The Light that Lies

by George Barr McCutcheon

The only person in the court-room, aside from the prisoner himself, who had not changed for the better over night, was Miss Alexandra Hildebrand. She could not have changed for the better if she had tried. When she took her seat beside her grandfather, she was attired as on the day before. Her cool, appraising eyes swept the jury box. More than one occupant of that despised pen felt conscious of his sartorial rehabilitation. A faint smile appeared at the corners of her adorable mouth. Even Sampson, the proud and elegant Sampson, wondered what there was for her to smile at.

Being utterly disinterested in the composition of the jury of which he was an integral part, Sampson paid not the slightest attention to the process of rounding out the even dozen. While counsel struggled over the selection of talesmen to fill the two vacant places, he devoted himself to the study of Miss Hildebrand. This study was necessarily of a surreptitious character, and was interrupted from time to time by the divergence of the young lady's attention from the men who were being examined to those already accepted. At such times, Sampson shifted his gaze quickly. In two instances he was not quite swift enough, and she caught him at it. He was very much annoyed with himself. Of course, she would put him in a class with the other members of the jury, and that was a distinction not to be coveted. They were very honest, reliable fellows, no doubt, but Heaven knows they were not well-bred. No well-bred man would stare at Miss Hildebrand as No. 4 was staring, and certainly No. 7 was the most unmannerly person he bad ever seen. The fellow sat with his mouth open half the time, his lips hanging limp in a fixed fatuous smile, bis gaze never wavering. Sampson took the trouble to dissect No. 7's visage—in some exasperation, it may be said. He found that he had a receding chin and prominent upper teeth. Just the sort of a fellow, thought Sampson, who was sure to consider himself attractive to women.

Miss Hildebrand was twenty-four or -five, he concluded. She was neither tall nor short, nor was she what one would describe as fashionably emaciated. Indeed, she was singularly without angles of any description. Her hair was brown and naturally wavy—at least, so said Sampson, poor simpleton—and it grew about her neck and temples in a most alluring manner. Her eyes were clear and dark and amazingly intelligent. Sampson repented at once of the word intelligent, but he couldn't think of a satisfactory synonym. Intelligent, he reflected, is a word applied only to the optics of dumb brutes—such as dogs, foxes, raccoons and the like—and to homely young women with brains. Understanding—that was the word he meant to use—she had understanding eyes, and they were shaded by very long and beautiful lashes.

Her chin was firm and delicate, her mouth—well, it was a mouth that would bear watching, it had so many imperilling charms.

Her nose? Sampson hadn't the faintest idea how to describe a nose. Noses, he maintained, are industrial or economic devices provided by nature for the sole purpose of harbouring colds, and are either lovely or horrid. There is no intermediate class in noses. You either have a nose that is fearfully noticeable or you have one that isn't. A noticeable nose is one that completely and adequately describes itself, sparing you the effort, while the other kind of a nose—such as Miss Hildebrand's—is one that you wouldn't see at all unless you made an especial business of it. That sort of a nose is simply a part of one's face. There are faces, on the other hand, as you know, that are merely a part of one's nose.

His rather hasty analysis of yesterday was supported by the more deliberate observations of to-day. She was a cool-headed, discerning young woman, and not offensively clever as so many of her sex prove to be when it is revealed to them that they possess the power to concentrate the attention of men. Her interest in the proceedings was keen and extremely one-sided. She was not at all interested in the men who failed to come up to her notion of what a juror ought to be. It was always she who put the final stamp of approval on the jurors selected. Two or three times she unmistakably overcame the contentions of her grandfather's counsel, and men got into the box who, without her support, would have been challenged—and rightly, too, thought Sampson. No. 7 for instance. He certainly was not an ideal juror for the defendant, thought Sampson. And the fat little bachelor—why, he actually had admitted under oath that he knew the district attorney and a number of his assistants, and was a graduate of Yale. But Miss Hildebrand picked him as a satisfactory juror.

Sampson's reflections—or perhaps his ruminations—were brought to an end by the completion of the jury. The last man accepted was a callow young chap with eye-glasses, who confessed to being an automobile salesman.

They were sworn immediately and then the senior counsel for the State arose and announced that he had no desire to keep the jury confined during the course of the trial; the State was satisfied to allow the members to go to their own homes over night if the defence had no objections. Promptly the attorneys for the defendant, evidently scenting something unusual, put their heads together and whispered. A moment later one of them got up and said that the defence would take the unusual course of asking that the jury be put in charge of bailiffs. He did not get very far in his remarks, however. Miss Hildebrand's eyes had swept the jury box from end to end. She observed the look of dismay that leaped into the faces of the entire dozen. Sampson had a queer notion that she looked at him longer than at the others, and that her gaze was rather penetrating. An instant later she was whispering in the ear of the second lawyer, and—well, they were all in conference again. After a period of uncertainty for the victims, the first lawyer, smiling benignly now, withdrew his motion to confine the jury, and graciously signified that the defence was ready to proceed.

The first witness for the State was a Mr. Stevens. Sampson was sure from the beginning that he wasn't going to like Mr. Stevens. He was a prim, rather precious gentleman of forty-five, with a fond look in his eye and a way of putting the tips of his four fingers and two thumbs together that greatly enhanced the value of the aforesaid look. In addition to these mild charms of person, he had what Sampson always described as a “prissy” manner of speaking. No. 4 made a friend of Sampson by whispering—against the rules, and behind his hand, of course—that he'd like to “slap the witness on the wrist.” Sampson whispered back that he'd probably break his watch if he did.

Anyhow, Mr. Stevens was recognised at once as the principal witness for the State. He was the head of the company that had suffered by the alleged peculations of Mr. Hildebrand. Ably assisted by the district attorney, the witness revealed the whole history of the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company.