“Where’s the prosecutor?”
“Oh, well, Mr. Farr is liable to appear almost anywhere, like Mephistopheles in Faust or that baby that so obligingly came out of the everywhere into the here. He’s all for the unexpected— Ah, what did I tell you? There he is now, conferring with the judge and the defense counsel.”
The red-headed girl leaned forward eagerly. The slender individual, leaning with rather studied ease against the railing that hedged in the majesty of the law, suggested a curious cross between a promising light of Tammany Hall and the youngest and handsomest of the Spanish Inquisitioners. Black hair that deserved the qualification of raven, a pale regular face that missed distinction by a destructive quarter of an inch, narrow blue eyes back of which stirred some restless fire, long slim hands—what was there about him that wasn’t just right? Perhaps that dark coat fitted him just a shade too well, or that heavily brocaded tie in peacock blue— Well, at any rate, his slim elegance certainly made Lambert look like an awkward, cross, red-faced baby, for all his thatch of graying hair.
“Here they come!” Even the reporter’s level, mocking voice was a trifle tense.
The little door to the left of the judge opened and two people came in, as leisurely and tranquilly as though they were advancing toward easy chairs and a tea table before an open fire. A slight figure in a tan tweed suit, with a soft copper silk handkerchief at her throat and a little felt hat of the same colour pulled down over two wings of pale gold hair, level hazel eyes under level dark brows, and a beautiful mouth, steady-lipped, generous, sensitive—the most beautiful mouth, thought the red-headed girl, that she had ever seen. She crossed the short distance between the door and the chair beside which stood Mr. Lambert with a light, boyish swing. She looked rather like a boy—a gallant, proud little boy, striding forward to receive the victor’s laurels. Did murderesses walk like that?
Behind her came Stephen Bellamy, the crape band on his dark coat appallingly conspicuous; only a few inches taller than Sue Ives, with dark hair lightly silvered, and a charming, sensitive, olive-skinned face. As they seated themselves, he flashed the briefest of smiles at his companion—a grave, consoling smile, singularly sweet—then turned an attentive countenance to the judge. Did a murderer smile like that?
The red-headed girl sat staring at them blankly.
“Oh, Lord!” moaned the reporter at her side. “Why did that old jackass Lambert let her come in here in that rig? If he had the sense that God gives a dead duck he’d know that she ought to be wearing something black and frilly and pitiful instead of stamping around in brown leather Oxfords as though she were headed straight for the first tee instead of the electric chair.”
“Oh, don’t!” The red-headed girl’s voice was passionate in its protest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, what are they doing now? What’s that wheel?”
“That’s for choosing the jury; it looks as though they were going to start right now. Yes, they’re off; that’s the sheriff spinning the wheel. He calls the names——”