They came slowly forward—Evan Lamotte, supported on either side by his mother and the soi-disant Mr. Wedron, of the New York Bar.
They come slowly forward.
They pass so close that the lady's trailing silks brush against the feet of Jasper Lamotte, but she never vouchsafes a glance to husband or son, and Evan's eyes are set straight before him, fixed on vacancy—unseeing orbs of fire, set in a spectral face.
Presently, they are seated near the group gathered about the prisoner, and then Mr. Wedron confers with Mr. O'Meara.
As they talk, the little lawyer's face becomes grave, even to sadness, and when he rises to address the Court, his tone is subdued, his manner that of one performing a painful task.
"May it please the Court," he says, slowly, "the witnesses for whom I waited have come. As one of them is just recovering from a serious illness, Mr. Bathurst has thought it best that a reliable physician should certify to his perfect ability to testify at this time. Let Doctor Benoit be sworn."