But in the midst of it there came the ringing voice of the crier in the court-room adjoining, and the little party all filed into court again, old Mrs. Newcome bringing up the rear, with the basket on her arm, whence there emerged now and then a stifled wail, in spite of her whispered admonitions.
“We have closed our case,” said the prosecuting attorney. And the defence was begun.
“George Warren!” called Squire Barker, and George, paling slightly at the ordeal, but doing his best to keep up a stout heart, took the stand.
He told his story with a frankness that was convincing, keeping nothing back; and at the close Squire Barker asked: “And did you, or did you see anybody else set a fire that night?”
“Certainly not,” he answered. And there was no doubt that he had made a good impression.
But there were certain ugly facts that were made to stick out more embarrassingly on the prosecuting attorney’s cross-examination.
“You will admit,” he asked, “that you left on the second day following the fire, because you did not care to be questioned about it?”
“Yes, because we knew that our being in the hotel that night would look suspicious, if it were known,” answered George Warren.
“Then you were going to conceal that fact, if you could?”
“Yes—I think we were—for awhile, at least.”