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.