"The People rest," he exclaimed with dramatic suddenness, sitting down and inserting a thumb in his arm-hole, while after a defiant glance at the minister, he turned and scanned the spectators outside the rail for signs of approval of the skillful handling of their cause by him, their oath-bound servant.
But the eyes of the spectators were on the defendant, who now stepped to the platform and stood with upraised right hand before the clerk to be sworn. As he composed himself in the witness chair, his manner was cool and even meditative. The central figure in this tense, emotional drama, which had every significance for himself, he seemed scarcely more than aware of his surroundings.
"My name," he began deliberately, "is John Hampstead. I am thirty-one years old, and a minister of the gospel. I reside in the County of Alameda. I am the person named in this complaint. I was at Miss Dounay's supper party, although I did not stay to supper. I was probably in the exact position described by the maid, for I believe her to be truthful. However, I do not remember the incident, beyond the fact that the group gradually withdrew from this room, and I remained there in reflective mood for a short interval. I saw Miss Dounay's diamonds last that evening when she excused herself from the company to change her costume. I saw them next the morning after, upon the desk in my study."
The minister paused. The massed audience leaned forward, intent and breathless. Now his real defense was beginning. His manner, balanced and impersonal, was carrying conviction with it. The man was the defendant—the prisoner at the bar—yet he spoke deliberately, as if not himself but the truth were at issue.
"They were brought there," the witness was saying, "by a man who told me that he had stolen them. He appeared to be excited. Indeed, his condition was pitiable. I advised him to immediately return the diamonds to Miss Dounay, confess his crime to her, and throw himself upon her mercy; but there were circumstances which made it impossible for him to act immediately. That is all."
The minister turned from the Court, whom he had been addressing, and faced Searle, as if awaiting cross-examination. The audience had listened with painful interest to the minister's story. The manner of it had unquestionably carried conviction, but its very unbolstered simplicity had in it something of the shock which provokes doubt. This effect was heightened by its extreme brevity and a suggestion of reticence in the narrative.
"Have you concluded?" asked the Court, reflecting the general surprise.
"I have," replied the minister, with the same quiet voice in which he had given his testimony.
"Begin your cross-examination," instructed Judge Brennan.
"Who is the man who brought these diamonds to you?" asked Searle, hurling the question swiftly.