Ronnie was in court at ten o'clock the following morning. The place was filled, the narrow public gallery packed. The scarlet robed judge came in, preceded by the High Sheriff, and followed by his chaplain; a few seconds later came the sound of Ambrose Sault's feet on the stairway leading to the dock.
He walked to the end of the pen, rested his big hands on the ledge and bowed to the judge. And then his eyes roved round the court. They rested smilingly upon Sir John, bewigged and gowned, passed incuriously over the press table and stopped at Ronald Morelle. His face was inscrutable: his thoughts, whatever they were, found no expression. Ronald met his eyes and smiled. This man had come to him with murder in his heart: but for Ronnie's ready wit and readier lie, his name, too, would have appeared in the indictment. That was his thought as he returned the gaze. Here was his enemy trapped: beyond danger. His smile was a taunt and an exultation. Sault's face was not troubled, his serenity was undisturbed. Rather, it seemed to Sir John, who was watching him, that there was a strange benignity in his countenance, that humanized and transfigured him.
Trials always wearied Ronnie. They were so slow, so tedious: there were so many fiddling details, usually unimportant, to be related and analyzed. Why did they take the trouble? Sault was guilty by his own confession, and yet they were treating him as though he were innocent. What did it matter whether it was eight or nine o'clock when the policeman stopped the car in Woking and asked Sault to produce his license? Why bother with medical evidence as to the course the bullet took—Moropulos was dead, did it matter whether the bullet was nickel or lead?
From time to time sheer ennui drove him out of the court. He had no work to do—his description of Sault in the dock, his impression of the court scene, had been written before he left his hotel. The verdict was inevitable.
Yet still they droned on, these musty lawyers; still the old man on the bench interjected his questions.
Sir John, in his opening speech, had discounted his client's confession. Sault felt that he was morally guilty. It was for the jury to say whether he was guilty in law. A man in fear of his life had the right to defend himself, even if in his defense he destroyed the life of the attacker. The revolver was the property of Moropulos, was it not fair to suppose that Moropulos had carried the pistol for the purpose of intimidating Sault, that he had actually threatened him with the weapon? And the judge had taken this possibility into account and his questions were directed to discovering the character and habits of the dead man.
Steppe, had he been in the box, would have saved the prisoner's life. Ronnie Morelle knew enough to enlighten the judge. Steppe had not come, Ronnie would have been amused if it were suggested that he should speak.
The end of the trial came with startling suddenness.
Ronnie was out of court when the jury retired, and he hurried back as they returned.
The white-headed associate rose from behind his book-covered table and the jury answered to their names.