“I noticed how cold his hands looked when he paid me, and wondered that a well-dressed young gentleman didn’t have his gloves on on such a raw day.”
Neither old Giulia nor any of the witnesses who were questioned concerning the time he arrived at the church, and his appearance when he did arrive, could give any definite information on this matter, while he himself admitted that he had gloves in his pocket, and very probably put them on while he was on his way to the church, though he had no recollection of doing so; but asserted that they were the same gloves—a pair of grey antelope—that he had worn on his journey back to Town when he was under arrest, and that were now among the “exhibits” in court. Those gloves were soiled, but with ordinary wear, and a microscopic examination proved that there were no incriminating stains on them, and that they had never undergone any process of cleaning.
That circumstance—so small in itself, but of such tremendous importance when a man’s life depended on it—was duly emphasized by Cummings-Browne in the course of his three hours’ speech for the defence—a speech afterwards acknowledged to be the most brilliant, the most impassioned, the most moving that even he had ever delivered; one that held his auditors enthralled.
There was dead silence for a few seconds after he sat down, then a wave of emotion swept over the crowded court, and a spontaneous murmur of applause, instantly and sternly suppressed by the ushers.
Austin Starr, sitting close to Grace, drew a deep breath of relief and flashed a smile at Roger. He believed, as many others did at that moment, that Cummings-Browne had triumphed once more—that Roger was saved.
Then, grim and relentless as Fate, counsel for the Crown rose to reply. Bit by bit, calmly, remorselessly he demolished that eloquent defence, exposed the slight foundation on which it was based compared with the mass of evidence that supported the case for the prosecution; dwelt on the atrocious nature of the crime—“a crime far worse than ordinary homicide, for which there was often the excuse that it was committed in the heat of passion; but this was assassination—the cool, deliberate assassination of a helpless, defenceless woman!”
After that cold, calm, implacable denunciation came the judge’s summing-up—grave, reasoned, meticulously impartial. Then the jury retired.
One hour, two hours dragged by, each seeming long as a lifetime. Would they never return? At last at the little movement that heralded the final scene, counsel and solicitors, Grace Carling and her friends came in and resumed their places, the judge took his seat once more, the prisoner reappeared in the dock. Roger stood with shoulders squared, head erect, lips firmly set, pale indeed, but apparently as self-possessed as was the judge himself.
The jury filed in.
“Guilty!”