On the day of the trial, however, she fell wholly under that influence which had swayed judge, jury, and public. To her the verdict of the jury was not in favour of the prisoner at the bar—she did not think of him. It was in favour of Charley Steele.
And so, indifferent as to who heard, over the heads of the people in front of her, to the accused’s counsel inside the railings, she had called, softly: “Charley! Charley!”
Now, in the house under the hill, they were face to face, and the end was at hand: the end of something and the beginning of something.
There was a few moments of casual conversation, in which Billy talked as much as anybody, and then Kathleen said:
“What do you suppose was the man’s motive for committing the murder?”
Charley looked at Kathleen steadily, curiously, through his monocle. It was a singular compliment she paid him. Her remark took no heed of the verdict of the jury. He turned inquiringly towards the judge, who, though slightly shocked by the question, recovered himself quickly.
“What do you think it was, sir?” Charley asked quietly.
“A woman—and revenge, perhaps,” answered the judge, with a matter-of-course air.
A few moments afterwards the judge was carried off by Kathleen’s uncle to see some rare old books; Billy, his work being done, vanished; and Kathleen and Charley were left alone.
“You did not answer me in the court-room,” Kathleen said. “I called to you.”