"Now we'll go up to court," said the bondsman, and he led the way.
Mary had never been in a court before, much less a night court, which is peculiar to itself in atmosphere and characters. She slipped into a place on a rear bench, anxious now to lose something of that stature she had attained during her interview in the corridor. The bondsman and Pete went forward and stepped inside a railing.
Mary waited and watched. The judge who sat behind a high desk was yawning. Two persons whom she took to be clerks were fumbling over papers. There were several policemen in uniform. On the benches about her were numerous and, for the most part, unpleasant persons.
Two women were led through a side door, evidently to be "arranged," as the bondsman said. They seemed at ease. A policeman said something, the judge said something, the clerks did something, and they passed on, still in custody. Then came a man, who followed the same routine; then another woman.
And then out of the side door, which was constantly guarded by a policeman, came several men—and among them Bill Marshall, towering almost proudly, it seemed to Mary. She listened breathlessly, but could not hear a word; everybody was talking in low tones. All she knew was that Bill was standing in front of the judge, and evidently unashamed. Pete and the bondsman were there, too, and presently the group moved over to the clerk's desk.
This, it seemed to Mary, was a critical instant. She knew that they must be examining the bond; she felt as though she, too, ought to be standing there with Bill Marshall, a defendant at the bar. A sense of guilt was overwhelming her; if anybody had touched her on the shoulder she would have screamed. And then it was over, in a most perfunctory and undramatic manner. "Henry Smith" was not returning to the place beyond the side door, but was passing through the swinging gate that led to the space reserved for benches. His valet was at his heels. The bondsman showed no further interest in them. He stayed inside the rail, where he chatted with a policeman.
Up the center aisle came Bill, swinging along jauntily. As he neared the bench on which she sat, Mary became aware that a young man who had been occupying a place beside her was as much interested in Bill as herself. This person suddenly sprang into the aisle, gripped Bill's hand and then linked arms with him. Together they passed out of the court-room.
Mary, too, had risen, and now the valet was beckoning to her. She followed him out beyond the swinging doors. There in the corridor she observed Bill Marshall in one of his intimate and happy moments. He was laughing with a wholesome lack of restraint and was slapping on the shoulder one of the most ill-favored persons that Mary had ever seen. This was the young man who had joined Bill in the moment of his triumphal exit.
He was not over five feet six, but he was somewhat broader in the shoulders than most youths of that stature. His clothes seemed too tight for him, although they were not a misfit, but rather, the product of a tailor who must have received his inspiration from a brass band. His skin was swarthy; his dark eyes small and bright. His nose appeared to have undergone a flattening process, in addition to which, it displayed a marked tendency to point to the left. One of his ears Mary observed with particular attention; it had been twisted into a knotty lump and stood out from his head in an aggressive effort at self-advertisement. It was not within Mary's province to know that this was a singularly perfect specimen of cauliflower, or "tin," ear.
"Oh, it's all right now, Bill," the young man was saying, "only if you'd 'a' took my tip an' follored me you wouldn't 'a' been pinched at all. Gee! I had an easy getaway."