d who
was still so spoken of familiarly; or was called as familiarly, Charley
Steele, by people who never had attempted to be familiar with him.

The second day of the trial had ended gloomily for the prisoner. The
coil of evidence had drawn so close that extrication seemed impossible.
That the evidence was circumstantial, that no sign of the crime was upon
the prisoner, that he was found sleeping quietly in his bed when he was
arrested, that he had not been seen to commit the deed, did not weigh
in the minds of the general public. The man's guilt was freely believed;
not even the few who clung to the opinion that Charley Steele would yet
get him off thought that he was innocent. There seemed no flaw in the
evidence, once granted its circumstantiality.

During the last two hours of the sitting the prisoner had looked at his
counsel in despair, for he seemed perfunctorily conducting the case: was
occupied in sketching upon the blotting-pad before him, looking out of
the window, or turning his head occasionally towards a corner where sat
a half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and more particularly towards one
lady who watched him in a puzzled way--more than once with a look of
disappointment. Only at the very close of the sitting did he appear to
rouse himself. Then, for a brief ten minutes, he cross-examined a friend
of the murdered merchant in a fashion which startled the court-room,
for he suddenly brought out the fact that the dead man had once struck
a woman in the face in the open street. This fact, sharply stated by the
prisoner's counsel, with no explanation and no comment, seemed uselessly
intrusive and malicious. His ironical smile merely irritated all
concerned. The thin, clean-shaven face of the prisoner grew more pinched
and downcast, and he turned almost pleadingly towards the judge. The
judge pulled his long side-whiskers nervously, and looked over his
glasses in severe annoyance, then hastily adjourned the sitting and
left the bench, while the prisoner saw with dismay his lawyer leave the
court-room with not even a glance towards him.

On the morning of the third day Charley Steele's face, for the first
time, wore an expression which, by a stretch of imagination, might be
called anxious. He also took out his monocle frequently, rubbed it with
his handkerchief, and screwed it in again, staring straight before him
much of the time. But twice he spoke to the prisoner in a low voice, and
was hurriedly answered in