An instant's silence followed Sylvester's words, and then a little murmur of interest and excitement, as the reporters bent closer above their work. I heard a quick, deep intaking of the breath from the man who sat beside me, and then I was on my feet.
"Your Honour," I said to Goldberger, "it seems that an effort is to be made to incriminate Mr. Swain in this affair, and he should therefore be represented by counsel. I myself intend to represent him, and I ask for an hour's adjournment in order to consult with my client."
Goldberger glanced at his watch.
"I intended to adjourn for lunch," he said, "as soon as I had finished with Mr. Sylvester. We will adjourn now, if you wish—until one-thirty," he added.
The battery of cameras was clicking at Swain, and two or three artists were making sketches of his head; there was a great bustle as the reporters gathered up their papers and hurried to their cars to search for the nearest telephone; the jury walked heavily away in charge of an officer to get their lunch at some near-by road-house; Sylvester was gathering up his prints and photographs and putting them carefully in his pocket; Simmonds was replacing the blood-stained clothing in the suit-case, to be held as evidence for the trial; but Swain sat there, with arms folded, staring straight before him, apparently unconscious of all this.
Goldberger looked at him closely, as he came down to speak to me, but Swain did not glance up.
"I can parole him in your custody, I suppose, Mr. Lester?" the coroner asked.
"Yes; certainly," I assented.
"Sylvester's evidence makes it look bad for him."
"Will you introduce me to Sylvester? I should like to go over the prints with him."