"During the whole speech the District Attorney had sat in his chair, with his chin in his collar and his eyes closed, never moving. When his turn came he didn't rise; in fact, it was clear that he had been asleep. A laugh went round and the sheriff put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. He got up, looking confused, and while he blinked at the candles, some one in the audience called out, 'Never mind, old man. If you can't make a speech, recite a poem.' It was curious, but the remark seemed to give him a clue, and he began to recite Hood's Eugene Aram."
Craig paused a moment and sipped from his wine-glass. All at the table were leaning forward intently. Treadwell was frowning at his plate. No one spoke; only a fork, dropped from Nancy Langham's fingers, rattled against the cloth.
"It was a strange sight," went on Craig, "and one I have always remembered. You must picture the crowded court-room, the gloom, the flaring candles, and the whole uncanny episode, to realise the effect that was produced. The man was by nature a marvellous actor—he would have made his fortune on any stage. At first it seemed as if he didn't know quite where he was, but then the ballad itself gripped him and he rendered it, acting each line, as I never heard it before or since. I had never realised what was in that poem. Very few there, I suppose, had ever heard it in their lives, and they listened in a fascinated silence while he rolled it out to the last line.
"'Two hard-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the rain and heavy mist,
And Eugene Aram walked between
With gyves upon his wrist.'"
He paused again. "Oh, finish!" gasped Nancy Langham. "I don't like that story. What then?"
"When he ended he walked out of the court-room without waiting for the verdict."
Echo's head turned toward him. "They found him guilty!" exclaimed Mrs. Spottiswode.
"Yes."
"And you say the District Attorney was his best friend?" asked the artist.
"So I was told."