The jury was absolutely non-committal. Whether it was surly, sleepy or speechless no one could say.
“Wan’ ’o see you alone,” it muttered to Phœbe; and nothing else would it admit.
“The jury can’t come to a unanimous verdict,” the Court announced; “so if the prisoners will kindly run out and play, we’ll reason with the obstinate members.”
“What’s the trouble, boy?” she asked when they were alone.
In semi-incoherent language he poured forth his feelings about the two men whose cleverness with words had been hoodwinking everybody. With her mind alert to sift out all the evidence he could produce, she presented a laughing mocking face. But she could not joke him out of his convictions.
The “card,” which he always carried about with him, was produced and partially explained. Richard’s latest version, for some occult reason of his own, Walter did not tell.
“Glory be!” ejaculated Phœbe as she read the name. “The villain! Why, this man is dead; I read about it in the papers several years ago; he went down with his whole family in a shipwreck. What do you think it means, boy?”
“Dunno.”
“Well,” she assumed a cheerful tone, “perhaps it is only a lark. They are a great pair of boys. They would not stop at anything.” The memory of their skylarking came back to brighten her face. “I haven’t had such a good laugh since—since Seth got into the paint house.”
She hummed about her little dining-room, putting away the tea-things, and considered the meaning of Mr. Richard’s assumption of the name of a dead man. Some years ago a sleek-looking chap with no obvious occupation had rented a house on Main Street, made the acquaintance of important citizens and had continued for months to be unnaturally Christian. Everyone in the village had made a guess as to the exact sort of swindle he would eventually introduce, so that when he finally began to talk rubber trees in Madagascar the laugh was so hearty and universal that he left without offering to let anybody in on the ground floor.