stevens' surprisingly
acid words) deliberately sought to discredit them in the eyes of their
fellow-directors and stockholders. He accused them of foul methods and
actually had the effrontery to warn all those interested in the business
with them to be on their guard or they would be tricked as he had been.
(Note: One of these letters, now five years old, was introduced in
evidence as Exhibit A.)

Sampson afterwards found himself marvelling over the assistant district
attorney's stupidity in introducing this particular bit of evidence. It
was the cross-examination that opened his eyes to the atrocious mistake
the State had made in volunteering the evidence touching upon the
real-estate transaction.

This extraordinary behaviour on the part of the defendant quite
naturally irritated--(Mr. Stevens would not say infuriated, although Mr.
O'Brien, on cross-examination, tried his level best to make him use the
word)--both the witness and Mr. Drew, who felt that their honour
had been vilely attacked. They had no difficulty in convincing their
partners and other interested persons that the charge was ridiculous and
made solely for the purpose of enlisting their sympathy in behalf of one
they were now forced to describe as a cowardly criminal and no longer as
a misguided unfortunate.

It was then, and then only, that the witness and Mr. Drew took the
matter before the Grand Jury and obtained the indictment against the
defendant.

Having covered the preliminary stages of the case pretty thoroughly,
Mr. Stevens was required to tell all that he knew about the actual
misappropriation of the funds. This he did with exceeding clarity and
sorrow. However, despite his mildness, he did not leave a shred of Mr.
Hildebrand's honour untouched; he had it in tatters by mid-afternoon and
at four o'clock, when court adjourned, there wasn't anything left of it
at all.

Sampson was gloomy that night. He did not go to sleep until long after
two, although he went to bed at eleven--an unspeakably early hour for
him. Things certainly looked black for the old man. If Stevens was to
be believed, James Hildebrand was a most stupendous rascal. And yet,
to look at him--to study his fine, gentle old face, his tired but
unwavering eyes, his singularly unrepentant mien--one could hardly
be blamed for doubting the man's capacity for doing the evil and
reprehensible deed that was laid at his door. Sampson hated to think of
him as guilty. More than that, he hated to have Miss Hildebrand think
that he thought of him as guilty.

He laid awake for three mortal hours trying to think what Miss
Hildebrand meant by looking at him as she did from time to time. Not
once but a score of times her gaze met bis--usually after a damaging
reply by Mr. Stevens, or some objectionable question by the district
attorney--and always she appeared to be intent on divining, if possible,
just what its effect would be on him.

Her clear, soft eyes looked straight into his for an instant, and he saw
something in them that he took for anxiety. That was all: just anxiety.
It couldn't, of course, be anything else--and, why shouldn't she be
anxious? Anybody would be under the circumstances. As a matter of fact,
he was a little anxious himself, and certainly he was not as vitally
interested as she in the welfare of James W. Hildebrand. But after
thinking it all over again, he wasn't so sure that it was anxiety. He
was forced to believe that she looked confident, almost serene--as
if there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that her grandfather
couldn't possibly have done a single one of the things that Mr. Stevens
accused him of doing.

Sampson was perturbed. He couldn't divest himself of the suspicion that
she expected him to also disbelieve every word that the witness uttered.
It was most upsetting. He made up his mind that he would not look at her
at all on the following day. But even that resolution didn't put him to
sleep. Not at all. The more he thought of it, the wider awake he became.

True, she had looked at the other jurors from time to time--especially
at the rehabilitated No. 7, the rubicund bachelor and the spectacled No.
12. But he was sure that she did not look at them in the same way that
she looked at him, nor as often, nor as long. It seemed to him that even
when she looked at the others, she always allowed her glance to return
to him for an instant after its somewhat indifferent tour of inspection.
He remembered indulging in a rather close and critical inspection of
the countenances of his fellow jurors at one time, during a lull in the
proceedings, and that calculating but not unkind scrutiny convinced him
of one thing: they certainly were not much to look at.

The more he thought about it, the more it was revealed to him that the
expression in her eyes was of a questioning, inquiring nature, as
one who might be saying to herself: are these men--or this one, in
particular--entirely devoid of intelligence?

He was four minutes late in court the next morning, and it was all
the fault of the too indulgent Turple. Turple, being a sagacious and
faithful menial, respectfully neglected to disturb his master's slumber
until after nine o'clock, and as a result Sampson had to go without
his breakfast and almost without his shave in order to get down to the
court-room in time. Turple received emphatic orders to rout him out of
bed at seven o'clock every morning after that, no matter how bitterly he
was abused for doing so.

He was out of breath when he dropped into his chair in the jury box,
expecting and dreading a rebuke from the Court for his tardiness.
He glanced at Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, almost apologetically. It
certainly was not relief that he felt on discovering that she was paying
no attention whatever to him. She was engaged in consultation with the
two lawyers and did not even so much as glance in his direction when he
popped into his seat.

The justice was still on his good behaviour. He bowed politely to
Sampson and then looked at the clock.

The cross-examination of Mr. Stevens began. Sampson was agreeably
surprised by the astuteness, the suavity, the unexpected resourcefulness
of Mr. O'Brien, who questioned the witness.

“You say, Mr. Stevens, that James Hildebrand, Jr., retired from the
company about two years prior to the retirement of his father, the
defendant. Why did the younger Hildebrand retire?”

“He was not satisfied with the reorganisation.”

“Isn't it true that you and he were not on friendly terms and that he
refused to serve with you--”

“We object!” interrupted the district attorney. “The question is not--”

“Objection overruled,” said the Court testily. “Finish your question,
Mr. O'Brien, and then answer it, Mr. Witness.”

“We were not on friendly terms,” admitted Mr. Stevens, who looked
vaguely surprised on being addressed as “Mr. Witness.”

“And he preferred to get out of the company rather than to serve on the
board with you? Isn't that true?”

“I cannot answer that question. I can only say that he disposed of his
interests and retired.”

“Who purchased his stock?”

“Mr. Schoolcraft, one of the directors.”

“Who owns that stock to-day?”

“I do.”

“When did you purchase it of Mr. Schoolcraft?”

“I do not remember.”

“Was it a week, a month or a year after the original sale?”

“A couple of months, I suppose.”

“Do you know what Mr. Schoolcraft paid for that stock?”

“I do not.”

“You do know what you paid him for it, however?”

“I paid ninety-five and a fraction for it.”

“Didn't you buy twenty shares of Mr. Schoolcraft's stock at the same
time?”

“I did.”

“Did you pay ninety-five and a fraction for the Schoolcraft stock?”

“I think I paid a little more than that.”

“Didn't you pay one-twenty-seven for the Schoolcraft stock, Mr.
Stevens?”

“I may have paid that much. Mr. Schoolcraft was not eager to sell. He
held out for a stiff price.”

“He owned the Hildebrand stock, didn't he? Why should he sell fifteen
shares at ninety-five and a fraction when he might just as well have had
one-twenty-seven?”

“We object,” said the district attorney mildly.

“State your objection,” said the Court. “Incompetent and irrevelant and
having no possible bearing on the subject--”

“Withdraw the question,” said Mr. O'Brien suavely. “Did you not offer
James Hildebrand, Jr., one-ten for his stock, Mr. Stevens, through his
father? I say 'through his father' because you were not on speaking
terms with the son?”

“I think I did.”

“And didn't young Hildebrand send word that he wouldn't sell to you at
any price?”

“Something of the sort. He was unreasonable.”

“You were, therefore, very much surprised and gratified to get it at
ninety-five and a fraction from Mr. Schoolcraft later on, were you not?”

“I was not surprised,” confessed Mr. Stevens, separating his finger tips
for the first time, and shifting his position so that he could fold his
arms comfortably. “Mr. Schoolcraft bought the stock for me. There was no
secret about it. Hildebrand must have known that Schoolcraft was acting
for me. I was fair enough to offer him one-ten. It is not my fault that
he was eventually forced to sell fifteen points lower. I was not to
blame because he was hard-pressed or pinched for ready money.”

“He was a sick man, wasn't he?”

“His health was poor.”

“He was ordered to Colorado by his physicians, wasn't he?”

“I believe so.”

“And wasn't that the real reason why he was forced to sell out, and not
because he objected to the reorganisation?”

“We object,” said the Stated attorney. “Objection sustained.”

Sampson looked at Miss Hildebrand. Her gaze shifted from the Court to
him almost in the same instant, and it seemed to express astonishment,
even incredulity--as if she were saying (although he was sure she would
not have expressed herself so vulgarly): “Well, can you beat that!”

“And now, Mr. Stevens,” went on Mr. O'Brien, after taking the usual
exception, “you testified in direct examination that you and Mr. Drew
purchased the defendant's Manhattan property. Did you buy it for
the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company, or for yourselves as
individuals?”

“We bought it for ourselves, as individuals.”

“The company was not interested in the transaction?”

“No.”

“Did you first give the company an opportunity to buy, or did you--”

“I said it was a private transaction. We have interests outside of
the company, sir--just as you have interests outside of your legal
business,” said the witness tartly.

“I see. Well, Mr. Hildebrand was pressed for money at the time of the
transaction, I believe you have said. This was some time before the
alleged defalcation took place, I understand.”

“A year and a half prior to our discovery of the theft,” corrected Mr.
Stevens.

“And you have testified that the so-called theft dated back even beyond
that, at its beginning.”

“So the expert accountants informed us. I have no means of knowing for
myself.''

“And it was your conclusion that he sold his property in the effort to
rehabilitate himself before his misfortune was discovered?”

“I did not allude to it as a misfortune, sir.”

“Well, then, his crime.”

“I have said that such was my conclusion.”

“Will you again, state just what you paid for the property in question?”

“We paid two hundred thousand dollars for the two pieces.”

“Cash?”

“Part in cash and part in an exchange for property in the Bronx. Sixty
thousand in cash. The Bronx property is in the shape of building lots,
valued at more than two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Then or now?”

“Then _and_ now, sir.”

“State, if you know, does Mr. Hildebrand still own this Bronx property?”

“I believe it is in his name.”

“And it is still worth two hundred thousand dollars?”

“It is worth a great deal more, sir.”

“I see. Now, Mr. Stevens, you have testified that this defendant wrote
letters to the several members of your corporation, advising them that
you and Mr. Drew had sold this downtown property to an insurance
company for ten times as much as you paid him for it. Was Mr. Hildebrand
uttering the truth when he made that assertion?”

“Am I obliged to answer that question, your Honour?”

“Yes. It is a very simple question,” said the Court drily, giving his
moustache a gentle twist.

“We received one million eight hundred thousand for the property,” said
Mr. Stevens, defiantly.

“Cash?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't take any Bronx property in exchange?”

“Certainly not.”

“How long was this after the time you purchased the property?”

“About two years.”

“Isn't it true that you were offered a million dollars for the property
two weeks after you bought it?”

“What has all this got to do with the case?”

“You can say yes or no, can't you, Mr. Stevens?”

“I shall say no, then. We were approached by persons representing the
insurance company, but they made no bona fide offer.”

“They asked you if a million would tempt you, though, didn't they?”

“I don't remember.”

“In any event, you told them that you held the property at two millions,
didn't you? That was your price?”

“It was our price, yes.”

“And you held off selling until they finally came to your terms--or
nearly up to them--and then you sold?”

“We sold when we were ready, Mr. O'Brien.”

“I see. Did you know before purchasing Mr. Hildebrand's property that
this insurance company was desirous of buying it for building purposes?”

“Object!” interposed the district attorney. “Objection sustained,” said
the Court.

Again Sampson, who was enjoying Mr. Stevens' discomfiture, looked at
Miss Hildebrand. Simultaneously eleven other gentlemen sitting in two
parallel rows, looked at her. She may have found it too difficult to
look at all of them at once, so she confined her gaze to Sampson, who
felt in duty hound--as a juror sworn to be fair and impartial--to look
the other way as quickly as possible. He was sorry that he was obliged
to do this, for there was something in her eyes that warranted quite a
little time for analysis.

The cross-examination proceeded. Sampson, resolutely directed his gaze
out of its natural channel and devoted a great deal more attention to
the witness than he felt that the witness deserved. He could not help
feeling, however, that he was treating Miss Hildebrand with unnecessary
boorishness. No doubt she looked at him from time to time, and she
must have felt a little bit hurt, not to say offended--by his somewhat
conspicuous indifference.

Suddenly he pricked up his ears. Mr. O'Brien had put to the witness a
question that had something of a personal interest in it.

“James Hildebrand, Jr., lost his wife in 1906, did he not, Mr. Stevens?”

“I don't remember the year.”

“You remember when he was married, however, do you not?”

“I can't say. I think it was in 1888.” The witness had turned a rather
sickly green. He spoke with an effort.

“The year after you and he graduated from college, wasn't it?”

“We were in the class of '87.”

“You are still unmarried, I believe, Mr. Stevens?”

“I am unmarried, sir,” said the witness, sitting up a little straighter
in the chair.

“Did you know Miss Katherine Alexander before she was married to James
Hildebrand?”

“I did,” said Stevens, his face set.

Sampson ventured a swift look at Alexandra Hildebrand. She was looking
down at the table, her face half averted. It struck him as exceedingly
brutal of Mr. O'Brien to drag this poor girl's dead mother into the
public light of--But the lawyer asked another question.

“You and young Mr. Hildebrand remained friends for a number of years
after his marriage, did you not?”

“I always thought so.”

“You never bore him any ill will?”

“What do you mean?”

“I withdraw the question. When was it that you and James Hildebrand,
Jr., ceased to be friends?”

“I--I don't know. I cannot go into that matter, Mr. O'Brien. I--” Mr.
Stevens was visibly distressed.

“Wasn't it in 1895 that you and he ceased to be friends?” persisted the
lawyer.

“There was a terrible misunderstanding, I--that is, I should say--”

“In 1895, wasn't it?”

“I think so.” Mr. Stevens was perspiring. He looked beseechingly at the
district attorney, who happened to be gazing pensively out of the window
at the time.

“You were a frequent and welcome visitor at young Hildebrand's home up
to 1895, weren't you?”

“It was through no fault of mine that the friendship was broken off. Mr.
Hildebrand behaved in a most outrageous manner toward me.”

“Isn't it true, Mr. Stevens, that Mr. Hildebrand ordered you out of his
house and told you that you were not to enter it again?”

“Mr. Hildebrand grievously misunderstood my--”

“Answer the question, please. Were you not ordered out of your friend's
house?”

“Am I obliged, your Honour, to answer--”

“Answer yes or no,” said the Court, leaning forward and fixing the
witness with a very severe stare. (Sampson regarded him as distinctly
human, after all.) Miss Hildebrand's, eyes were still lowered. The aged
prisoner, however, was looking a hole through the now miserable witness.

“He threatened to kill me,” exclaimed Stevens violently. “He acted like
a crazy man over a perfectly innocent--”

“He ordered you out, didn't he?” came the deadly question.

Mr. Stevens swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“And you maintain that he took that step because he misunderstood
something or other, eh?”

“Most certainly.”

“Well, what was it he misunderstood?”

“I must decline to answer. I stand on my rights.”

“Wasn't it because Mrs. Hildebrand complained to him that you had
been--er--unnecessarily offensive to her?”

“I decline to answer.”

“In any event, you never entered his house again, and you never spoke to
him or his wife after that. Isn't that true?'

“I was justified in ignoring both of them. They insulted me most--”

“I understand, Mr. Stevens. We will drop the matter. I have no desire
to cause you unnecessary pain. Now will you be good enough to state
when you first noticed that there was something wrong with the books
and accounts of the defendant? What first caused you to suspect that the
funds were being juggled, as you put it in the direct examination?”

Mr. Stevens had an easier time of it after that. He resumed his placid,
kindly air, and maintained it to the end, although a keen observer
might have observed an uneasy respect for Mr. O'Brien. He appeared to be
relieved when the examination was concluded.

Sampson went out to luncheon in a more cheerful frame of mind. It
was quite clear to every one that Mr. Stevens was guilty, at least
circumstantially, of conduct unbecoming a gentleman.




CHAPTER III

Two days went by. Mr. Drew, Mr. Schoolcraft and Mr. Kauffman were
examined and cross-examined, and after them came the first of the expert
accountants employed to go over the books. The situation continued to
look black for Mr. Hildebrand--if anything a little blacker, for neither
of the foregoing witnesses appeared to have been guilty of offending
a lady to such an extent that her husband had to order him out of the
house.

Mr. Drew received considerable unpleasant attention from the defendant's
counsel, but he came through pretty comfortably. He admitted that he
“cleaned up more than half a million” on the deal with the insurance
company, and that he was the husband of Mr. Stevens' sister. He always
had been sorry for Mr. Hildebrand, and even now was without animus. Mr.
Schoolcraft acknowledged buying and selling the younger Hildebrand's
shares, but was positive that there had been no collusion with Mr.
Stevens.

The case began to drag. Sampson lost interest. He attended strictly and
no doubt diligently to the evidence, but when the expert accountants
began to testify he found himself considerably at sea. He was not good
at figures. They made him restless. The rest of the jury appeared to be
similarly afflicted. Politeness alone kept them from yawning. Afterwards
it was revealed that only one of the twelve was good at figures of any
sort: the automobile salesman. He was a perfect marvel at statistics. He
could tell you how many miles it is from New York to Oswego without even
calculating, and he knew to a fraction the difference in the upkeep of
all the known brands of automobiles in America. He made Sampson tired.

Despite the damaging testimony that seemed surely to be strangling her
grandfather's chances for escape, Miss Hildebrand revealed no sign of
despair, or defeat. She came in each morning as serene as a May evening,
and she left the court-room in the afternoon with a mien as untroubled
as when she entered it. .

There was quite a little flutter in the jury box--and outside of it,
for that matter--when, on the third morning, she appeared in a complete
change of costume--a greyish, modish sort of thing, Sampson would have
told you--very smart and trig and comforting to the masculine eye.
Sampson who knew more than any of his companions about such things,
remarked (to himself, of course)--that her furs were chinchilla.
Chinchilla is nothing if not convincing.

It struck him, as he took her in--(she was standing, straight and slim,
conversing with that beardless cub of an assistant-assistant district
attorney)--that she was, if such a thing were possible, even lovelier
than she was in the other gown. No doubt Sampson failed in his sense of
proportion. She was undeniably lovelier today than yesterday, and she
would continue to go on being prettier from day to day, no matter what
manner of gown she wore.

It also occurred to him that the young assistant-assistant was
singularly unprofessional, if not actually fresh, in dragging her into a
conversation that must have been distasteful to her. He wondered how she
could smile so agreeably and so enchantingly over the stupid things the
fellow was saying.

Near the close of the noon recess he was constrained to reprove No.
7 for an act that might have created serious complications. He was
standing in the rotunda finishing his third cigarette, when Miss
Hildebrand approached on her way to the court-room. It had been his
practice--and it was commendable--to refrain from staring at her on
occasions such as this. A rather low order of intelligence prevented
his fellow jurors from according her the same consideration. They stared
without blinking until she disappeared from view.

Now, No. 7 meant no harm, and yet he so far forgot himself that he
doffed his hat to her as she passed. Fortunately she was not looking in
his direction. As a matter of fact, she never even so much as noticed
the nine or ten jurors who strewed her path. No. 7 was mistaken, there
can be no doubt about that. He thought she looked at him instead of
through him, and in his excitement he grabbed for his hat. Perhaps
he hoped for a smile of recognition, and, if not that, a smile of
amusement. He would have been grateful in either case.

“Don't do that,” whispered Sampson, gruffly.

“Why not?” demanded No. 7, blinking his eyes. “No harm in being a
gentleman, is there?”

“You must not be seen speaking to her--or to any one of the interested
parties, for that matter. Do you want to have her accused of bribery
or--er--complicity?”

“I thought she was going to speak to me,” stammered No. 7.

“Well, she wasn't. She has too much sense for that. Good Lord, if
counsel for the State saw you doing that sort of thing, they'd suspect
something in a second.”

“Haven't you read about those jury-fixing scandals?” exclaimed the
chubby bachelor, surprisingly red in the face. He had almost reached his
own hat when Sampson spoke. Four or five of the others glowered upon the
offending No. 7. “We can't even be seen bowing to anybody connected with
the case.”

“I saw you throw your cigar away when she came in the door,” retorted
No. 7, in some exasperation. “What did you do that for?”

The chubby bachelor looked hurt. “Because I was through with it,” he
said. “I don't hang onto 'em till they burn my lips, you know.” He
deemed it advisable to resort to sarcasm.

“Just remember that you are a juror,” advised No. 4 in a friendly tone.
One might have thought he was compassionate.

“No harm done,” said No. 12. “She didn't even see you. I happen to know,
because she was lookin' right at me when you took off your lid. You
didn't notice me fiddling with my head-piece, did you? I guess not. She
don't expect us to, and so I didn't make any crack. I--”

“I'd suggest,” said Sampson, with dignity, “that we devote a certain
amount of respect to the ethics.”

It was a little puzzling. Ethics is a word that calls for reflection.
You've got to know just what it means, and after you know that much
about it, you've got to fix its connection. Several of the gentlemen
nodded profoundly, and two of them said: “Well, I should say so.” That
night Sampson sat alone in front of his fireplace, his brow clouded by
uneasy, disturbing thoughts. A woodfire crackled and simmered on the
huge Florentine andirons. Turple, coming in to inquire if he would speak
with Mrs. Fitzmorton on the telephone, was gruffly instructed to say
that he was not at home, and when Turple returned with the word that
Mrs. Fitzmorton was at home and still expecting him to dine at her house
that evening, notwithstanding the fact that her guests and her
dinner had been waiting for him since eight o'clock--and it was now
8:45--Sampson groaned so dismally that his valet was alarmed. The
groan was succeeded, however, by a far from feeble expression of
self-reproach, and a tremendous scurrying into overcoat and hat. He
reached Mrs. Fitzmorton's house--it happened to be in the next block
north--in less than three minutes, and he was so engagingly contrite,
and so terribly good-looking, that she forgave him at once--which was
more than the male members of the party did.

They were all married men and they couldn't forgive anybody for being
late. They were always being implored, either pathetically or peevishly,
to stop complaining.

Sampson had cause for worry. He had been slow in arriving at the truth,
but that afternoon his conviction was established. Miss Hildebrand was
depending on him to swing that jury!

She was counting on his intelligence, his decision, his insight, his
power to see beyond the supposed facts in the case as presented by the
witnesses for the State. He was sure of it. There was nothing in the
cool, frank scrutiny that she gave him from time to time that could be
described by the most critical of minds as even suggestive of a purpose
to influence him, and yet he was sure that she depended on his good
sense for a solution of all that was going on.

What disturbed him most was this: there was no distinction between the
look she gave him when the State scored a point and when the condition
was reversed. The same confident, reasoning expression was in her lovely
eyes, as much as to say: “You must see through all this, No. 3--of
course you must, or you couldn't look me in the eye as you do.”

It was as clear as day to him: she was certain that her grandfather was
incapable of doing the thing he was charged with doing, and she could
not see how a man of his (Sampson's) perception could possibly think
otherwise.

The revelation caused him to forget all about his dinner engagement.
Also it caused him to pass an absolutely sleepless night. When he
closed his eyes she still looked into them--always the same clear,
understanding, undoubting gaze that he had come to know so well. When he
lay with them wide open, staring into the darkness, the vision took more
definite shape, so he closed them tightly again.

Turple noticed his haggardness the next morning and was solicitous. Now,
Turple, at his best, was not entitled to a stare of any description. But
Sampson's rapt gaze was so prolonged and so singularly detached from the
object upon which it rested--Turple's countenance--that the poor fellow
was alarmed. He had never seen his master look just like that before.
Later on, Sampson told him to go to the devil. Turple was relieved.

The accountants, the detectives and two bookkeepers who formerly had
worked under Mr. Hildebrand testified and then the State rested. Through
it all the prisoner sat unmoved. Sampson wondered what was going on in
the mind of that gaunt, fine-faced old man. What would be his answer to
the damning evidence that stood arrayed against him? What _could_ be his
defence!

He was sorry for him. He would have given a great deal to be able to
rise now from his seat in the jury box and announce candidly that he did
not feel that he could bring in a verdict against the old man, reminding
the Court and the district attorney that he had said in the beginning
that he could not answer for his sympathies.

During the noon recess he took account of his fellow jurors. They were
a glum, serious looking set of men. He knew where their sympathies lay
and, like himself, they were depressed. The justice--even he--had lost
much of the geniality that at the outset had warmed the atmosphere. He
no longer smiled; no more did he exploit his wit, and as for his brisk
moustache, it drooped.

To the amazement of every one, the defendant's counsel announced that
they had but one witness: the prisoner himself. And every one then knew
that no matter what the prisoner said in his own defence, his testimony
would be unsupported; it would have to stand alone against odds that
were overwhelming.

Slowly but surely it became evident to these more or less discerning
men that James Hildebrand's plea would be for sympathy and not for
vindication. By his own story of the dealings with Stevens and Drew and
the others he hoped to reach their hearts and through their hearts a
certain sense of justice that moves in all men's minds.

Sampson's heart sank. While he was convinced that the old man had been
cruelly tricked by his business associates, that they had squeezed him
dry in order to profit by his misery, that Stevens at least was actuated
by a personal grudge which found relief in crushing the father of
the man he hated, and that the others may have been innocently or
pusillanimously influenced by the designs of this one man who sought
control, there still remained the fact that Hildebrand, according to the
evidence, had violated the law and was a subject for punishment--if not
for correction, as the prison reformers would have it in these days. In
no way could the old man's act be legally or morally justified. Sampson,
after hearing the announcement of his counsel, realised that he would
have a very unpleasant duty to perform, and he knew that he was going to
hate himself.

He had never spoken a word to Alexandra Hildebrand; he had not even
heard the sound of her voice--her conversation with counsel was carried
on in whispers or in subdued tones--And yet he was in love with her! He
was the victim of a glorious enchantment.

And he knew that No. 7 was in love with her--foolishly in love with her;
and so was the once supercilious No. 12; and the chubby bachelor; and
No. 9 who wanted to stay off the jury because he had to get married in
three weeks; and No. 8 who had two sons in the high school, one daughter
in Altman's and two wives in the cemetery; and the sombre-faced No. 1;
and all the rest of them! No. 2, who chewed gum resoundingly, no
longer chewed. His jaws were silenced. He had an impression that Miss
Hildebrand disapproved of gum-chewing, so he stopped. More than this, no
man could sacrifice.

The spruce young men from the district attorney's office were visibly
affected--(they really were quite sickening, thought Sampson); and the
deputy clerk, the court-room bailiffs, and the stripling who carried
messages from one given point to another with incredible speed, now that
he had something to keep him moving.

All of them, in a manner of speaking, were in love with her. And she was
not in love with any one of them. There could be no doubt about that.
They meant absolutely nothing to her.

Sampson wondered if she had a sweetheart, if there was some one with
whom she was in love, if those dear lips--and he sighed bleakly. He
hated, with unexampled venom, this purely suppositious male who harassed
him from morning till night. Common-sense told him that she must have
a sweetheart. It was inconceivable that she shouldn't possess the most
natural thing in the world. She just couldn't help having one. What sort
of a fellow was he? Of course, he didn't deserve her; that was clear
enough, assuming that the fellow actually existed. In his present frame
of mind, Sampson could think of only one man in the world who might
possibly be deserving of her.

Nevertheless, he felt that he was behaving in a silly, amateurish
manner, falling in love with her like this. It was to be expected of
ignorant, common louts such as No. 7--a very ordinary jackass!--and the
other ten men in the box, to say nothing of the suddenly adolescent yet
middle-aged horde outside. It was just the sort of thing that they would
be certain to do. They were a fatuous--but there he stopped, scowling
within himself. What right had he to call these other men fools? He was
no better than they. Indeed, he was worse, for he always had believed
himself to be supremely above such nonsense as this. They made no
pretentions. They fell in love with her just as they would have fallen
in love with any pretty girl--and, Heaven knows, pretty girls are
always being fallen in love with. But that he, the unimpressionable,
experienced Sampson, should lose his heart--and head--over a girl who
had never spoken a word to him, whom he had never seen until six days
before, and who doubtless would go out of his life completely the
instant the trial was over--why, it ought to have been excruciatingly
funny. But it wasn't funny.

It was very far from funny. Putting one's self in a class with No. 7
and No. 12 and the rest of them was certainly not Sampson's idea of
something to laugh at. So he scowled ominously every time he chanced
to think of any one of them--which happened only when Miss Hildebrand
deigned to look at that particular individual.

And he would have to send her beloved grandfather to the penitentiary.
He would have to hurt her; he would have to bring pain and despair and,
worse than these, astonishment to her beautiful eyes. He knew that he
would be haunted for the rest of his life by the look she would give him
when the verdict was announced.

James Hildebrand went _on_ the stand on the afternoon of the sixth day.
A curious hush settled over the court-room. Men shifted in their chairs
and then slumped down dejectedly, as if oppressed by the utter futility
of the tale he would have to tell. Alexandra Hildebrand alone was
bright-eyed and eager. Her lips were slightly parted as the old man,
grey and erect, took the oath. She knew that the truth and nothing but
the truth could fall from the lips of this gentle old grandfather of
hers. Now they would have the truth! Now the case would crumble! She
sent one swift, reassuring look through the jury box, and, for the first
time, gazed into no man's eyes. She was puzzled. Every face was averted.
Long afterwards she may have recalled the queer little chill that
entered her heart, and stayed there for the briefest instant before
passing.

[Illustration: 0081]

The defendant's voice was low, well-modulated, unemotional; his manner
simple and yet impressive. Throughout the entire story that he told, his
hearers listened with rapt attention.

She sent one swift, reassuring look through the jury box.

They were hoping that he could convince them. They watched his fine,
distinguished face; they watched his sombre, unflinching eyes; they
watched his steady hands as they rested on the arms of the chair; they
watched him with fear in their hearts: the fear that he would falter and
betray himself.

He entered a simple, direct denial of the accusation made against him.
His story was not a long one, and it would have to go uncorroborated,
for, as he said himself, there was no one upon whom he could call for
support. In the first place, he declared that he did not know that he
was suspected of having robbed his partners until after many months had
passed. He was aware of the investigation, but it had never entered his
head that he could be the person under suspicion. He admitted taking a
hurried and perhaps ill-advised departure from New York, and, in answer
to a direct question from his own counsel, declared that he would never
reveal his reason for leaving so secretly and in such haste.

Facing the jury he stated calmly, deliberately and in a most resolute
manner that he would go to prison for the rest of his days, that he
would suffer lasting ignominy and disgrace, before he would publicly
account for this action on his part.

When he learned that a true bill had been returned against him by the
Grand Jury, his first impulse was to return to his own country and fight
the charge. Reflection convinced him that he was safe as long as he
remained in his sequestered home in Switzerland, and he made up his mind
to remain there and die with unlifted disgrace bearing down upon his
good name rather than to return and face the probability of having to
account for his absence. That, and that alone, was responsible for his
decision to remain where he was. No one knew of his whereabouts, not
even his own kith and kin. He was as safe as if he were already dead.
Then, in solemn, unforgettable tones he declared that he had never taken
a penny belonging to the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company, that
he was innocent of the charge brought against him, notwithstanding the
fact that appearances were sufficient to convict.

Time brought a change in him. He decided to return and face his
accusers. He did not hope to convince them that he was innocent. He
only wanted the opportunity to stand before the world and proclaim his
innocence. He had no testimony to offer. He could only say that he had
not done this monstrous thing of which he was accused.

His testimony was given as a simple statement. He was allowed to tell
his brief story without the interpolation of a single question by his
counsel. Succinctly but with scant bitterness, he recited the story of
his own unfair treatment at the hands of his former partners. He touched
very casually upon that phase of the matter, as if it were of small
consequence to him now. There were no harsh words for the men who had
tricked him. One could not help having the feeling that he looked upon
them as beneath his notice.

He came home of his own free-will, after years of deliberation. He had
been influenced by no one in this singular crisis. He was alone in the
world. Except for his beloved granddaughter, there was no one else who
could suffer through the result of this trial. He was prepared to accept
the verdict of the twelve gentlemen who listened to him and who had
listened to the testimony of others before him.

There was not a sound in the court-room when he paused and drew a long
deep breath. Every eye was upon him. Then, in a clear, resonant voice he
said:

“Gentlemen, I repeat that I am absolutely innocent of this charge. I ask
you to believe me when I say this to you. If you do not believe me, I
must be content to accept your judgment. I do not ask you to discredit
the testimony of the men who have appeared against me. They have told
all they know about the circumstances, I dare say, and I am convinced
that they are honest men. They have only shown you that there was a
colossal theft, that a large sum of money is unaccounted for in their
business. They have not shown you, however, that I am the man who took
it. They have only shown you that fifty thousand dollars is missing and
unaccounted for. I admit I was responsible as treasurer of the company
for the safe-keeping and guardianship of all that money. It disappeared.
I can only say to you, gentlemen, that I did not take it.”

His voice was husky. There was a long pause, and then he settled back
in his chair and turned wearily to the district attorney for
crossexamination. It was then that the crowd knew he had finished his
story. A deep breath came from the lips of every one, as if for many
minutes it had been withheld.

Sampson's gaze involuntarily sought Alexandra Hildebrand's face. He did
not mean to look at her. He could not resist the impulse, however. It
was stronger than the adamantine resolution he had made. The light of
triumph was in her glowing eyes, the flush of victory in the cheek. Her
grandfather had cleared himself!

Sampson's heart ached as it sank to depths from which it would never
rebound. He turned hopelessly to the man in the witness chair, and
waited for the district attorney to open his grilling cross-examination.
He knew what the State would demand: why did he go away? Who replaced
a large portion of the amount originally missing? Why did he sell his
real-estate and his interest in the business? A hundred vital questions
would be discharged at him, and he would--But, even as he delved in
these dismal reflections, the district attorney arose in his place and
said, clearly, distinctly--although no man at first believed his ears:

“No questions, your Honour.”

There was utter silence while this amazing announcement sank into
the minds of the listeners. Counsel for the defence sat rigid and
uncomprehending in their chairs; the justice leaned forward and stared;
the prisoner's eyes widened for a second and then slowly closed. His
chin fell; his attitude was one of acute humiliation. His story was not
even worthy of notice! No questions! The acme of derision!

Argument by counsel followed, the beardless “assistant-assistant” making
the opening address to the jury. He floundered badly. Sampson derived
some consolation from his futile, feeble arraignment. If the principal
attorney for the State didn't do a great deal better than his singularly
ineffectual confrere, there was still hope that the prisoner's counsel
might by impassioned pleas stir the hearts of twelve men to mercy.
The sympathies of all were--But even as he speculated on the probable
lengths to which sympathy would carry his companions in arriving at
a verdict, there suddenly flashed into his brain a vast illumination.
James W. Hildebrand was not guilty! He was shielding some one else! His
reluctance to tell why he left New York was explained. He could not tell
without betraying a secret that must forever remain inviolate! Sampson
breathed easier. Why, it was as plain as day to him! At least, it was
something on which to base a conclusion. It might come in very handy too
when the jury, in seclusion, began to grope for a favouring light. On
reflection they would all agree that no witness actually had sworn that
Hildebrand took the money. The evidence was decidedly circumstantial. By
deduction alone was he guilty. On the other hand he had solemnly sworn
that he didn't take it. And if he didn't take it, who did? That, said
Sampson, was a very simple thing to answer: Some person unknown to the
jury.

Miss Hildebrand's spirits undoubtedly fell after that significant move
of the State. There was an anxious, bewildered expression in her eyes,
and a rather pathetic droop at the corners of her adorable mouth.

The argument proceeded. Mr. O 'Brien made the closing speech for the
defendant. Her spirits revived under the eloquent, fervent plea of the
now brilliant Irishman. Sampson experienced a feeling of real affection
for the earnest, though unkempt orator, who more than once brought
tears almost to the surface of his eyes. He had great difficulty in
suppressing a desire to blubber, and, when he saw her velvety eyes
swimming in tears, he blew his nose so violently that he started an
epidemic. No. 7, instead of blowing his nose, sniffed so repeatedly and
so audibly that every one wished he'd blow, and have it over with.

And when her eyes flashed with indignation during the uncalled-for
tirade of the assistant district attorney, Sampson developed a bitter
hatred for the man. When she appeared crushed and bewildered by the
vicious attacks of the fellow, and shrank down in her chair like a
frightened child, Sampson wanted to take her in his strong, comforting
arms and--But, of course, there wasn't any use thinking about such a
thing as that. It was not one of his duties as a juror.

The case went to the jury at four o'clock that afternoon, after a
somewhat protracted and, to Sampson, totally unenlightening charge by
the justice, who advised the jurors that they must weigh the evidence
as it was found and forbear allowing their sympathies to overcome their
sense of justice. And so on and so forth. He made it very hard for the
jurors. If they went entirely by the evidence, there wasn't anything
left for them to do but to find the defendant guilty. Sampson had hoped
for ameliorating suggestions from the learned justice on which he could
base a sensible doubt as to the guilt of the defendant.

But, in so many words, the justice announced that the preponderance of
the evidence was in favour of the State. He told the jurors it was their
duty and privilege to take the defendant's unsupported testimony for
what they considered it to be worth and to place it in opposition to the
evidence produced by the State. It was then their duty to render a fair
and impartial verdict on the evidence.

As the twelve men filed out of the box on their way to the jury room,
Sampson shot a glance at Alexandra Hildebrand. He would not see her
again until he returned to the seat he had occupied for six days, and
after that she was to pass out of his life entirely. He hoped that she
would not be there when he came back with his verdict. It would be much
easier for him. He did not attempt to deceive himself any longer. If
he lived up to his notions of honour and integrity, there was but one
verdict he could return. (He wondered if his companions would prove to
be as rigid in this respect as he.)

She was looking in the opposite direction, her chin in her hand. She did
not meet his unhappy gaze. He was grateful for that.




CHAPTER IV

Whatcheb say your name was?” demanded No. 8, aggressively.

“I didn't say,” said Sampson coolly. “Call me No. 3, if you don't mind.
I'll answer to it.”

“Well, my name is Hooper, and that's what I want to be called.”

“I'm not going to call you anything,” said Sampson, turning away in his
loftiest manner.

“Well, I guess it's just as well you don't,” snorted No. 8, sticking out
his chest, and it wasn't a very obtrusive chest at that. Putting it back
to where it normally belonged was a much less arduous job for No. 8
than sticking it out. He couldn't have stuck it out at all if he hadn't
possessed the backing of ten men.

In short, the jury had been out for seven hours and the last ballot
stood eleven to one for acquittal. Sampson was the unit.

No. 12 tried diplomacy. “Say, now, fellers, let's get together on this
thing. We don't get anywhere by knockin' Mr. Sampson. He's got a right
to think as he pleases, same as we have. So let's be calm and try to get
together.”

“My God,” groaned No. 1, “can you beat that? Eleven of us have been
together since five o'clock this afternoon, and you talk about being
calm. Now, as foreman of this jury, I think I've got some right to be
heard. You'll admit that, won't you, Mr. Sampson?”

“Certainly. Up to this moment, I've had no difficulty in hearing you. It
isn't necessary to shout, either. I'm not deaf.”

“Now, let me talk,” went on the foreman. “Keep still a minute, you
fellers. Mr. Sampson is a gentleman. He's got as much sense, I suppose,
as any of us. He--”

“Thanks,” said Sampson.

“Well, here we are, 'leven to one. You admit that your sympathies are
with the old man, same as the rest of us. You say you'd sooner be
shot than to send him up. Well, now let's--wait a minute, Hooper! I'm
talking. Let's talk this thing over as friends. I apologise for what I
said just after supper. You've got a right to be pig-headed. You've got
a legal right to hang this jury. But is it right and fair? If 'leven
of us are willing to go on record as--er--as putting credence in the
testimony of Mr. Hildebrand, I can't see why you're afraid to come in
with us. Down in your soul you don't think he's guilty. You say that
maybe he is shielding some one else. If that's the way you feel, why not
come out like a man and give the poor old lad the benefit of the doubt?
Lord knows I'm a hard man. I don't want to see any guilty man escape.
I believe in putting 'em where they belong, and keeping 'em there. By
Gosh, nobody dares to say to my face that I'm easy on criminals. I'm as
hard as nails. My wife says I'm as hard as all get-out. And she ought
to know. She's heard me talk about crime here in New York for nearly
fifteen years, and she knows how I feel. Well, if I am willing to give
the old man a chance, it ought to stand for something, oughtn't it? Hard
as I am? Just reason it out for yourself, Mr. Sampson. Now, we all
agree that the evidence against him is pretty strong. But it is
circumstantial. You said so yourself in the beginning. It was you who
said that it was circumstantial. You said--just a minute, Hooper! You
said that while everything pointed to him as the guilty man, nobody
actually swore that he saw him take the money. On the other hand, he
swears he didn't take it. He ought to know, oughtn't he? If he knows who
did take it, why that's his business. I don't believe in squealers. I
wouldn't have any mercy on a man who turned State's evidence to save
himself. Well, now, supposing old man Hildebrand knows who got away with
the stuff. He is too much of a man to squeal. We oughtn't to send him up
just because he won't squeal on the man--a friend, for all we know--even
though it might save him from going to the pen. I leave it to you, Mr.
Sampson: ought we?”

“Of course we oughtn't,” broke in the irrepressible Mr. Hooper. “Any
damn' fool ought to see that.”

Sampson eyed Mr. Hooper severely. “He's leaving it to me, Mr. Hooper;
not to you.” He leaned a little closer, his eyes narrowing. “And, by the
way, Mr. Hooper, before we go any farther, I should like to call your
attention to several facts entirely separate and apart from this trial.
It may interest you to know that I am six feet one in my stocking feet,
that I weigh one hundred and ninety-five pounds, that I am just under
thirty years of age, that I was one of the strongest men in college,
and that up to a certain point I am, and always have been, one of the
gentlest and best-natured individuals in the world.”

“What do you mean by that?” blustered No. 8.

“Gentlemen!” admonished the foreman. The automobile salesman stopped
picking his teeth.

“I am merely trying to convince you, Mr. Hooper, that there is a great
deal more to be said for circumstantial evidence than you might think.
You might go on forever thinking that I am a meek, spineless saphead,
and on the other hand you might have it proved to you that I'm not.
Please reflect on what I have just said. It can't do you any harm to
reflect, Mr. Hooper.”

“Oh, piffle!” said Mr. Hooper, getting very red in the face.

“Sic 'em!” said No. 12, under his breath.

“Moreover,” went on Sampson, smiling--but mirthlessly--“I am assuming
that your exercises as a hat salesman are not such as one gets in a
first-class gymnasium. I hope you will pardon me for asking you to
repeat the word you just uttered. I think it was 'piffle.'”

Mr. Hooper grinned. He didn't feel like grinning but something
psychological told him to do it--and to do it as quickly as possible.
“Aw, don't get sore, old man. Forget it!”

“Certainly,” said Sampson.

The foreman seized the opportunity. “There, now, that's better. At last
we seem to Be getting together.”

No. 7 spoke up. “This might be a good time to take another ballot. It's
'leven minutes to one by my watch. We stand 'leven to one. That's a good
sign. Say, do you know that's pretty darned smart, if I do say it myself
who--”

“Let's have Mr. Sampson's revised views on the subject and then take a
final ballot for tonight,” said the foreman, wearily.

“I haven't revised my views,” said Sampson.

There were several draughty sighs. “I've stated them five or six times
to-night, and I see no reason to alter them now. Deeply as I regret it,
I cannot conscientiously do anything but vote for a conviction.”

“Now, listen to me once more, Mr. Sampson,” began the chubby bachelor.
“I'll try to set you straight in--”

“See here,” said Sampson, arising and confronting his companions, “we
may just as well look this thing squarely in the face. I don't want
to send him up any more than the rest of you do. But I am going to be
honest with myself in this matter if I have to stay out here for six
months. We've heard all of the evidence. It seems pretty clear to all of
us that the defendant was responsible for the loss of that money, even
if he didn't take it himself. He was the treasurer of the concern. He
had absolute charge of the funds. So far as we are concerned the State
has made out its case. We are supposed to be impartial. We are supposed
to render a verdict according to the law and the evidence. We cannot be
governed by sympathy or conjecture.

“When I left the court-room with the rest of you gentlemen to deliberate
on a verdict, I will confess to you that I had in my heart a hope that
you men would do just what you have done all along: vote for acquittal.
When I came into this room seven hours ago, I was eager to vote just as
you have voted. Then I began to reflect. I asked myself this question:
how can I go back to that court-room and look the district attorney and
the Court in the face and say that James Hildebrand is not guilty? If I
did that, gentlemen, I am quite sure I could never look an honest man in
the face again. We have all been carried away by our sympathies--I quite
as much as the rest of you. I am convinced that there isn't a man among
you who can stand up here and say, on his honour, that the evidence
warrants the discharge of the defendant.

“God knows I want to set him free. I am inclined to believe his story.
He is not the sort of man who would steal. But, after all, we are bound,
as honest men, to carry out the requirements of the law. The Court
clearly stated the law in this case. Under the law, we can do nothing
else but convict, gentlemen.

“You, Mr. Foreman, have said that Hildebrand perhaps knows who took
the money. You will admit that you are guessing at it, just as I am
guessing. In his own testimony he was careful to say nothing that would
lead us to believe that he knows the guilty man. The State definitely
charges him with the crime and it produces evidence of an overwhelming
nature to support the charge. Against this evidence is his simple
statement that he did not take the money. He had already pleaded not
guilty. Is it to be expected of him, therefore, that he should say
anything else but that he did not rob his partners?

“Only the criminals who are caught redhanded confess that they
are guilty. The guiltiest of them go on the stand, as we all know,
proclaiming their innocence, and, not one, but all of the men who go to
the chair after making such pleas maintain with their last breath that
they are innocent. Gentlemen, this is the bitterest hour in all my life.
I want to set this old man free, but I cannot conscientiously do so. I
took my oath to render a fair and impartial verdict. You all know what
a fair and impartial verdict must be in this case. I shall have to vote,
as I have voted from the beginning, for conviction.”

He sat down. No. 7, who was directly opposite him across the long table,
leaned forward suddenly with an odd expression in his eyes. Then he
blinked them.

“Why, by jingo, he's--he's crying!” he exclaimed, something akin to awe
in his voice. “You got tears in your eyes, darn me if you haven't.”

There were tears in Sampson's eyes. He lowered his head.

“Yes,” he said gruffly; “and I am not ashamed of them.”

“Oh, come now, old feller,” said Mr. Hooper, uncomfortably; “don't make
a scene. Pull yourself together. We're all friends here, and we're all
good fellers. Don't--”

“I'm all right,” said Sampson coldly. “You see I'm not as
hard-hearted as you thought. Now, gentlemen, I shall not attempt to
argue with you. I shall not attempt to persuade you to look at the case
from my point of view. As a matter of fact, I am rather well pleased
with the attitude you've taken. The trouble is that it isn't going to
help the poor old man. All we can do is to disagree, and that means
he will have to be tried all over again, perhaps after many months of
confinement. I should like to ask you--all of you--a few rather pointed
questions, and I'd like to have square and fair answers from you. What
do you say to that?”

“Fire away,” said the foreman.

“It's one o'clock,” said No. 7. “Supposin' we wait till after
breakfast.”

“Gawd, I'm sleepy,” groaned No. 12.

“No,” said the foreman firmly; “let's hear what Mr. Sampson has to say.
He's got a lot of good common sense and he won't ask foolish questions.
They'll be important, believe me.”

They all settled hack in their chairs, wearily, drearily.

“All right. Go ahead,” sighed the chubby bachelor. “I'll answer any
question except 'what'll you have to drink,' and I'll answer that
to-morrow.”

Sampson hesitated. He was eyeing No. 7 in a retrospective sort of
way. No. 7 shifted in his chair and succeeded in banishing the dreamy,
faraway look in his eyes.

“Assuming,” began the speaker, “that we were trying a low-browed,
undershot ruffian instead of James W. Hildebrand, and the evidence
against him was identical with that which we have been listening to,
would you disregard it and accept his statement instead?”

“The case ain't parallel,” said No. 8. “His face wouldn't be James W.
Hildebrand's, and you can bank a lot on a feller's face, Mr. Sampson.”

The others said, “That's so.”

“That establishes one fact very clearly, doesn't it? You all admit that
with a different sort of a face and manner, Mr. Hildebrand might be as
guilty as sin. Well, that point being settled, let me ask you another
question. If Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, the granddaughter who has faced
us for six working days, were a sour-visaged, watery-eyed damsel of
uncertain age and devoid of what is commonly called sex-appeal, would
your sympathies still be as happily placed as they are at present?”

No man responded. Each one seemed willing to allow his neighbour to
answer this perfectly unanswerable question.

“You do not answer,” went on Sampson, “so I will put it in another
form. Suppose that Miss Alexandra Hildebrand had not been there at all;
suppose that she had not been where we could look at her for six short
consecutive days--and consequently think of her for six long consecutive
nights--or where she couldn't possibly have looked at us out of eyes
that revealed the most holy trust in us--well, what then? I confess that
Miss Hildebrand exercised a tremendous influence over me. Did she have
the same effect upon you?”

Several of them cleared their throats, and then of one accord, as if
moved by a single magnetic impulse, all of them said, in a loud, almost
combative tone, “No!”

The chubby bachelor qualified his negative. “She didn't have an undue
influence, Mr. Sampson. Of course, I liked to look at her. She's easy to
look at, you know.” He blushed as his eyes swept the group with what he
intended to be defiance but was in reality embarrassment.

No. 7: “I was awfully sorry for her. I guess everybody was.”

No. 9; “She's devoted to the old man. I like that in her. I tell you
there's nothing finer than a young girl showing love and respect for--”

No. 12: “She's a square little scout. Take it from me, gents, she wasn't
thinking of me as a juror when she happened to turn her lamps on me.
I'm an old hand at the game. I can tell you a lot about women that you
wouldn't guess in--”

Sampson: “We may, therefore, eliminate Miss Hildebrand as the pernicious
force in our deliberations. She has nothing to do with our sense of
justice. We would be voting, I take it, just as we have been all along
if there were no such person as she. However, it occurs to me that each
of you gentlemen may have had the same impression that I had during the
trial. I had a feeling that Miss Hildebrand was depending on me to
a tremendous extent. You may be sure that I do not charge her with
duplicity--God knows I have the sincerest admiration for her--but I
found it pretty difficult to meet her honest, serene, trustful eyes
without experiencing a decided opinion that it was my bounden duty to
acquit her grandfather. Anybody else feel that way about it?”

There was a long silence. Again each man seemed to be waiting for the
other to break it. It was the foreman who spoke.

“I'll be perfectly honest, for one,” he said. “I thought and still think
that she looked upon me as a friendly juror. Nothing wrong about
it, mind you--not a thing. I wouldn't have you think that she
deliberately--er--ahem! What have you to say, No. 7?”

No. 7 blushed violently. “Not a word,” said he. “I profess to be a
gentleman.”

No. 8 snorted. “Well, then, act like one. Mr. Sampson's a gentleman. He
don't hesitate to say that he was--Say, Mr. Sampson, just what did you
say?”

“I said, without the slightest desire to create a wrong impression, that
I was deeply affected by the trust Miss Hildebrand appeared to place
in me. She believes her grandfather to be innocent, and I think she
believes that I agree with her. That's the long and the short of it.”
 No. 4 slammed his fist upon the table. “By thunder, that's just exactly
the fix I'm in. Right from the start, I seemed to feel that I got on
this jury because she liked the looks of me. Not the way you think,
Hooper, but because I looked like a man who might give her grandfather a
square trial and--”

Mr. Hooper interrupted him hotly: “What do you mean by 'not the way you
think'? That sounded kind of disparaging, my good man--disparaging to
her. Explain yourself.” Sampson interposed. “I think we all understand
each other, gentlemen. Miss Hildebrand practically picked the whole
dozen of us. She inspected us as we came up, she sized us up, and
she had the final word to say as to whether we were acceptable to the
defence. She believed in us, or we wouldn't be here to-night. What makes
it all the harder for us, gentlemen, individually and collectively, is
that we believe in her. Now, what are we to do? Live up to her estimate
of us, or live up to a prior estimate of ourselves?”

“Well, let's sleep over it,” said the foreman uneasily. “I guess we're
all tired and--”

“I guess we won't sleep much,” broke in No. 7 miserably. “Damn' if
you'll ever get me on a jury again. I'm a nervous man anyhow and
now--I'm a wreck. I don't know what to do about this business.”

“If it were not for Miss Hildebrand, gentlemen, we'd all know what to
do,” said Sampson. “Isn't that a fact?”

“Well, you seem to have made up your mind,” said No. 8 gloomily. “I
thought mine was made up, but, by gosh, I--I want to do what's right. I
took my oath to--”

“We will take a ballot before breakfast in the morning,” said No. 1
decisively. “Now, let's sleep if we can.”

They disposed themselves in chairs, stretched out their legs and--waited
for an illuminating daybreak.

Sampson's decision was final. He would not stultify his honour. He
would not be swayed by the sweetest emotion that ever had assailed him.
Besides, he argued through the long, tedious hours before dawn, when all
was said and done, what could Alexandra Hildebrand ever be to him? She
would go out of his life the day that--

But there he was at it again! Why couldn't he put her out of his
thoughts? Why was he continually thinking of the day when he would see
the last of her? And what a conceited fool he had been! She had
been most impartial with her mute favours. Every man on the jury was
figuratively and literally in the same boat with him. Each one of them
believed as he believed: that he was the one special object of interest
to her.

But still--he was quite sure--she _had_ communed with him a little
more--was he justified in using the word?--intimately than with the
others? Surely he could not be mistaken in his belief that she
looked upon him as a trifle superior to--But some one was nudging him
violently.

“Wake up, Mr. Sampson,” a voice was saying--a voice that was vaguely
familiar. It was a coarse, unfeminine voice. “We're ready to take a
ballot before we go out to breakfast. Want to wash up first or will
you--”

“What time is it?” muttered Sampson, starting up from his chair. Was it
the chair that creaked, or was it his bones? He was stiff and sore and
horribly unwieldy.

“Half past seven,” said the foreman. Then Sampson recognised the voice
that had interrupted his personal confession. Moreover, he recognised
the unshaven countenance. It was really quite a shock, coming so closely
upon... “You've been hitting it up pretty soundly. No. 7 says he didn't
sleep a wink. Afraid to risk it, he says.”

At eight o'clock an attendant rapped on the door and told them to get
ready to go out to breakfast.

“Go away!” shouted the foreman. He was in the midst of an argument with
No. 7 when the interruption came, and he was getting the better of it.

“I'm willing to go half way,” said No. 7 dreamily. “Hungry as I am, I'll
go half way. I've got the darnedest headache on earth. If I had a cup of
coffee maybe I'd--”

“What do you mean half way?” exploded Mr. Hooper. “You can't render a
half-way verdict, can you?”

The ballot had just been taken. It stood eleven to one for conviction!
This time No. 7 was the unit.

“No,” said the dreamy No. 7, unoffended. “What I want to do is to
make it as light for him as possible. Can't we find him guilty of
embezzlement in the third degree or--” Sampson interrupted. He too
wanted his coffee. “Let's have our breakfast. Afterwards we can
discuss--”

“I want to settle it now,” roared Mr. Hooper. “It's all nonsense talking
about breakfast while--”

“Well, then,” said Sampson, “suppose we agree to find him guilty as
charged and recommend him to the mercy of the Court.”

This was hailed with acclaim. Even No. 7, emerging temporarily from his
mental siesta, agreed that that was “a corking idea.”

“Find him guilty,” he explained, satisfying himself at least, “and then
ask the Court to discharge him. Maybe a little lecture would do him
good. A few words of advice--”

“And now, gentlemen,” broke in Sampson crisply, “since we have
reached the conclusion that we are trying Mr. Hildebrand and not Miss
Hildebrand, perhaps we would better have our coffee.”

At ten o'clock the jury filed into the courtroom and took their places
in the box. Each was conscious of what he was sure must look like a ten
days' growth of beard, and each wore the stem, implacable look that is
best described as “hang-dog.”

A dozen pairs of eyes went on an uneasy journey in quest of an object of
dread. She was not there. There were a dozen sighs of relief. Good! If
they could only get it over with and escape before she appeared! What
was all this delay about? They were ready with their verdict; why should
they be kept waiting like this? No wonder men hated serving on juries.

The Court came in and took his seat. He looked very stern and
forbidding. He looked, thought Sampson, like a man who has been married
a great many years and is interested only in his profession. A few days
earlier he looked more or less like an unmarried man.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” began the Clerk after the roll-call, “have you
arrived at a verdict?”

“We have,” said No. 1, with an involuntary glance in the direction of
the door.

The verdict itself was clear and concise enough. “We, the jury, find the
defendant, James W. Hildebrand, guilty as charged.”

The old man's eyes fell. A quiver ran through his gaunt body. An
instant later, however, he sat erect and faced his judges, and a queer,
indescribable smile developed slowly at the corners of his mouth.
Sampson was watching him closely. Afterwards he thought of this smile
as an expression of supreme indulgence. He remembered feeling, at the
moment, very cheap and small.

Before the defendant's counsel could call for a poll of the jury,
No. 1 arose in his place and laboriously addressed the Court. He announced
that the jury had a communication to make and asked if this was the
proper time to present it. The Court signified his readiness to hear the
communication, and No. 1, nervously extracting from his pocket a sheet
of note paper, read the following recommendation:--“The jury, having
decided in its deliberations that the defendant, James W. Hildebrand,
is legally and morally guilty as charged in the indictment, craves
the permission of this honourable Court to be allowed to submit a
recommendation bearing upon the penalty to be inflicted as the result
of the verdict agreed upon. We would respectfully urge the Court to
exercise his prerogative and suspend sentence in the case of James
W. Hildebrand. The evidence against him is sufficient to warrant
conviction, but there are circumstances, we believe, which should
operate to no small degree in his favour. His age, his former high
standing among men, and his bearing during the course of this trial,
commend him to us as worthy of this informal appeal to your Honour's
mercy. This communication is offered regardless of our finding and is
not meant to prejudice the verdict we have returned. In leaving the
defendant in the hands of this Court, we humbly but earnestly petition
your Honour to at least grant him the minimum penalty in the event that
you do not see fit to act upon our suggestion to suspend sentence.”

The document, which was signed by the twelve jurors, had been prepared
by Sampson, and it was his foresight that rendered it entirely within
the law. He was smart enough not to incorporate it in the finding
itself; it was a supplementary instrument which could be accepted or
disregarded as the Court saw fit.

The Court gazed rather fixedly at the sheet of paper which was passed
to him by an attendant. His brow was ruffled. He pulled nervously at his
moustache. At last, clearing his throat, he said, addressing the counsel
for the defence:

“Gentlemen, do you wish to poll the jury?”

Mr. O 'Brien waived this formality. He and his partner seemed to be
rather well pleased with the verdict. They eyed the Court anxiously,
hopefully.

“The Court will pronounce sentence on Friday,” announced the justice,
his eye on the door. He acted very much like a man who was afraid
of being caught in the act of perpetrating something decidedly
reprehensible. “I wish to thank the jurors for the careful attention
they have given the case and to compliment them on the verdict they have
returned in the face of rather trying conditions. It speaks well for the
integrity, the soundness of our jury system. I may add, gentlemen, that
I shall very seriously consider the recommendation you have made. The
prisoner is remanded until next Friday at ten o'clock.”

Half an hour later Sampson found himself in the street. He had spent
twenty minutes or more loitering about the halls of the Criminal Courts
building, his eager gaze sweeping the throng that was forever changing.
It searched remote corners and mounted quadruple stairways; it raked the
balcony railings one, two and three flights up; it went down other
steps toward the street-level floor. And all the while his own gaze was
scouting, the anxious eyes of four other gentlemen were doing the same
as his: No. 7, No. 8, No. 6 and No. 12. They were all looking for
the trim, natty figure and the enchanting face of Miss Alexandra
Hildebrand--vainly looking, for she was nowhere to be seen.

And when Sampson found himself in the street--(a bitter gale was
blowing)--he was attended by two gentlemen who justly might have been
identified as his most intimate, bosom friends: the lovesick No. 7 and
the predatory No. 12. They had him between them as they wended their
way toward the Subway station at Worth Street, and they were smoking
his cigars (because he _couldn't_ smoke theirs, notwithstanding their
divided hospitality)--and they were talking loudly against time. Sampson
had the feeling that they were aiming to attach themselves to him for
life.

They accepted him as their guiding light, their mentor, their firm
example. For all time they would look upon him as a leader of men, and
they would be proud to speak of him to older friends as a new friend
worth having, worth tying up to, so to say. They seemed only too ready
to glorify him, and in doing so gloried in the fact that he was a
top-lofty, superior sort of individual who looked down upon them with
infinite though gentle scorn.

Moreover, they thought, if they kept on the good side of Sampson
they might reasonably expect to obtain an occasional glimpse of Miss
Alexandra Hildebrand, for, with his keenness and determination, he was
sure to pursue an advantage that both of them reluctantly conceded.

In the Subway local No. 7 invited Sampson to have lunch with him. He
suggested the Vanderbilt, but he wasn't sure whether he'd entertain in
the main dining room or in the Della Robbia room. He seemed confused and
uncertain about it. No. 12 boisterously intervened. He knew of a nice
little place in Forty-second Street where you can get the best oysters
in New York. He not only invited Sampson to go there. They clung to him,
however, until they reached Times Square Station with him but
magnanimously included No. 7, which was more than No. 7 had done for
him.

Sampson declined. They clung to him, however, until they reached Times
Square station. There he said good-bye to them as they left the kiosk.

[Illustration: 0113]

“Perhaps we may meet again,” he said pleasantly. No. 7 fumbled in his
vest pocket and brought forth a soiled business card.

“If you ever need anything in the way of electric fixtures or repairing,
remember me, Mr. Sampson,” he said. “Telephone and address as per card.
Keep it, please. I am in business for myself. The Trans-Continental
Electric Supply Emporium.'

“Here's my card, Mr. Sampson,” said No. 12. “I'd like to come around
and give you a little spiel on our new model some day soon. We're
practically sold up as far as December, but I think I can sneak you in
ahead--what say?”

“I have an automobile, thank you. Two of them, in fact.” He mentioned
the make of car that he owned. No. 12 was not disheartened.

“You could have fifteen of our cars for the price you paid for
yours--one for every other day in the month. Just bear that in mind. A
brand new car every second day. Let me see: your address is--” He paused
expectantly.

“The Harvard Club will reach me any time.”

No. 12 started to write it down but paused in the middle of “Harvard” to
grasp the extended hand of his new friend. “I fancy you can remember it
without writing it down,” went on Sampson, smilingly.

“Never trust to memory,” said No. 12 briskly. “This burg is full of
clubs and--well, so long!”

No. 7 was still troubled about luncheon. “I'm sorry you can't go to the
Vanderbilt and have a bite--a sandwich and a stein of beer, say.” No.
12 turned to speak to a passing acquaintance, and No. 7 seized the
opportunity to whisper tensely: “She's staying there. I followed her
three times and she always went to the Vanderbilt. Got off the Subway at
Thirty-third Street and--”

“She? What she?” demanded Sampson, affecting perplexity.

No. 7 was staggered. It was a long time before he could say: “Well, holy
Smoke!” And then, as Sampson still waited: “Why, _her_, of course--who
else?”

Sampson appeared to understand at last. He said: “A ripping good hotel,
isn't it?”

“A peach,” said No. 7, and then they parted.

That evening Sampson dined at the Vanderbilt. At first, like No. 7, he
wasn't quite sure whether he would dine upstairs or in the Della Robbia
room. He went over the ground very thoroughly before deciding. At eight
o'clock he disconsolately selected the main dining-room and ate, without
appetite, a lonely but excellent dinner.

He wondered if No. 7 could have lied to him.




CHAPTER V


He also dropped in at the Vanderbilt for lunch on Thursday.

Friday morning he was in the court-room, ostensibly to hear sentence
pronounced. He sat outside the railing. Seven of his fellow-jurors
straggled in as the hour for convening court approached. Sampson found
himself flanked by No. 7 and No. 12, the former a trifle winded after a
long run from Worth Street. In a hoarse wheeze he informed Sampson that
“she'll be here in a minute,” and, sure enough, the words were barely
out of his mouth when Alexandra Hildebrand entered the court-room with
Mr. O 'Brien.

Sampson was shocked by her appearance. She was pale and tired-looking
and there were dark circles beneath her wonderful eyes. She looked ill
and worn. His heart went out to her. He longed to hold her close and
whisper--

“My God!” oozed from No. 7's agonised lips. “She's--she's sick!”

Sampson kicked him violently on the shin. “She'll hear you, you
blithering idiot,” he grated out.

The courtesy of the Court was extended once more to Miss Hildebrand.
She was invited to have a seat inside the railing. If she recognised a
single one of the eight jurors who sat outside, she failed to betray
the fact by sign or deed. The prisoner, a troubled, anxious look in his
eyes, entered and took his accustomed seat instead of standing at the
foot of the jury box to await sentence. Miss Hildebrand put her arm
over his shoulders and brushed his lean old cheek with her lips. He was
singularly unmoved by this act of devotion. Sampson glowered. The old
man might at least have given her a look of gratitude, a pat of the
hand--oh, anything gentle and grandfatherly. But there he sat, as rigid
as an oak, his gaze fixed on the Court, his body hunched forward in an
attitude of suspense. He was not thinking of Alexandra.

Hildebrand arose when his name was called, and it was plain that he
maintained his composure only by the greatest exertion of the will.
Sampson watched him curiously. He had the feeling that the old man would
collapse if the Court's decision proved severe.

The customary questions and answers followed, the old man responding in
a voice barely audible to those close by.

“The Court, respecting the wishes of the jurors who tried and found you
guilty, James Hildebrand, is inclined to be merciful. It is the judgment
of this Court that the penalty in your case shall be fixed at two years'
imprisonment, but in view of the recommendation presented here and
because of your previous reputation for integrity and the fact that you
voluntarily surrendered yourself to justice, sentence is suspended.”

Other remarks by the Court followed, but Sampson did not hear them.
His whole attention was centred on Alexandra Hildebrand. Her slim body
straightened up, her eyes brightened, and a heavenly smile transfigured
her face.

Sampson felt like cheering!

A few minutes later she passed him in the rotunda. For an instant their
eyes met. There was a deep, searching expression in hers. Suddenly a
deep flush covered her smooth cheek and her eyes fell. She hurried past,
and he, stock-still with wonder and joy over this astounding exposition
of confusion on her part, failed utterly to pursue an advantage that
would have been seized upon with alacrity by the atavistic No. 12. He
allowed her to escape!

[Illustration: 0123]

Aroused to action too late, he bolted after her, only to see her enter
a waiting taxi-cab and--yes, she _did_ look back over her shoulder.
She knew he would follow! He raised his hat, and he was sure that she
smiled--faintly, it is true, but still she smiled. If he hoped that she
would condescend to alter her course, he was doomed to disappointment.
The driver obeyed his original instructions and shot off in the
direction of Lafayette Street.

The memory of her tribute--a blush and a fleeting smile--was to linger
with Sampson for many a weary, watchful day.

The taxi-cab--a noisy, ungentle abomination--was whirling her corporeal
loveliness out of his reach and vision with exasperating swiftness,
leaving him high and dry in an endless, barren desert. His heart gave
a tremendous jump when a traffic policeman stopped the car at the
corner above. He set forth as fast as his long legs could carry him with
dignity, hoping and praying that the officer would be as slow and as
stubborn about--But she must have looked into the fellow's eyes and
smiled, for, with surprising amiability, he signified that she was
to proceed. Apparently he was too dazzled to reprimand or caution the
driver, for the taxi went forward at an increased speed.

Some one touched Sampson's elbow. He withdrew his gaze from the
vanishing taxi-cab and allowed it to rest in sheer amazement upon the
bleak countenance of No. 7.

“She's going away,” said No. 7 in sepulchral tones.

“Evidently,” said Sampson. “Exceeding the speed limit while she is about
it, too.”

“I mean,” said the other, “she's going to take a long journey. She's
leaving New York! That taxi is full of satchels and valises and stuff,
and the driver has orders to get her to the Hudson tube by eleven
o'clock. I heard that much anyhow, hangin' around here. Say, do you know
there is another woman in that cab with her? There sure is. I saw her
plain as day. Kind of an old woman with two or three little satchels and
one of them dinky white dogs in her lap.”

“A lady's maid,” said Sampson.

“Where do you suppose she's going?”

“How should I know?” demanded Sampson severely.

“And why is she running away without grandpa? What's going to become of
the old man? Seems as though she'd ought to hang around until he's--”

“I daresay she knows what she is doing,” said Sampson, disturbed by the
same thoughts.

“Maybe he's going to join her later on?” hopefully. “Over in Jersey
somewhere.”

“Very likely. Good-bye.” Sampson wrung the limp hand of No. 7 and made
off toward Broadway.

He lunched with a friend at the Lawyers' Club. In the smoking room
afterwards, he came face to face with the assistant district attorney
who had prosecuted the case of James Hildebrand. His friend exclaimed:

“Hello, Wilks! You ought to know Mr. Sampson. He's been under your nose
for a week or ten days.”

Wilks grinned as he shook hands with the exjuror. “Glad to know you as
Mr. Sampson, sir, and not as No. 3. We had a rather interesting week, of
it, didn't we?”

Sampson was surprised to find that he rather liked the good-humoured
twinkle in Wilks's eyes. He had thoroughly disapproved of him up to this
instant. Now he appeared as a mild, pleasant-voiced young man with a far
from vindictive eye and a singularly engaging smile. Departing from his
rôle as prosecutor, Wilks succeeded in becoming an uncommonly decent
fellow.

“Interesting, to say the least,” replied Sampson.

Wilks had coffee with them, and a cigar.

“I must say, Mr. Sampson, that you jurors had something out of the
ordinary to contend with. There isn't the remotest doubt that old
Hildebrand is guilty, and yet there was a wave of sympathy for him that
extended to all of us, enveloped us, so to speak. At the outset, we were
disposed to go easy with him, realising that we had a dead open and shut
case against him.

“We awoke to our danger when the trial was half over. That is to say, we
awoke to the fact that Miss Alexandra Hildebrand was likely to upset the
whole pot of beans for us. You have no idea what we sometimes have to
contend with. There is nothing so difficult to fight against as the
force of feminine appeal. Men are simple things, you see. We boast about
our righteous strength of purpose, but along comes a gentle, frail bit
of womanhood and we find ourselves--well, up in the air! Miss Hildebrand
had a decidedly agreeable effect on all of us. It is only natural that
she should. We realised what it all meant to her, and I daresay there
wasn't one of us who relished the thought of hurting her.

“Her devotion was really quite beautiful,” observed Sampson, feeling
that he had to put himself on record.

“I understand how you jurors felt about her and, through her, about the
old man. The State is satisfied to let him off as you recommended. It is
more than likely that he was badly treated in those deals with Stevens
and Drew, and if he can rehabilitate himself I think we will have
done well not to oppose leniency. At any rate, his granddaughter has
something to rejoice over, even though she may have been shocked by your
decision that he is guilty.”

“What do you know about her, Mr. Wilks?” inquired Sampson.

“Nothing in particular. She is an orphan, as you know, and I understand
she has been residing with her grandfather in Switzerland. She returned
to this country with him at the time of his voluntary surrender three
months ago. His bail was fixed at twenty thousand dollars, and she tried
to raise it, but failed. She has been trying to sell his Bronx property,
but, of course, that sort of thing takes time. I understand that a deal
is about to be closed, however, thanks to her untiring efforts, and
the old man may realise handsomely after all. I suppose the Cornwallis
Realty and Investment Company will bring civil action to regain the
fifty thousand lost through his defection. If he is sensible he will
restore the amount and--well, that will be the end of it.”

“Why didn't he sell it long ago?”

“He couldn't very well manage it without coming to New York, and he was
so closely watched that he couldn't do that without running a very great
risk. Evidently she, believing absolutely in his innocence, induced him
to give himself up and have his name cleared of the stigma that was upon
it. This is mere conjecture, of course.”

“Well, she's a brick, at any rate,” said Sampson, with some enthusiasm.

Wilks smiled. “That verdict, at least, is universal. Justice, however,
has miscarried in more cases than I care to mention, simply because some
little woman proves herself to be a brick. No doubt you will recall any
number of such cases right here in New York. If we had had the remotest
idea what Miss Hildebrand was like, we would have put up a strenuous
kick against her sitting beside the prisoner where you all could see
and be seen. She made it hard for you to convict the old man, and she
certainly wormed the recommendation to the Court out of you. To tell you
the truth, we feared an acquittal. When the jury stayed out all night I
said to myself: 'We're licked, sure as shooting. 'The best we looked
for was a disagreement. I've been told that the first half dozen ballots
stood eleven to one for acquittal. So you see, I wasn't far off in my
surmise. It has taught me a lesson. There will be no more attractive,
thoroughly upsetting young ladies to cast spells over judge, jury, and
lawyers if I can help it. I hope you will pardon me for saying it, Mr.
Sampson, but I am firmly convinced if there had been no Miss Alexandra
Hildebrand in the case you gentlemen would have brought in your verdict
in twenty minutes.”

“I suppose you know that I am the one who stood out against the eleven,”
 said Sampson.

“I suspected as much. I don't mind saying that the State counted on you,
Mr. Sampson.” Sampson started. How was this? The State counted on him
also? Suddenly he flushed.

“I had a notion that Miss Hildebrand counted on me, Mr. Wilks.”

“She did,” said the lawyer. “I think she lost a little of her
confidence, however, as the trial progressed. She appeared to be
devoting nearly all of her energies to you. You, apparently, were the
one who had to be subdued, if you will forgive the term. She is the
cleverest, shrewdest young woman I've ever seen. She is the best judge
of men that I've ever encountered--far and away better than I or any one
connected with our office. When that jury was completed I realised,
with a sort of shock, that it was she who selected it. She made but one
mistake--and that was in you. There is where we were smarter than she.
I knew that you would do the right thing by us, in spite of your very
palpable efforts to get off. If there had been some one else in your
place, Mr. Sampson, James Hildebrand would have been acquitted.”

“Possibly,” said Sampson, with a sinking of the heart. He felt like a
Judas! She had made but one mistake, and it was fatal!

“As I was saying,” went on Wilks, blowing rings toward the ceiling,
“women play thunder with us sometimes. A friend of mine from Chicago
dined with me last night. He is in the State's Attorney's office out
there and he's down here on business. You ought to hear him on the
subject of women mixing up in criminal cases. He says it's fatal--if
they're pretty and appealing. Nine times out of ten they have more
nerve, more character and a good deal more intelligence than the average
juryman, and Mr. Juror is like wax in their hands. Take a case they
had out there last fall--the Brownley case--you read about it, perhaps.
Young fellow from Louisiana got into bad company in Chicago, and went
all wrong. Gambled and then had to rob his employers to get square with
the world. His father and sister came up from New Orleans and made a
fight for him. They got the best legal talent in town, and then little
sister sat beside brother and petted him from time to time. A cinch! The
jury was out an hour. Not guilty! See what I mean? And you remember
the Paris case a year or two ago when the detectives nabbed a couple
of international card sharks and bunco men after they had worked the
Atlantic for two years straight without being landed? French juries
tried 'em separately. One of them got five years and the other got off
scot free. Why? Because his pretty young wife turned up and--well, you
know the French! Woman is lovely in her place, but her place isn't in
the court-room unless she favours the prosecution.”

“They're like good-looking nurses,” said Sampson's friend. “They make a
chap forget everything else.”

“Same principle,” said Wilks. “Patients and juries are much the same.
They require careful nursing.”

Sampson was like a lost soul during the weeks that followed the trial.
The hundred and one distractions he sought in the feverish effort to
drive Alexandra Hildebrand out of his thoughts failed of their purpose.
They only left him more eager than before. He longed for a glimpse of
her adorable face, for a single look into her eyes, for the smile she
had promised as she rode away from him, for the sheer fragrance of her
unapproachable beauty. She filled his heart and brain, and she was lost
to him.

The most depressing fits of jealousy overtook him. He tried to reason
with himself. Why shouldn't she have a sweetheart? Why shouldn't she be
in love with some one? What else could he expect--in heaven's name, what
else? Of course there was one among all the hundreds who adored her that
she could adore in return. Still he was sick with jealousy. He hated
even the possibility that there was a man living who could claim her as
his own.

At the end of a month of resolute inactivity, he threw off all restraint
and inaugurated a determined though innocuous search for her. He made it
his business to stroll up and down Fifth Avenue during the fashionable
hours of the day, and so frantic were his efforts to discover her in the
shifting throngs that he always went home with a headache, bone-weary
and appetiteless. His alert, all-enveloping gaze swept the avenue from
Thirty-fourth Street to Fiftieth at least twice a day, and by night it
raked the theatres and restaurants with an assiduity that rendered him
an impossible companion for friends who were so unfortunate as to be
involved in his prowlings. His lack of concentration, except in one
pursuit, was woful. His friends were annoyed, and justly. No one likes
inattention. Half the time he didn't hear a word they were saying to
him, and the other half they were resentfully silent.

He invaded Altman's, McCreery's, Lord & Taylor's and the other big
shops, buying things that he did not want, and he entered no end of
fashionable millinery establishments--and once a prominent corset
concern--not for the sake of purchasing, of course, but always with the
manner of an irritated gentleman looking for an inconsiderate wife.

This determined effort to ferret out Miss Hildebrand was due to a
report from No. 7, on whom he called one day in regard to an electrical
disturbance in his apartment. No. 7 told him that No. 4, who was the
proprietor of a plumbing establishment in Amsterdam Avenue, had seen
Miss Hildebrand on top of a passing Fifth Avenue stage. By means of some
remarkable sprinting No. 4, fortunately an unmarried man, overtook the
stage at the corner above (Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue), and
climbed aboard. Just as he sat down, all out of breath, two seats behind
the young lady, she got off and entered Sloane's. No. 4 had a short
argument with the conductor about paying fare for a ride of two blocks,
but it was long enough to carry him to the corner above Sloane's, so that
when he got back to the big shop she was lost.

He was not discouraged. Saying that he was waiting for his wife he
continued to invest the approach to the elevators with such success that
after nearly an hour (and an hour as computed by plumbers is no small
matter) he was rewarded by the appearance of Miss Hildebrand.

Without notifying the floorwalkers that he couldn't wait any longer for
his wife, he made off after the young lady, leaving them to think, if
they thought at all, that his wife was a very beautiful person who had
married considerably beneath her station. Miss Hildebrand waited at
the corner for a stage. No. 4 already had squandered ten cents, but he
didn't allow that to stand in the way of further adventure. He had his
dime ready when the 'bus came along--in fact, he had two dimes ready,
for it was his secret hope that she would recognise him. But alas! There
was room for but one more passenger, and he was left standing on the
curb, while she went rattling up the avenue in what he reckoned to be
the swiftest 'bus in the service.

Sampson's deductions were clear. She wouldn't be shopping at Sloane's
unless she was buying furnishings of some sort for a house, and it was
reasonable to suppose that the house was somewhere within reach of the
stage line route. No. 4 had failed to note, however, whether she took
a Riverside Drive or a Fifth Avenue stage. Although Sampson was not in
need of a plumber's services, he looked up No. 4 and had him send men
around to inspect the drain in the kitchen sink. It cost him nearly
twelve dollars to have a five minutes' profitless interview with the
master-plumber.

It was at this time that he began his pilgrimages up and down Fifth
Avenue, and it was also about this time that he acknowledged himself to
be a drivelling, silly, sentimental idiot--worse even than the drooping
No. 7.

In the course of his investigations he dropped in to see No. 8 at the
hat store; he talked insurance with No. 11 (and forever afterward had it
talked with him, despite all the pains he took to stop it); he ordered a
suit of clothes at the tailor shop of No. 6; and he even went so far as
to consult No. 1 about having his piano tuned, a proceeding which called
for the immediate acquisition of an instrument. (It occurred to him,
however, that it might prove to be money well spent, for any man who is
thinking of getting married ought to have a grand piano if he can afford
it.)

One day, overcoming an aversion, he sauntered up to a place in Broadway
and inquired for No. 12. To his amazement, No. 12 seemed a bit hazy as
to the existence of such a person as Miss Hildebrand. It was some time
before the fellow could call her to mind, and then only when the trial
was mentioned.

“Ah, yes,” said he, rapping his brow soundly, “I get you now. The pretty
little thing we saw at the trial. Lord, man, how long ago was that? Two
months? Well, say, I've seen a couple or three since then that make
her look like a last year's bird's-nest. I'm demonstrating for a little
cutey in the Follies just at present and she has Miss Hildebrand lashed
to the mast. Yellow hair and eyes as blue as--What's your hurry? I'm not
busy--got all kinds of time.”

But Sampson “walked out on him,” raging inwardly. It was all he could
do to conquer an impulse to kick No. 12. Comparing Alexandra Hildebrand
with a “little cutey in the Follies”! And forgetting her, too!
Unspeakable!

He discovered James Hildebrand a day or two later. The old man was
living in a small hotel just off Broadway, in the upper Forties. An
actor friend of Sampson's was living in the same hotel, and it was
through him that he learned that Hildebrand had been stopping there for
nearly two months, quite alone. A surprisingly pretty young woman had
called to see him on two or three occasions. According to Sampson's
informant, the old gentleman had just concluded a real estate deal
running into the hundreds of thousands and was soon to return to Europe.
This was most regrettable, lamented the actor, for he couldn't remember
ever having seen a prettier girl than Hildebrand's visitor--who, he had
found out at the desk, was a relative of some description.

A simple process would have been to interview old Mr. Hildebrand,
but Sampson's pride and good-breeding proved sufficiently strong and
steadfast in the crisis. He held himself aloof.

A week later he saw Mr. Hildebrand off on one of the trans-Atlantic
liners. Mr. Hildebrand was not aware of the fact that he was being seen
off by any one, however, and Sampson was quite positively certain that
no one else was there for the purpose. There was no sign of Alexandra.

He went abroad that summer.... Early in the autumn he was back in New
York, resolved to be a fool no longer. No doubt she had married the chap
she loved--and was living happily, contentedly in luxurious splendour
supplied by Sloane's--as long ago, no doubt, as the early spring it may
have happened.

His heart had once ached for her as an orphan, but all that would now be
altered if she had taken unto herself a husband. Somehow one ceases to
be an orphan the instant one marries. You never think of a fatherless
and motherless wife as an orphan. An orphan is some one you are expected
to feel sorry for.

He never had thought of himself as an orphan, although his father and
mother had been dead for years. No one ever had been sorry for him
because he was an orphan. What is it that supplies pity for one sex and
not for the other?

January found him in California. A year ago he had planned--Alas,
his thoughts were ever prone to leap backward to the events of a year
ago--back to the twentieth day of January. He would never forget it. On
that day he first looked upon the loveliest of all God's creatures. The
year had not dimmed his vision. He could see her still as plainly as on
that memorable January day when they “landed” him.

He wanted to see her once more, married or single, just to tell her that
it was conscience that caused him to fail her in her hour of need. He
wanted her to understand. He wanted her to believe that he couldn't help
being honest, and he wanted very much to hear her say that he did the
only thing an honourable gentleman could possibly do.

Wending his way northward, he came to San Francisco late in February,
and there fell into the open arms of several classmates whom he had not
seen since his college days. One of them was Jimmy Dorr, now a brilliant
editor and journalist. To him he related the story of the Hildebrand
trial, and the fruitless quest of the girl he still dreamed about. Jimmy
was vastly interested. He was a romanticist. His eyes glittered with
excitement.

“By Jove, it's a corker!” he exclaimed, breathlessly.

“A corker?” repeated Sampson, staring.

“Corking idea for a novel, that's what I mean. Why, you couldn't beat it
if you sat down and thought day and night for ten years. Ideas, that's
what the novelists want. The only thing that has kept me from breaking
into the literary game is an absolute paucity of--ideas. And here
you are handing me one. I shall write a novel. I'll have you find her
imprisoned in a dungeon by the conniving grandparent--”

“Or by a rascally husband,” put in Sampson, gloomily.

Dorr became thoughtful. “By the way, we've been having a more or less
notable trial here for the past week and a half. Lot of interest in it
all over the country. Have you heard of the Rodriguez ease?”

“Not yet,” said Sampson, resignedly. “Fire away. I 'll listen.”

“The arguments to the jury will be concluded to-morrow morning and there
ought to be a verdict before night. How would you like to go around
there with me at ten o 'clock and hear the State's closing argument? I
can manage it easily, although it's hard to get tickets. In a word, it
is the most popular show in town. Standing room only. Come along, and
I'll bet my head you'll never forget the experience.”

“I hate a court-room,” said Sampson.

“Well, you won't hate this one. I've been dropping in every day for an
hour or so, and, by gad, it _is_ interesting.” A faraway, dreamy look
came into Dorr's spectacled eyes. “Rodriguez is a wonderful character.
You see such chaps only in books and plays--seldom in plays, however,
for you couldn't find actors to look the part. He is a Spaniard, a
native of Mexico City, and as lofty as any grandee you'd find in old
Granada itself. Private detectives caught him in Tokio last summer,
after a world-wide search of three years. He is charged with forgery.
Forged a deed to some property in Berkeley and got away with the
proceeds of the sale. He stubbornly maintains that the deed was a
bona-fide instrument, and is fighting tooth and nail against the people
who accuse him. I 'd like to have you see him, Sampy.”

The next morning, a bit bored but conscious of a thrill of interest
in attending a trial in the capacity of spectator instead of talesman,
Sampson accompanied the editor to the court-room where the case of
the State vs. Victoriana Rodriguez was being heard. The corridors
and approaches were packed with people. A subdued buzz of excitement
pervaded the air. Every face in the throng revealed the ultimate of
eagerness, each body was charged with a muscular ambition to crowd past
the obstructing bodies before it. Sampson had never witnessed anything
like this before. He demurred.

“See here, Jimmy, I refuse to surge with a mob like this. Good-bye, old
man. See you--”

But Dorr conducted him to the private entrance to the judge's chambers,
and a few minutes later into the crowded court-room. They found places
behind the row of reporters and stood with their backs to the wall.

The jury was in the box, awaiting the opening of court. Sampson surveyed
them with some interest. They were a youngish lot of men and, to his way
of thinking, about as far from intelligent as the average New York jury.
They looked dazed, bewildered and distinctly uncomfortable. He knew how
they were feeling--no one knew better than he!

The prisoner entered, followed by his counsel, and took his seat.
Sampson favoured Dorr with a smile of derision. Rodriguez was a most
ordinary looking fellow--swarthy, unimposing and at least sixty years
of age. He was not at all Sampson's conception of a Spanish grandee.
Certainly he was not the sort of chap an author would put into a book
with the expectation of having his readers accept him as a hero.

“Good Lord, Jimmy, is _that_ the marvellous character you've been
talking about!” whispered the New Yorker. “Why, he's just a plain,
ordinary greaser. Nothing lofty about him.”

But Jimmy didn't hear. He was gazing in rapt eagerness over the heads
of the seated throng outside the railing. Sampson leaned forward and
whispered something to the reporter from Dorr's paper. He repeated the
remark, receiving no response the first time. The young fellow's reply,
when it came, was what Sampson, from his vast experience in law courts,
summed up as “totally irrelevant and not pertinent to the case.”

Somewhat annoyed, he turned to Jimmy Dorr. That gentleman's gaze was
fixed, so Sampson followed it. A young woman had taken the seat beside
the prisoner. He could not see her face, but something told him that it
was attractive--and then he was suddenly interested in the way her dark
hair grew about her neck and ears. Dorr was whispering:

“She's the most wonderful thing you ever laid eyes on, Sampy. Wait
till you get a good peek at her face. You'll forget your old Miss
Hill-obeans. She landed here about a month ago, straight from Spain,
where she has been in a convent since she was fourteen. Doesn't speak a
word of English--not a syllable, the reporters say. She--Hey! Sh! What
the devil's the matter with you!”

Sampson had uttered a very audible exclamation. He was staring at her
with widespread, glazed, unbelieving eyes. She had turned to favour the
reporters with a wistful, shy, entrancing “good morning” smile, and he
looked once more upon the face he had never forgotten and would never
forget.

“My God!” he whispered, grasping Dorr's arm in a grip that caused his
friend to wince. “Why, it's--Not a word of English! A month ago! Out of
a convent!” He was babbling weakly. His brain was not working.

“Is it too hot in here for you, old man!” whispered Dorr, alarmed.
“Shall we get out! You look as though--”

“Who is she!” gasped Sampson.

Dorr looked triumphant. “I thought she'd bowl you over. But, my Lord, I
didn't dream she'd give you such a jolt as this. The whole damned
bunch of us has gone mad over her. She's old Rodriguez's daughter--the
Senorita Isabella Consuelo Maria Rodriguez.”


THE END








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