“Not guilty,” said the foreman.
Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did not speak.
“Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar not guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word.
I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my breast.
Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. “Come with me.”
He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant.
“This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “and much frequented by journalists. What will you have?”
“I am not hungry,” I answered.
“Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of ruefulness, “just a bite to celebrate our victory.”
I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, “Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh wind blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to gray. “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where will you go?”