'Not—ever?' said Robbins thickly.
His secret was at his tongue’s end. A glance of interrogation would have brought it spilling out. But there was no interrogation in his companion’s eyes—only an abstracted kindness. He looked away from the lad toward the stragglers along the corridor.
'You came up to hear the sentence? Come in through my office and we’ll find you a seat. The place will be packed.'
'There’s nothing new?' Robbins asked unwillingly. 'No—new evidence?'
'Why, no! The case will be closed in another half-hour. And then I hope it will be a long time before you have any thing to do with a criminal charge again. Now if you want to come in—'
Robbins followed, silent. It did not trouble him to find himself placed conspicuously in the front row. His whole attention was set upon holding fast to the one strand of hope extended to him. In half an hour it would be over. In half an hour the hideous thing would be folded into the past. But it would not! The case against Whiting would be ended, the arraignment of God would be but just begun! To go on living in a world so guardianed—
The judge entered and took his place; the lawyers on either side filed in to their stations about the long table; the prisoner was brought in, in the custody of a deputy sheriff. There was a little bustle of curiosity to herald his coming. Then the packed room settled to attention.
Robbins leaned forward in his seat. He heard vaguely the opening interchanges of speech. He saw the prisoner rise. The man was clay-colored; his teeth scraped back and forth continually on his dry lower lip. There was no resource in him, no help. And suddenly the watcher knew that help was nowhere. The voice of the judge reached him, low-pitched and solemn, as befitted the occasion.
'—Having been found guilty—decree that you be confined—'
'No!' said Robbins suddenly almost in a scream.