a
jail was not a safe place in Dakota, proved prophetic. A mob, composed
of cowboys and lumberjacks, bombarded the jail in which the Marquis
was confined. At the close of the bombardment, Roosevelt, who happened
to be in Mandan, on his way to the East, called on the Marquis.

In the Marquis's cell he found the Frenchman with his faithful valet
and secretary. The secretary was under the bed, but the Marquis was
sitting on its edge, calmly smoking a cigarette.

As the date for the trial drew near, feeling rose. The idle and
vociferous elements in the town discovered that the Marquis was a
plutocrat and an enemy of the people, and called thirstily for his
blood. There was a large Irish population, moreover, which remembered
that the slain man had borne the name of Riley and (two years after
his demise) hotly demanded vengeance. The Marquis declared that, with
popular sentiment as it was, he could not be given a fair trial, and
demanded a change of venue. It was granted. The mob, robbed of its
prey, howled in disappointment. A mass meeting was held and
resolutions were passed calling for the immediate removal of the
iniquitous judge who had granted the Marquis's petition.

The trial, which began on September 15th, was more nerve-racking for
the lawyers than for the defendant. For the witnesses were elusive.
The trial seemed to be regarded by the majority of those connected
with it as a gracious act of Providence for the redistribution of some
of the Marquis's wealth. Everybody, it seemed, was thrusting a finger
into the Marquis's purse. One of his friends later admitted that the
Frenchman's money had been freely used, "but, of course, only," he
blandly explained, "to persuade the witnesses to tell the truth."

McFay, a carpenter, who had distinguished himself at the previous
trial by the melodramatic quality of his testimony, proved the
peskiest witness of all. He was spending his days and his nights
during the trial gambling and living high. Whenever his money gave out
he called at the office of one of the Marquis's supporters to "borrow"
fifty dollars to continue his revelry, and the victim was too much
afraid of what fiction he might tell the jury to refuse him. It was
determined in solemn conclave, however, that McFay should be the first
witness called, and disposed of.

The lawyers breathed a sigh of relief when the time came to put the
shifty carpenter on the stand. But just as he was to be called, McFay
drew as