The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.”
The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted between Veronika and myself.
“When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney.
“In its usual condition.”
“That is to say, locked?”
“Precisely.”
“It had not been broken open or tampered with?”
“Not so far as I could see.”
“That’s all.”
On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover.