Once back in the court he found it still empty. In the corridors reporters and idlers lounged, speculating on the verdict, prophesying that the deliberations of the jury would be brief. But time limped. An hour passed, two hours, three. Enervated and empty Orr went down and out to a little restaurant across the street. Presently it was reported that the jury were coming in. Orr hurried back, but however he hurried, he was late. The court had refilled. As he entered he heard someone say:
"Not guilty."
Abruptly the room hummed like a wasps' nest. There were raps for order, commands for silence, threatened punishments for contempt.
The hubbub subsided, the Recorder thanked and dismissed the jury. He turned to Peacock. "Are there any further charges against the prisoner?"
"There are none, Your Honor."
The Recorder nodded at Annandale. "You are discharged."
Orr tried to get at him. But at that moment the crowd interfered. In making a circuit to reach Annandale, he found himself among the departing jury. They had all left the box, all save the twelfth, who apparently had stumbled.
About them reporters circled. The foreman was relating that they had been practically unanimous for conviction, but that one of them, the twelfth, had insisted so obstinately on the poverty of the evidence that with him finally they had voted to acquit.
"But where is he?" the foreman interrupted himself to ask. "Where is the twelfth juror? Where is Durand?"
Then only was it seen that he was still in the box, crouching there, his face ashen where it was not violet, a hand held to his side.