CHAPTER L.
THE BOMBARDMENT CONTINUES.
Nearly the same gathering was admitted to the courtroom on the second day as on the first. But, wedged in between Mrs. Arnold and the unknown woman in black, Emily had pointed out to her the famous novelist Ecks, who sat with his head inclined toward the still more famous playwright Wye. Wye was mooting volubly the chain of testimony which had been spun around the accused on the foregoing day, which seemed to possess for him all the circumscribed but inexhaustible interest of the chessboard or a dramatic intrigue. But Ecks was sketching in pencil the principal characters of the trial.
"We shall summon Mr. McCausland again," said the district attorney. "At present we surrender him to the counsel for the accused."
A keen glance shot from lawyer to witness, comparing the two great opponents. Shagarach's face was a mask, stern and impenetrable, but McCausland visibly braced himself for the encounter. Equal they might be in a sense, as Mount Everest is the peer of the Amazon, but as different in their spheres as the river and the mountain. In the detective's subtle eye the keen observer might have discovered a finesse and a suppleness not altogether remote from the corresponding traits in the cracksman whom he had impersonated. But Shagarach could no more have counterfeited Bill Dobbs than McCausland could have acted with success the role of Count L'Alienado.
"Would you hang a kitten on the evidence of a burned match, inspector?" asked the lawyer.
"If he were old enough to scratch it," answered the detective.
"Will you turn out the contents of your upper right vest pocket?"
McCausland's face became rosy with embarrassment, but he obeyed the request. A ripple of laughter went around when among the broken-up fractions of a card of lucifers there appeared one that was blackened at the end. The inspector allowed the merriment to die, then coolly remarked: