“ ‘Come right in, gentlemen,’ says he, and he made that sound unattractive too. ‘I’m not mistaken, am I? It’s the gentlemen of the press that I’m addressing?’ We allowed without too much enthusiasm that such was indeed the case, and in we came. ‘Let’s get right down to business,’ he said. ‘None of this absurd delicacy that uses up all your energy,’ says he. ‘What you gentlemen want to know, I’m sure, is whether I was Madeleine Bellamy’s lover and whether my wife was her murderess. That’s about it, isn’t it?’
“It was just about it, but somehow, the way he put it, it sounded not so good. ‘Well,’ said Ives, ‘I’ll give you a good straight answer to a good straight question. Get to hell out of here!’ says he, and he yanks the front door open so wide that it would have let out an army.
“Just as I was thinking of something really bright to come back with, a nice soft little voice in the back of the hall said, ‘Oh, Pat darling, do be careful. You’ll wake up the babies. I’m sure that these gentlemen will come back another time,’ And Mrs. Daniel Ives trotted up and put one hand on his arm and smiled a nice, worried, polite little smile at us.
“And Pat darling smiled, too, not so everlastingly politely, and said, ‘I’m sure they will—I’m sure of it. Four o’clock in the morning’s a good time too.’ And we decided that was as good a time as any and we went away from there. And here we are. And if you don’t look sharp they’ll have a jury before you understand why I know that Mr. Ives is the romantic type that lets realism get on his nerves. What number is that heading for the box now?”
“Otto Schultz!”
A cozy white-headed cherub trotted energetically up.
“Number 10, take your place in the box!”
“Josiah Morgan!”
“Gosh, they’ll get the whole panel in under an hour!” exulted the reporter. “Look at the fine hatchet face on Morgan, will you? I bet the fellow that tries to sell Josh a lame horse will live to rue the day.”
“Charles Stuyvesant!”
Charles Stuyvesant smiled pleasantly at the sheriff, his fine iron-gray head and trim shoulders standing out sharply against his overgroomed and undergroomed comrades in the box.
“Number 12, take your place in the box! You and each of you do solemnly swear that you will well and truly try Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives, and a true verdict give according to the law and evidence, so help you God?”
Above the grave answering murmur the redheaded girl begged nervously, “What happens now?”
“I don’t know—recess, maybe—wait, the judge is addressing the jury.”
Judge Carver’s deep voice rang out impressively in the still courtroom:
“Gentlemen of the jury, you will now be given the usual admonition—that you are not to discuss this case amongst yourselves, or allow anybody else to discuss it with you, outside your own body. You are not to form or express any opinion about the merits of the controversy. You are to refrain from speaking of it to anybody, or from allowing anybody to speak to you with respect to any aspect of this case. If this occurs you will communicate it to the Court at once. You are to keep your judgment open until the defendants have had their side of the case heard, and, lastly, you are to make up your judgment solely on the law, which is the last thing that you will hear from the Court in its charge. Until then, you will not be able to render a verdict in accordance with the law, and therefore you must suspend judgment until that time. The Court is dismissed for the noon recess. We will reconvene at one o’clock.”
The redheaded girl turned eyes round as saucers on the reporter. “Don’t they come back till one?”
“They do not.”
“What do we do until then?”
“We eat. There’s a fair place on the next corner.”
The redheaded girl waved it away. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly eat—not possibly. It’s like the first time I went to the theatre; I was only seven, but I remember it perfectly. I sat spang in the middle of the front row, just like this, and I made my governess take me three quarters of an hour too early, and I sat there getting sicker and sicker from pure excitement, wondering what kind of a new world was behind that curtain—what kind of a strange, beautiful, terrible world. I sat there feeling more frightful every second, and all of a sudden the curtain went up with a jerk and I let out a shriek that made everyone in the theatre and on the stage jump three feet in the air. I feel exactly like that now.”
“Well, get hold of yourself. Shrieking isn’t popular around here. If you sit right there like a good quiet child I may bring you back an apple. I don’t promise anything, but I may.”
She was still sitting there when he came back with the apple, crunched up in her chair, staring at the jury box with eyes rounder than ever.
“Isn’t it nearly time?” She eyed the apple ungratefully.
“It is. Come on now, eat it, and I’ll show you what I’ve got in my pocket.”
“Show?”
“The jury list—names, addresses, ages, professions and all. Two of them are under thirty, three under forty, four under fifty, two under sixty, one sixty-two. Three merchants, two clerks, two farmers, an insurance man, an accountant, a radio expert, a jeweller and a banker. Not a bad list at all, if you ask me. Charles Stuyvesant’s the only one that won’t have a good clubby time of it. He’s one of the richest bankers in New York.”
“He looked it,” said the redheaded girl. “What will they do when they come back?”
“Well, if they’re good, the prosecutor’s going to make them a nice little speech.”
“Who is the prosecutor? Is he
