“Cæsar Smith!”
Mr. Smith advanced at a trot, his round, amiable countenance beamingly exposing three gold teeth to the pleased spectators.
“Robert Angostini.”
A dark and dapper individual with a silky black moustache slipped quietly by Mr. Smith.
“Number 5, take your place in the box. . . . George Hobart.”
An amiable-looking youth in a brown Norfolk jacket advanced briskly.
“Who’s that coming in now?” inquired the red-headed girl in a stealthy whisper.
“Where?”
“In the witnesses’ seats—over in the corner by the window. The tall man with the darling little old lady.”
The reporter turned his head, his boredom lit by a transient gleam of interest. “That? That’s Pat Ives and his mother. She’s been subpœnaed by the state as a witness—God knows what for.”