He stands erect, his head haughtily poised, his clear dark eyes fixed fully upon the judge.
"I am not guilty, your honor."
A murmur runs through the court room. The stranger bends to whisper to Constance. The trial proceeds.
Once again all the evidence brought forward at the inquest is repeated—sworn to—dilated upon. Once again it presses the scales down, down, down, and the chances for the prisoner hang light in the balance.
One thing puzzles the prosecuting attorney, and troubles the mind of Jasper Lamotte.
O'Meara, the shrewd, the fox like—O'Meara, who never lets pass a flaw or a loophole for criticism; who never loses a chance to pick and torture and puzzle a witness, is strangely indifferent.
One by one the witnesses for the prosecution pass before him; little by little they build a mountain of evidence against his client. He declines to examine them. He listens to their testimony with the air of a bored play-goer at a very poor farce.
After the testimony of the two masons, comes that of the party who last saw John Burrill in life. They testify as they did at the inquest—neither more, nor less.
Then come the dwellers in Mill avenue. They are all there but Brooks and Nance Burrill.
"Your honor," says the prosecuting attorney, "two of our witnesses—two very important ones—are absent. Why they are absent, we do not know. Where they may be found, is a profound mystery.