The minutes go by fairly quickly for most of the people there, for almost everybody is talking to his or her neighbour. Also there is the excitement of watching the various parties connected with the case come slowly in.
The first of the witnesses to arrive are Dr. Maclean and his niece, and a stir runs through the Court as they come in. Every eye is fixed on Dr. Maclean’s slight companion. Jean Bower is quietly dressed in a black coat and skirt, and a simple little hat with a touch of blue in it. She looks absolutely self-possessed, though very pale.
Somehow the sight of her irritates some of the spectators; they had expected a tragic figure, wrapped, maybe, in long, concealing veils; they tell each other disappointedly that she looks a very ordinary young woman. True, she is curiously pale, but then perhaps she is naturally pale.
There come in various other witnesses of no particular interest, or at least not yet of any particular interest. Then, all at once there appear, walking side by side, a young and an old lady. Again a stir runs through the court.
“That’s Miss Prince,” some one says in a loud excited voice.
Miss Prince hears the words, and draws herself up somewhat haughtily. She is wearing a coat and skirt, and a plain, unbecoming round felt hat. The young lady with Miss Prince is dressed more in accordance with the popular idea of a female witness. She is heavily veiled—and looks indeed almost like a mourner at a funeral. The word is passed round that this is no other than Agatha Cheale.
She and Miss Prince walk past the other witnesses with averted eyes, and sit at the extreme end of the long bench.
Ten o’clock strikes, and now comes the moment when the judge, who embodies the majesty, the terror, the splendour of British justice, walks with slow, rhythmic steps to his place. He is a tall man, and shows off his red robes, deep ermine bands, and full-bottomed wig to great advantage. He sits himself down, gives one long stern glance round the crowded, now silent Court, and then he bends his head and busies himself with the notes and other documents laid on the high desk before him.
Now the legal lights concerned with the case begin to stream in. Sir Harold Anstey, bustling, smiling, his great frame well set off by his long black silk gown. His wig always looks just a little too small for his huge head, but still there is something very impressive about his strongly marked features and his keen eyes.
A great contrast, indeed almost a ludicrous contrast, is Sir Almeric Post, the leading counsel for the Crown. Sir Almeric is a thin man, and his wig looks too big for his head. He has a hatchet-shaped face, narrow, compressed lips, a straight nose, and two cold, thoughtful-looking gray eyes. Unlike Sir Harold, who is keenly aware of his audience, Sir Almeric does not even glance round the Court, but at once engages in an earnest discussion with one of his juniors.