"Certainly not. Don't be an idiot. Sit down. But as the case stands we haven't a straw to cling to. We can't impeach the testimony of a dozen high-bred young women, every one of whom swears positively that she knows you well and that she saw you make your escape from the invaded precincts. There is no way in which we can so much as cast a doubt upon your guilt. With the case presented as it stands, any juror who should hesitate to pronounce you guilty would be a perjurer. The only hope is that we may find some way out before the case comes to trial."
"When will that be?" asked Boyd Westover, in a tone so stoically calm that Jack Towns looked at him to see what had happened to him.
"Are you ill?" he asked.
"No, not at all. It is only that I see the utter hopelessness of the case. I am a man condemned to worse than death. But I am a man and must face even such calamity without flinching. When the trial is over, I shall be a convicted felon. It will do no good to assert my innocence. Nobody will believe it—nobody can, in face of the testimony. My life is ruined, my reputation blasted, my doom sealed. But I shall neither whine nor whimper. Now tell me when the blow is to fall? When will the trial occur?"
"The court is in session now. The indictment will be found to-morrow, but I shall secure a postponement of the trial until the next term."
"Do nothing of the kind. Let the trial come on at once—the sooner the better. Delay will do no sort of good. I believe every accused person is entitled to 'a speedy trial.' Demand that for me, and secure it."
Towns argued and pleaded, but to no purpose. He could offer no suggestion of advantage in delay, except by saying:
"I have always found it worth while to trust to the unexpected. If we have time, something may happen that we don't anticipate."
"And I, in the meantime?" answered Boyd. "No. Bring the thing to a head at once. How soon can you make it?"
"Within forty-eight hours," answered the lawyer. "I advise against it, but—"