“At the very outset of my charge I desire to make several things quite clear. You and you alone are the sole judges of fact. Any comment that the Court may make as to the weight or value of any features of the evidence is merely his way of suggestion, and is in no possible way binding on the jury. Nor do statements made by counsel as to the innocence or guilt of the defendants, or as to any other conclusions or inferences drawn by them, prove anything whatever or have any effect as evidence.
“It is not necessary for any person accused in a court in this county to prove that he is not guilty. It devolves on the state to prove that he is. If you have a reasonable doubt as to whether the state has proved his guilt, it is your duty to return a verdict of not guilty. That is the law of the land.
“Now, having a reasonable doubt does not mean that by some farfetched and fantastic hypothesis you can arrive at the conclusion of not guilty because any other conclusion is painful and distasteful and abhorrent to you. There is hardly anything that an ingenious mind cannot bring itself to doubt, granted sufficient industry and application. A reasonable doubt is not one that you would conjure up in the middle of a dark, sleepless, and troubled night, but one that would lead you to say naturally when you went about your business in clear daylight, ‘Well, I can’t quite make up my mind about the real facts behind that proposition.’ Not beyond any possible doubt—beyond a reasonable doubt—bear that in mind.
“To convict either of the defendants under this indictment, the state must prove to your satisfaction beyond reasonable doubt:
“First, that Madeleine Bellamy is dead and was murdered.
“Second, that this murder took place in Bellechester County.
“And third, that such defendant either committed that murder by actually perpetrating the killing or by participating therein as a principal.
“That Madeleine Bellamy is dead is perfectly clear. That she was murdered has not been controverted by either the state or the defense. That the murder took place in Bellechester County is not in dispute. The only actual problem that confronts you is the third one: Did Mrs. Ives and Mr. Bellamy participate in the murder of this unfortunate girl?
“The state tells you that they did, and in support of that statement they advance the following facts:
“They claim that on Saturday the , at about five o’clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Ives received information from Mr. Elliot Farwell as to relations between Mr. Ives and Mrs. Bellamy that affected her so violently and painfully that she thereupon—”
“I can’t stand hearing it all over again,” remarked the redheaded girl in a small ominous whisper. “I can’t stand it, I tell you! If he starts telling us again that Sue Ives went home and called up Stephen Bellamy, I’ll stand up and scream so that they’ll hear me in Philadelphia. I’ll—”
“Look here, you’d better get out of here,” said the reporter in tones of unfeigned alarm. “Tell you what you do. You crawl out very quietly to that side door where the fat officer with the sandy moustache is standing. He’s a good guy, and you tell him that I told you that he’d let you out before you fainted all over the place. You can sit on the stairs leading to the third floor; I’ll get word to you when he’s through with the evidence, and you can crawl back the same way.”
“All right,” said the redheaded girl feebly.
The reporter glanced cautiously about. “It’ll help if you can go both ways on four paws; the judge doesn’t like to think that he’s boring any member of the press, and if he sees one of us escaping, he’s liable to call out the machine guns. Take long, deep breaths and pretend that it’s day after tomorrow.”
The redheaded girl gave him a look of dazed scorn and moved toward the left-hand door at a gait that came as close to being on four paws as was compatible with the dignity of the press. The fat officer gave one alarmed look at her small, wan face and hastily opened the door. She crawled through it, discovered the stairs, mounted them obediently and sank somewhat precipitately to rest on the sixth one from the top.
Down below, she could hear the mob outside of the great centre doors, shuffling and grunting and yapping—Ugh! Ugh! She shuddered and propped up her elbows on her knees and her head on her hands, and closed her eyes and closed her ears and breathed deeply and fervently.
“If ever I go to a murder trial again—What happens to you when you don’t sleep for a week? … If ever—I—go—”
Someone was saying, “Hey!” It was a small, freckled boy in a messenger’s cap, and he had evidently been saying it for some time, as his voice had a distinctly crescendo quality. He extended one of the familiar telegraph blanks and vanished. The redheaded girl read it solemnly, trying to look very wide awake and intelligent, as is the wont of those abruptly wakened.
The telegram said: “Come home. All is forgiven, and he’s through with the evidence. It’s going to the jury in a split second. Hurry!”
She hurried. Quite suddenly she felt extraordinarily wide awake and amazingly alert and frantically excited. She was a reporter—she was at a murder trial—they were going to consider the verdict. She flew down the white marble stairs and around the first corner and through the crack of the door proffered by the startled guard. There were wings at her heels and vine leaves in her hair. She felt like a giant refreshed—that was it, a giant. …
The reporter eyed her with his mouth open. “Well, for heaven’s sake, what’s happened to you?”
“Everything’s all right, isn’t it?” she demanded feverishly. “They won’t be out long, will they? There’s nothing—” A familiar voice fell ominously on
