he court will protect you, and if I
seem to let it go on it will be because I see it's prejudicing the jury
in your favor."

Lydia's nostrils fluttered with a long indrawn breath.

"I don't think he will frighten me," she said.

But most of all, Wiley advised her as to her bearing. She must be
gentle, feminine, appealing, as if she would not voluntarily injure a
fly. No matter what happened, she mustn't set her jaw and tap her foot
and flash back contemptuous answers.

Lydia moved her head, looking exactly as Wiley did not want her to look.

"I cannot be appealing," she said.

"Then the district attorney will win his case," said Wiley.

There was a pause, and then Lydia said in her good-little-girl manner:

"I'll do my best."

Everybody knew that her best would be good.

The People were to close their case that morning. A witness as to
Lydia's speed just before the accident was on the stand. He testified
that, following her as fast as his car would go--he had no
speedometer--he had not been able to keep her in sight. His name was
Yakob Ussolof, and he had great difficulty with the English language.
His statements were, however, clear and damaging.

The jury was almost purely Anglo-Saxon, and as Wiley rose
to cross-examine the very effort he made to get the name
right--"Mr.--er--Mr.--U--Ussolof"--was an appeal to their Americanism.

"Mr. Ussolof, you have driven an automobile for some years?"

"Yare, yare," said Mr. Ussolof eagerly, "for ten years now."

"How long had you owned the car you were driving on March eleventh?"

"Since fall now."

"Ah, a new car. And what was its make?"

"Flivver."

The magic word worked its accustomed miracle. Everyone smiled, and
Wiley, seeing before him a jury of flivver owners, went on:

"And do you mean to tell me, Mr. Ussolof, that in the speediest car
built in America you could not keep a foreign-built car going at thirty
miles an hour in sight? Oh, Mr. Ussolof, you don't do us justice. We
build better cars than that!"

The jury smiled, the spectators laughed, the gavel fell for order, and
Mr. Wiley sat down. He had told Lydia that a jury, like an audience,
loves those who make them laugh, and he sat down with an air of success.
But Lydia, watching them more closely, was not so sure. As O'Bannon rose
she noted the extreme gravity of his manner, his look at the jury, which
seemed to say, "A man's life--a woman's liberty at stake, and you allow
a mountebank to mak