Late spectators, shuffling into the courtroom, looking in vain for seats, were admonished by a stern bailiff that there was to be no standing room, that only seated spectators could remain. The low-pitched hum of buzzing conversation, the rustling of restless motion on the part of the spectators, combined to furnish a back-drop of sound, against which the whispered conversation of Perry Mason and Della Street blended so perfectly that only their postures showed they were holding an important conference.
“Gertrude Lade understands her part?” Mason asked.
Della Street nodded.
“Did she make any objection?” Mason asked.
“Not a bit,” Della Street said. “She seemed to like the excitement.”
Mason grinned. “Guess she hired out to the right party.”
“I’ll say she did,” Della Street said.
A side door opened, and a deputy sheriff escorted Alden Leeds into the courtroom.
The whispered conversation died to a dead silence, broken only by the breathing of the attentive audience, a breathing which was a sequence of overlapping sounds, without rhythm.
Judge Knox entered the courtroom from his chambers, and the bailiff rapped the court to order.