must be newly filed, I guess," said La
Farge, answering the last question first. "But I hope they nail him! I
don't like him--never did. He's too fresh. He's too smart--one of those
self-educated East Side Yiddishers, you know. Used to be a court
interpreter down at Essex Market--knows about steen languages. And
he--here he comes now."

Weil passed them, going into the trial room--a short, squarely built man
with oily black hair above a dark, round face. Instantly you knew him
for one of the effusive Semitic type; every angle and turn of his
outward aspect testified frankly of his breed and his sort. And at sight
of him entering you could almost see the gorge of Deputy Commissioner
Donohue's race antagonism rising inside of him. His gray hackles
stiffened and his thick-set eyebrows bristled outward like bits of
frosted privet. Again he began whetting his forefinger on the leather
back of the closed docket book. It was generally a bad sign for somebody
when Donohue whetted his forefinger like that, and La Farge would have
delighted to note it. But La Farge's appraising eyes were upon the
accused.

"Listen!" he said under his breath to Rogers. "I think they must have
the goods on Mister Wisenheimer at last. Usually he's the cockiest person
round this building. Now take a look at him."

Indeed, there was a visible air of self-abasement about Lieutenant Weil
as he crossed the wide chamber. It was a thing hard to define in words;
yet undeniably there was a diffidence and a reluctance manifest in him,
as though a sense of guilt wrestled with the man's natural conceit and
assurance.

"Rogers," said La Farge, "let's hustle out and 'phone in what we've got
and then come back right away. If this fellow's going to get the harpoon
stuck into him I want to be on hand when he starts bleeding."

Only a few of the dwindled crowd turned back to hear the beginning of
the case, whatever it might be, against the Jew. The rest scattered
through the corridors, heading mainly for the exits, so that the two
newspaper men had company as they hurried toward the main door, making
for their offices across the street. When they came back the long cross
halls were almost deserted; it had taken them a little longer to finish
the job of telephoning than they had figured. At the door of the trial
room stood one bulky blue figure. It was the acting bailiff.

"How far along have they got?" asked La Farge as the policeman made way
for them to pass