f the M. & M., and withal the most able of the three who by virtue of
polite fiction represented the state of Washington. From time to time in
whispered conference with these worthy gentlemen was a tall, lean, grey,
furtive-eyed individual who was none other than the redoubtable
Californian detective, Malcolm McLaren.

At right angles to this array of prosecutors the counsel for the defense
were seated, where they remained until the positions were reversed at
the close of the prosecution's case. Chief counsel Fred H. Moore,
serious, yet with a winning smile occasionally chasing itself across his
face and adding many humorous wrinkles to the tired-looking crow-feet at
the corners of his eyes; next to him George F. Vanderveer, a strong
personality whose lightning flashes of wit and sarcasm, marshalled to
the aid of a merciless drive of questions, were augmented by a smile
second only to Moore's in its captivating quality; then E. C. Dailey,
invaluable because of his knowledge of local conditions in Everett and
personages connected with the case; and by his side, at times during
the trial, was H. Sigmund, special counsel for Harry Feinberg.

Seated a little back, but in the same group, was a man of medium height,
stocky built, slightly ruddy complexion, black hair, and twinkling blue
eyes. He was to all appearances the most composed man in the courtroom.
A slight smile crept over his face, at times almost broadened into a
laugh, and then died away. This was Thomas H. Tracy, on trial for murder
in the first degree.

To the rear of the defendant and forming a deep contrast to the
determined, square-jawed prisoner was the guard, a lean, hungry-looking
deputy with high cheek bones, unusually sharp and long nose and a pair
of moustachios that drooped down upon his chest, a wholly useless and
most uncomfortable functionary who could scarce seat himself because of
the heavy artillery scattered over his anatomy.

The court clerk, an absurdly dignified court bailiff, a special
stenographer, and Sheriff McCullogh of Snohomish county, occupied the
intervening space to the pulpit from which Judge J. T. Ronald delivered
his legal invocations.

The judge, a striking figure, over six feet in height and well
proportioned, of rather friendly countenance and bearing in street
dress, resembled nothing so much as a huge black owl when arrayed in his
sacred "Mother Hubbard" gown, with tortoise-shell rimmed smoked glasses
resting on his sl