Pemmican smiled.
"They," he returned, not for an instant off his guard.
"If Prosecutor Murgatroyd only knew who they are," went on the detective, "if he knew who backed you up, there'd be some interesting goings on 'round here."
"He won't find out from me," replied Pemmican, doggedly. "I play a straight game with the men who hand out my bread and butter. You can lay your bets on that!"
"Sh-h-h-! The prosecutor's talkin' over there," whispered the detective, raising his hand, and he hustled the prisoner out of the room, as Murgatroyd, rising once more, bowed toward the bench and announced:—
"The State rests, if the Court please."
And then Thorne at his end of the table also rose to his feet and declared:—
"The defence rests."
Presently he began to address the Jury. During the trial his line of defence had been insanity—the defence of the defenceless, the forlorn hope of the hopeless. The Bench had frowned at it; the Jury had shaken its head as one man: insanity to juries in the metropolis had become as a red rag to a bull. But the crowd in the court-room had leaned forward with huge expectation,—waiting for the hidden places to be revealed with much the same anticipation and interest one experiences in waiting for the dénouement of a stage drama.
Before turning to the jury, however, for his last effort, Thorne stooped down for an instant and whispered to Mrs. Challoner:—