“And I reckon I shall be tried for murder, if ever I get a good chance to let daylight through that foreign beat!” replied Wynnette, too mad to mend her phrases as she usually did.
“Don’t be distressed, Elva, dear! We are not going into court. This is a case to be heard in chambers,” Roland explained.
“Chambers!” echoed, in a breath, all the girls, whose only idea of chambers was bedrooms.
Before Roland could explain further, Mr. Force had come in with Odalite on his arm, and hurried the whole party up another flight of stairs and along another passage, until they reached a door at which a bailiff stood.
The latter opened the door, in silence.
The whole party entered a large and well-furnished room, where, on this cold and rainy second of April, a bright coal fire was burning in the grate. The floor was covered with a dark red carpet, the windows shaded with buff blinds, now drawn three-quarters up, because the day was dark, and the walls were lined with tall bookcases, filled with well-worn volumes, mostly bound in calf. Several library tables, loaded with folios and stationery, occupied the middle of the spacious apartment.
In a large leathern chair, at one of these tables, sat a venerable man, with white hair and a benign countenance, a judge of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia, whom, for convenience, we will call Judge Blank.
There was a grave young man standing near him, who might have been clerk or private secretary.
And seated in another armchair, at some little distance, was Col. Anglesea, looking as careless as if he were making a morning call.
He, too, seemed to be without counsel or witnesses.