By this time the court-room was filling up with its usual motley crowd of interested parties and spectators. There were the seekers after freedom, a heterogeneous collection of them, in all sorts and conditions of clothes, of all ages and of all kinds of faces and figures. There were the women from the millionaire colonies of the East, chic, sleek, and composed. They retired into a far corner with their attorneys, conferring in low tones, or else sitting, apparently unperturbed, while waiting for their cases to be called. There were always the adventuress types, chic, too, but made up with an eye to future conquest, their skirts always tighter or wider or shorter or longer than the style decreed, their hair a little more so-so, their lips redder, their cheeks rosier, and their faces whiter than their more conservative sisters of a narrower way. There were tired women from far states not allowing divorces for cruelty or desertion. They sat, in nondescript clothes, most of them, with eyes heavy-lidded, as if they were too weary to care much what happened to them. There were gay young creatures, dancers and small-time vaudeville actresses, who refused to take life seriously and who availed themselves of a dull season to make themselves free for another venture. There was a sprinkling of men, one of them a lumber magnate from an Eastern state, another a noted cabaret entertainer. They sat around, restlessly out of place, but at the same time taking an interest in those about them.

Supplementing these were the spectators. Among them were tourists who came to Reno for the express purpose of attending the divorce trials. Inquisitive folk, regular residents of the town, dropped in to pass an hour's time and to gather gossip for the afternoon tea-table. Club-women, anxious to find food for reform, took up their seats close to the railing, determined that no word of the testimony or proceedings should escape them. And there were the usual hangers-on, old men and women with nothing to do, who found entertainment in listening to the human dramas unfolded from the witness-stand.

Raymond Thomas, before taking his seat at the lawyers' table, took a comprehensive view of his audience. Lifting the skirt of his frock-coat, he sat down, viewing the world and himself complacently. He heard the court-room door swing to, and, looking up, he saw the sheriff coming toward him with Mrs. Margaret Davis by his side.

Mrs. Davis's six months' residence in Nevada had been established and she had come over from Calivada, where she had become quite one of the Jones family, to get her decree. She had expected to meet Mrs. Jones at the Riverside Hotel, but she had been late and had hurried over, her effort flushing her cheeks even beyond the heavy coat of peach-bloom with which she hid the natural roses of her cheeks. She had been scurrying like a chicken around the corridors when she had caught sight of Sheriff Blodgett and importuned him to see her safely to a seat in the court-room.

As soon as she saw Thomas she dismissed the sheriff summarily, while Thomas arose and went forward, opening the swinging gates that admitted the lawyers and witnesses behind the railing. Their greeting was effusive, and Thomas held Mrs. Davis's hand for a moment. She blushed vigorously and simpered:

"Oh, Mr. Thomas, my case comes up to-day, and I'm just worried sick about it. Do you think I could see Lem—" she stopped, hung her head, and looked coquettishly up at Thomas as she bit her lip, correcting herself, "I mean Judge Townsend?"

Thomas looked around to see if any one were listening. "I'm afraid you can't see him just now," he replied, leading her to a chair just under the judge's desk, which was set upon a high platform. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked, in his smooth, bland voice.

"I don't know." Mrs. Davis whined and twisted in her chair. "My lawyer's sick. I telephoned his doctor, who was just as mean as could be and said he couldn't come to court to-day. If I could only tell the judge—" She gave Thomas a look laden with understanding.

"There shouldn't be any trouble about that," laughed Thomas, dropping easily into the chair beside her. "You can explain the circumstances to the judge when your case is called, and—"

"But I don't want it postponed! A court-room scares me just half to death. I'll die if I have to put it off and go through screwing up my courage again. I just will!" She nodded her head emphatically until the bright blue plumes that fell from the back of her enormous picture-hat threatened Thomas's eyes.

He moved away from them, offering, after a moment's thought: "Well, I'll be very glad to represent you if you care to have me. There's nothing to your case, anyhow. The judge is a friend of yours, isn't he?"

Mrs. Davis hesitated and rolled her baby-blue eyes at him from under her heavily beaded lashes as she giggled. "Oh yes—he's a friend," and then, thinking better of her confidence, she ended, with a sigh, "that is, I know him—slightly."

Thomas smiled to himself, reassuring her. "Then don't give it a thought. Just leave everything to me."

A grateful hand was laid upon his arm and she looked up at him with fervid admiration. "You are so smart and so kind, Mr. Thomas. You've taken such a load off my mind. If anything went wrong after waiting all these months I'd just die—that's all there is about it."

At this moment the door of the judge's chambers opened and Lemuel Townsend appeared, clad in a Prince Albert suit and beaming on Mrs. Davis, who arose and walked well into the middle of the floor so that she should not escape his immediate attention.

This was a moment of great satisfaction for Thomas, who looked about the court-room, scrutinizing every man in it, his face brightening as he saw that John Marvin had not put in an appearance. When the sheriff had finished opening court he arose from his place at the lawyers' table, for he knew that the case of the railroad against John Marvin was the first upon the day's calendar. He pulled his revers together with a pompous gesture and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could do so Judge Townsend called to the clerk, whose desk was at one side of the bench, and suggested in low tones:

"I think this first case can go over—"

Thomas caught the words and disappointment drove the self-satisfaction from his face. He ventured to address the court: "If it please your Honor, this is an action for the wrongful taking of timber, and I've come a long way and I would like to get home—"

Townsend had not been listening to a word, his attention being concentrated on the tip of an upstanding feather on Mrs. Davis's hat, which could barely be seen over the top of his desk. "Eh? What's that?" he asked, sharply, not too pleased to be interrupted in his endeavor to catch further sight of Mrs. Davis.

Marvin not having put in an appearance, Thomas's hopes of winning the case for the railroad by default were high. He did not think Marvin would appear, but every delay might be fatal and it took an effort on his part to appear unperturbed. However, he managed to answer in urbane tones, "I was saying, your Honor, that—"

"Oh yes." Townsend bent his head and looked down with severe eyes over the top of his glasses. "Just a moment, please," he added, as Thomas would have finished his plea. Turning to the clerk, he ordered, "Let me see the list."

The list was handed to him and he ran down it, finally remarking to the clerk, "I think I will dispose of these short cases first." Half rising in his chair, he looked over the top of his desk to where Mrs. Davis was twisting and turning in her chair in an effort to get a look at him.

"Mrs. Davis," he called in gentle tones, "are you ready?"

She hurriedly precipitated herself into the middle of the space in front of the platform. "Why, yes," she answered, looking about as if she did not know where to turn and gathering her sealskin cape about her.

"I'll take your case at two o'clock," the judge said to Thomas, who shrugged his shoulders, but did not sit down as Townsend had expected him to do.

As the clerk called the case, "Davis versus Davis," Thomas moved close to the bench, exclaiming, "If it please your Honor—"

He was interrupted by a glower from Townsend, who said, "This case is Davis versus Davis, Mr. Thomas," his eyes wrinkling into a broad smile as he again turned his attention to Mrs. Davis, who stood, bewildered, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"I am quite aware that it is the Davis case, your Honor," Thomas answered, not without a note of triumph in his voice and demeanor. "I am the attorney for Mrs. Davis."

Thomas's announcement shocked Townsend into dropping a document he held in his hand. It fell on the desk and was blown by the strong east wind that came in from the window clear across the room. "You are?" he asked, with a mouth fallen half open from surprise and annoyance, his spectacles tilting to the end of his nose.

Thomas did not answer at once, but flushed, turning, for the sake of a few moments in which to think, toward the clerk, who was scrambling after the paper. His glance on its way back to the judge met that of Blodgett, which had both a warning and an "I-told-you-so" quality in it.

"Well?" The judge's question was drawn into a length which further embarrassed Thomas. Being a young man of poise, however, he straightened the revers of his coat and settled them with a shake upon his shoulder, replying, graciously, "Mrs. Davis has appointed me in the place of Mr. Adams."

Townsend continued to stare most ungraciously at the young man in front of him, but Thomas, unabashed, went on: "Your Honor, I believe, is familiar with the complaint and has gone over the depositions submitted by the plaintiff. As the defendant has neither entered a denial, put in an appearance, nor been represented in court, I move that the plaintiff be granted an absolute separation from the defendant."

Swift shafts of indignation bolted from Townsend's eyes back and forth between Thomas and Margaret Davis. He saw that consternation was plainly written on the latter's baby face and that tears were gathering in her big blue eyes now pleadingly uplifted to his. His jaw relaxed and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. But Thomas' complacency at the softening in the judge's attitude was too much, and Townsend snapped out, "The motion is denied."

From her chair directly in front of the judge's desk Margaret Davis immediately jumped up, her eyes opening into large, round, moist orbs which threatened to grow moister as she asked, in a voice that fear had robbed of its ingenuousness, "Does that mean I can't get a divorce?"

Thomas was about to reassure her, when he was again interrupted by the judge, whose voice flattened as he looked away from her, afraid to trust the melting effect of her coy glances. "It means that the motion of your counsel is unusual and that I have good and sufficient reasons for denying it," he said, with emphasis.

Margaret put her handkerchief to her eyes to stem the threatening tide, while Thomas hastened to forestall the avalanche by informing her, as he placed a comforting hand on her arm, that he would be able, at least, to try the case.

Had Lem Townsend been able to prevent the latter, he would have done so, but he was too young as a jurist to allow criticism of his knowledge of points of law, and he reluctantly gave consent to the trial of the case.

It was with a beating heart and a jaw set against the impending quiver of a not too slender frame that she held up her hand for the oath and took her place upon the stand, looking about with a terror that was new born in eyes heretofore ungiven to everything but treacle. Her lips trembled an almost inaudible reply to the clerk's question.

She was still standing, and Thomas, noticing this, motioned her to be seated, beginning at the same time her examination.

"Mrs. Davis, where do you live?" he asked. His own tones were of no certain quality, for the firm pressure of Townsend's white lips and his obvious intention of steering clear of any attempt at honeyed coercion on Margaret Davis's part were not encouraging.

In vain she cast her eyes about in an effort to inveigle the sympathy of Lem Townsend. He stared straight ahead at the paper in front of him, although he saw not a word. Her answer to Thomas's question came with a gasp. "New York." Then realizing that her case was lost and her entire six months' sojourn at Calivada was as nothing unless she immediately corrected her mistake, she gasped a second time as she drew the folds of her blue-velvet cape about her. "Oh no! I don't mean that at all. I live here—I live here in Nevada and I've lived here long enough to get a divorce. The judge—" and here she stopped for breath, making another attempt to corral his stubborn favor—"his Honor—" she jerked, with a quick breath, "can tell—you that."

But the judge did not smile and his eyes remained rigid in their sockets as they glared at the paper in his hand.

"Just answer the questions, please, Mrs. Davis," Thomas cautioned her pleasantly, although as a witness she was disconcerting.

"Well," she drawled, fidgeting in her chair, "that's not easy when you're sworn to tell the truth."

A titter ran through the court-room and was brought to an abrupt end by the sheriff's gavel.

Thomas resumed his examination. "You are the wife of Gerald Davis, are you not?"

She nodded.

"And when and where were you married to him?"

"Seven years ago, October fifth—in Peoria." She glanced about at the sea of smiling faces, again seeking sympathy from the judge.

Again he was adamant.

"You were living in Peoria?"

The insinuation that anything less than a metropolis should be her abiding-place was more than she could bear and in turbulent leaps, broken by her gasps for breath, she blurted, her lips quivering and her eyes filling with tears: "I should—say—not! My husband and I were playing there. We were partners doing a dancing act—"

Thomas tried to interrupt her and succeeded with half a question. "When did your husband first show signs of not loving you and—"

He got no farther, for she went on, determined to get over the disagreeable business of being truthful. "He stopped loving me about a year before we were married."

This time a storm of laughter surged through the court-room and it took several taps of Blodgett's gavel to regain quiet. Undaunted, she finished her story. "It's really hard to explain why we were married. You see"—she hesitated and resumed jerkily—"we were in Peoria—and we were partners—and—and—it rained all week—Well, somehow it seemed a good idea at the time."

At this point it became necessary for Townsend, in order to maintain the dignity of the bench, to caution the spectators that if there were any more such outbursts of joy he would have the court-room cleared.

Thomas still maintained his control, although cold perspiration was wilting his highly polished collar. "But after you were married he was cruel to you, was he not?" he asked.

"I should say he was!" The answer was accompanied by an emphatic nod of the head and again she flew onward, over his head, determined that she should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

"Why," she opened her left hand and enumerated the said Gerald Davis's shortcomings by pressing its fingers with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, "he put his name on the bill in larger type than mine. He tried to strike me once—but he was a poor judge of distance. And—and—" she stopped. This time her appeal was directed to Thomas.

"He deserted you, did he not?" Thomas eagerly took up the thread, hoping to unravel the snarl she had worked with it.

"Well, we parted—"

"After he deserted you?"

Before Mrs. Davis could answer the last question, Townsend straightened the spectacles on his nose and entered the case. Slowly welling within him was a jealousy now overwhelming. His political ambitions alone had stood in the way of his descending from the bench and throwing Thomas out of the court-room. It was only by remaining silent that he had curbed his temper. Now it broke away from him, and he turned, thundering, "So far, Mr. Thomas, the witness has not testified that her husband deserted her!"

"Oh—" Margaret Davis turned squarely in her chair, pursing her carmine lips into an irresistible moue. "Of course he deserted me! We were playing in Chicago, and I went West and he stayed there and—"

"That looks to me, madam, as if you deserted him. So far, your testimony has not brought out anything to substantiate your complaint."

Tears unrestrained burst forth at this moment. The thought that not only had she lost all chance of securing her freedom, but that Lemuel Townsend, whose attentions had helped to while away a six months which would otherwise have been dull to one accustomed to a barrage of suitors at the stage door, was more than she could bear. Pointing to Thomas, she sobbed into a purple silk handkerchief that smelled not faintly of patchouli. "That's because he told me to do nothing but answer his questions, and then he asked me all the wrong things—" Her emotion, out of bounds, spent itself in a cataract of tears. Unable to go on, she sat there, trying to stem the tears with a handkerchief inadequate for their volume.

Thomas tried to save his case. "Your Honor—I—"

He hesitated, Margaret Davis coming to his rescue. "Oh, I don't mean to blame you," she said to him, addressing the last of her remark to the judge. "He doesn't know anything about my case!"

What Lemuel Townsend would have liked to do at that moment was to have taken her in his arms and reassure her, as old fools are apt to do with naÏve young creatures. But her apparent friendliness with Thomas and her deceitfulness in employing him for her attorney was more than he could condone. He would not relax his stern exterior, although his interior was softening. "Then, why," he asked, in measured tones, "is he appearing for you if he does not understand your case?"

Recognizing the opportunity for explanation, Margaret wiped her eyes, sniffed, and, went on: "My lawyer's sick, you see. And I wanted to tell you all about it, but Mr. Thomas explained that I couldn't see you. And he said he'd do everything for me, and you'd give me a divorce without any trouble at all."

Thomas whitened and turned to the table, where he fingered his brief-case nervously. He could not brave the glare which he knew Townsend was directing at him, nor the tirade he feared would follow.

"When did he tell you all that?" the judge asked, his nostrils quivering with rage, his voice strained to a tenor.

"Just now." Margaret grew happily voluble and she nodded her head back and forth like a child of six as she ogled the judge. "When I came into court he was here and I told him the trouble I was in. It's the only time I've seen him since you asked me not to."

Townsend was so relieved that he did not hear the last of her remark and the noisy delight of the spectators also escaped him. He was bent upon one purpose, that of chastising Thomas. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" he asked Margaret, in tender tones, forgetting, in his ardor, that there was such a thing as a court-room. He leaned far over the desk and beamed upon her. "There, there, don't let it upset you." He offered her a glass of water.

As she took it, Thomas stepped up to the bench again and tried to palliate the judge's wounded sensibilities. "If your Honor please, I was simply acting from a friendly standpoint and I thought—"

"No matter what your motives were, sir, you presumed when you told the plaintiff what the court's rulings would be." He turned abruptly from Thomas and leaned graciously toward the plaintiff. "Now, Mrs. Davis," he resumed, "let me question you. Why did you leave your husband in Chicago?"

Reassured, Margaret bridled coyly and answered, lifting her lids to the judge: "Because he didn't show up for a performance and I had to go on alone—and afterward the manager told him the act was better without him. And he sulked and stayed away from the theater all the rest of the week and on our next jump he refused to go with me." Her last words dwindled into a plaintive whine.

"And you were obliged to go without him?" Lem Townsend subtly gave a slight nod of his head which Margaret caught and interpreted into a vigorous acquiescence with her own curly blond head.

"Did you try to have him go with you?" Again the hint and again Margaret scored her point.

"Of course I did!" she responded. "I mean, yes—your Honor. But he said he'd show me how long I could go it on my own; but I showed him, for I've never seen him since. I only heard from him once and that was when I sent him money."

"Have you tried to see him?" Lem Townsend asked the last question grudgingly, but he felt that his own honor in the case was in danger of impeachment, and he was sure that his slight nod would be followed as it had before. He was right.

"Of course I did. Mr. Blackmore—he was our manager—gave me his sworn statement."

Townsend for the first time really saw the paper in front of him. He read it carefully, answering in tones of quick delight. "Yes, here it is and a deposition dated Chicago stating that Davis left you without warning and refused to dance with you again."

"Yes, your Honor," she cooed.

There was silence while Townsend scrutinized the papers in front of him. Margaret sat with her eyes anxiously fastened on him. With a nod of satisfaction he shoved the papers aside and, smiling down at her, announced in kindly tones, "Your decree is granted."

"Your Honor!" She arose from her chair and sat down in it again, a copious flow of tears making it impossible for her to leave the stand.

Townsend reached for the glass of water and held it toward her once again. "Please, please, Mrs. Davis," he endeavored to calm her, but his compassion only served to bring on another storm. "I'm so emotional," she sobbed, "I can't stop it!"

Townsend looked about helplessly. A sudden awakening to his own prerogative solved the dilemma. "Mr. Sheriff, announce a recess," he ordered. And leaving the bench, he went to Mrs. Davis and guided her into his chambers.

The crowd filed out of the court-room, while Thomas, weak with shame and disappointment, took his seat at the table again, impatiently toying with a paper-knife that had fallen from his pin-seal brief-case.

Blodgett went to him and leaned over with the intention of reassuring him, when there was a disturbance at the window which opened from a balcony a few feet above the street. Both of the men turned just in time to see John Marvin climb through the window and pull his suit-case in after him.

The sheriff stepped forward, hesitating as he realized his powers were negative in a court-room.

"Here, what you doing?" the clerk called out, getting up from his desk.

The sheriff glared and handled the manacles in his pocket with an intemperate disgust.

Marvin looked at him and laughed, answering the clerk. "I've got business in this court. I'm John Marvin and I'm appearing in the case the Pacific Railroad has brought against me." He did not deign to glance at Thomas, who had arisen, facing him, white from the blow to his hope of obtaining a judgment by default.

Marvin went calmly to the other end of the attorneys' table and opened up his shabby brown-canvas brief-case. He whistled to himself softly as he did so and glanced at Thomas, whose pallid mouth was drawn into a dogged sneer.

Blodgett went back to his seat just within the swinging gates that gave entrance behind the railing and sat glaring at Marvin. Quiet reigned in the court; then a faint shuffle of feet was heard beyond the door.

As Blodgett looked around, the door of the court-room opened gently and Bill Jones, clad in a Civil War veteran's uniform, faded from the sun, its brass buttons tarnished, and wearing his soldier's black soft hat with its gold cord cocked jauntily over one eye, sauntered down the aisle, holding out his hand to Marvin, who had jumped from his seat and bounded around the table to greet him.

"Hello, John!" Lightnin' drawled, grinning. "How's tricks? You look kinder legal this morning?"