The Light that Lies

by George Barr McCutcheon

They were all married men and they couldn't forgive anybody for being late. They were always being implored, either pathetically or peevishly, to stop complaining.

Sampson had cause for worry. He had been slow in arriving at the truth, but that afternoon his conviction was established. Miss Hildebrand was depending on him to swing that jury!

She was counting on his intelligence, his decision, his insight, his power to see beyond the supposed facts in the case as presented by the witnesses for the State. He was sure of it. There was nothing in the cool, frank scrutiny that she gave him from time to time that could be described by the most critical of minds as even suggestive of a purpose to influence him, and yet he was sure that she depended on his good sense for a solution of all that was going on.

What disturbed him most was this: there was no distinction between the look she gave him when the State scored a point and when the condition was reversed. The same confident, reasoning expression was in her lovely eyes, as much as to say: “You must see through all this, No. 3—of course you must, or you couldn't look me in the eye as you do.”

It was as clear as day to him: she was certain that her grandfather was incapable of doing the thing he was charged with doing, and she could not see how a man of his (Sampson's) perception could possibly think otherwise.

The revelation caused him to forget all about his dinner engagement. Also it caused him to pass an absolutely sleepless night. When he closed his eyes she still looked into them—always the same clear, understanding, undoubting gaze that he had come to know so well. When he lay with them wide open, staring into the darkness, the vision took more definite shape, so he closed them tightly again.

Turple noticed his haggardness the next morning and was solicitous. Now, Turple, at his best, was not entitled to a stare of any description. But Sampson's rapt gaze was so prolonged and so singularly detached from the object upon which it rested—Turple's countenance—that the poor fellow was alarmed. He had never seen his master look just like that before. Later on, Sampson told him to go to the devil. Turple was relieved.

The accountants, the detectives and two bookkeepers who formerly had worked under Mr. Hildebrand testified and then the State rested. Through it all the prisoner sat unmoved. Sampson wondered what was going on in the mind of that gaunt, fine-faced old man. What would be his answer to the damning evidence that stood arrayed against him? What could be his defence!

He was sorry for him. He would have given a great deal to be able to rise now from his seat in the jury box and announce candidly that he did not feel that he could bring in a verdict against the old man, reminding the Court and the district attorney that he had said in the beginning that he could not answer for his sympathies.

During the noon recess he took account of his fellow jurors. They were a glum, serious looking set of men. He knew where their sympathies lay and, like himself, they were depressed. The justice—even he—had lost much of the geniality that at the outset had warmed the atmosphere. He no longer smiled; no more did he exploit his wit, and as for his brisk moustache, it drooped.