e
you." Abby had fetched my turban, with a dark veil, which I had to put
over my face before I went into the street. There a carriage was
waiting.

As we drove it seemed to me there were more people in the street than
usual; and when we reached the jail there was a dense crowd in front of
it, and policemen were striking with their clubs to make a passage
through. But our carriage drove, as Mr. Dingley's had done before,
around the building and through the little alley to the back entrance.
Even here some people were gathered; and as I stepped to the pavement a
woman called out in a shrill voice, "Ain't that Carlotta Valencia?"
Father seized me, and almost lifted me up the steps and into the high,
coldly lit hall.

To-day, however, it was not empty. A continuous stream of men, some of
them escorting ladies, were hurrying in the front door, and across the
echoing flags, and up the stairs. Following them, we were upon the
first balcony and in front of the door which was kept a-swing by the
people going in. Father stopped and said something to a policeman who
seemed to be on guard in the hall. He pointed at a door next to the
one which was so constantly opening and shutting.

"This way," father said, and I found myself, much to my surprise, not
in a crowded court room, but in a small box of a place, hardly large
enough to hold the six chairs that furnished it, and with only one
other person in it besides ourselves. "This is the witness room,"
father explained. "We await our summons here."

I took one of the six chairs. The room was a dreary little place, with
a high, dingy ceiling, one small window, placed far up the wall, and a
small air-tight stove with no fire in it. I looked at the one other
occupant with a greater interest, now that I knew that he must be a
witness. He was a dark, slick, Mexican-looking man, who dangled his
hat nervously from his fingers, and kept glancing at the door.
Presently it opened, a policeman put his head in And said, "Witness
Manuel Gora." The Mexican jumped and shuffled hastily out. Father
took the _Alta California_ from his coat pocket, and I sat trying to
make out the pattern in the old carpet at my feet.

I had distinguished a dead-looking rose and some faded out sunflowers
when I heard the click of the door, and a waft of perfume touched the
stale air, and made it like a garden. I looked up. There she stood in
the doorway, the Spanish Woman.

She was all in black,