The uproar stopped suddenly at its peak. Shadows dropped back and were gulped by deeper shadow. Feet made no sound in retreating. Solid bodies became fluid, sliding. Yawning doorways drew them in. Miraculously the court was converted into a vacant, walled square, in which stood six erect figures, looking a little theatrical and foolish with their revolvers and clubs, and a woman who shook menacing hands at nothing at all and swore huskily at phantoms.
“No trouble finding the cause of the disturbance,” said an authoritative voice. “Get her, men. Better use bracelets. Can’t tell about dope cases.”
The squad closed quickly. For a moment a grotesque shadow tumbled and shifted in the centre of the court; then a voice said, “Steady now.” The mass broke into individual figures, and, under the ebbing moonlight, moved toward the entrance with a manacled woman in their midst.
Porgy had opened his door at the first outcry and sat on the sill trying to get the import of the disturbance. Now, as the group passed close to him, he looked up. The woman had ceased her outcry, and was looking about with vague, unseeing eyes. As they walked past his doorway, so close that he could have touched the nearest officer with his hand, she looked down, and her gaze focussed upon the sitting figure. Her body stiffened, and her head lifted with the old, incongruous gesture of disdain.
“Bess!” called Porgy once very loudly; and again, in a voice that sagged, “Bess!”
One of the policemen paused and looked down upon the speaker. But the woman turned deliberately away, and he hastened to rejoin the party. Then the wagon clanged down the darkened street.
§
Under the gas light that supplemented a far, dusty window in the Recorder’s Court, stood Bess. She swayed, and her face twitched occasionally; but her glance was level, and her head erect.
Behind a high desk sat a man well past middle age. His florid complexion caused his long grey mustache to appear very white. His eyes were far apart and suggested a kindness that was born of indolence, rather than of wide compassion. His hands were slender and beautifully made, and he sat with elbows on desk, and finger-tips touching. When he spoke it was in a drawl that suggested weariness.
“What is the charge, Officer?” he asked.