They were in the prisoner’s cell at the jail, and Caleb got up and went to the little barred window which overlooked the dreary courtyard where the prisoners were exercising. After a moment, when he seemed to mechanically count the blades of grass between the flagstones, he turned. The judge was watching him, his hat on like a snuffer, as usual, and his hands in pockets.
“Judge Hollis,� said Caleb quietly, “if I told you where I was, another witness would have to be called, and neither you nor I would wish to call that witness.�
The judge looked at him steadily; Caleb returned the look as steadily, and there was a heavy silence.
“By the Lord Harry!� said the judge at last, “I believe you’d let ’em hang you rather than give in a hair’s breadth.�
Then Caleb smiled his rare sweet smile.
The second long week of the trial wore to its close, and the web of circumstantial evidence was clinging fast about the prisoner. Witnesses had testified to his character and against it. The name of Jean Bartlett ran around the court, and some men testified to a belief that Caleb was the father of the child he had befriended. Judge Hollis did not attempt to have the testimony ruled out; he let it go in, sitting back with folded arms and a grim smile. He cross-examined Jacob Eaton twice, but made nothing of it. Jacob was an excellent witness, and he showed no passion, even when witnesses described the duel and his conduct to show his motive in attacking Trench.
Sunday night Judge Hollis received a telephone message from Colonel Royall, and, after his early supper, the judge ordered around his rockaway and drove over, with Lysander beside him to hold the reins. He found Mrs. Eaton in the drawing-room with Diana, and was coldly received by Jacob’s mother; she resented any attempt to line up forces against her son, and she regarded the defender of Caleb Trench as an enemy to society. The judge bowed before her grimly.
“I thought you were in the city, madam,� he remarked.
Mrs. Eaton threw up her hands. “With that mob loose, and the soldiers? My dear Judge! I wouldn’t stay for a million, and I’m a poor woman. Good gracious, think of it! It’s just as I’ve always said,—you go on letting in the shiploads of anarchists and we’ll all be murdered in our beds.�
“Madam,� said the judge grimly, “the only thing I ever let in is the cat. Sarah and the niggers look after the front door.�