"Members of the jury, that woman in the dock, that adulteress, shot her husband. She shot him down in cold blood, of malice aforethought and after due deliberation. It is for you, as just citizens, to see that she does not escape the uttermost penalty of her guilt."
The harsh voice ceased.
Brunton, with one last glance at the woman in the dock, a glance commingled of fear and triumph--for now, once again, he saw her as Aliette, a ghost siding with the man who had betrayed him--sat down; and Henry Smith-Assher, rising, began to call the stereotyped, commonplace evidence entrusted to a junior counsel.
Ronnie hardly listened. The production of the revolver, the testimony of the constable who had made the arrest, the plan of the room--none of these mattered. Mattered only Brunton--Brunton whose eyes never left the jury--Brunton whose deadly oratory had closed every loophole of escape save one.
But just before the luncheon interval, when the sergeant who had taken down Lucy's statement kissed the book and began his tale in the usual toneless voice of the police, Cartwright--watching counsel for the defense--saw his hands busy with the pencil; and knew that--luncheon interval over--the real fight would begin.
4
Usually barristers at the Old Bailey lunch communally in the mess-room; sometimes in private, with the judge. But to-day no invitation came from his tactful lordship; and, since Brunton might be in the mess-room, Ronnie elected for the near-by "George."
Emerging disrobed from the court, Hugh Spillcroft on his one side and Cartwright on his other, he was again aware of the crowd. The little knot of idlers had increased. On the opposite side of the road, newspaper placards--black on red of the "Evening Standard," black on white of the "Evening News," black on green of the "Westminster Gazette," already flaunted their slogans: "Towers Case: Speech for the Crown." "Hanging Prosecutor Opens Towers Case." "Trial of Lucy Towers Begun."
The placards worried Ronnie; they seemed to accentuate the forlornness of his cause. All through their hasty meal, snatched at a corner-table of the crowded chop-house, he felt himself growing more and more nervous, less and less confident of success. Spillcroft's conversation and Cartwright's irritated him. Their interest was so coldly legal. They spoke of Lucy Towers, of himself and Brunton, as men who have betted well within their means speak of race-horses.
"H. B.'ll have you on toast if he proves adultery," decided Spillcroft.