"What's that?" exclaimed Graham Thorne in affected astonishment.
"What?" came from Miriam Challoner shrilly; and the next moment all the colour had left her face; she was pale as death.
"Guilty, your Honour," repeated the foreman in a louder tone.
"Guilty of what?" queried the Court impatiently.
"Of murder in the first degree," answered the jury as one man.
"Gentlemen of the jury, your verdict is guilty of murder in the first degree, and so say all of you?" reeled off the clerk, looking at his minutes.
They nodded.
"You are discharged, gentlemen, with the thanks of the Court," announced the Court with approval. "Be here to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."
Meanwhile Challoner sat sullen, desperate, his chin resting on his hand, glaring into space. Around him was confusion, expostulation. The spectators were pressing forward toward the rail to get another look at the accused, while the jury was passing out. All of a sudden the sound of buzzing whispers died down and was followed in a moment by an intenser silence. There was a stir among those in the front seats, and the judge, looking up, was surprised to see that it was caused by the defendant's wife, who had moved from her place and was making her way to the prosecutor's desk, determination standing out on her countenance. Immediately all eyes were fixed on her, as she placed her hand upon Murgatroyd's arm, and looking him full in the face, exclaimed hysterically:—
"They found him guilty—guilty, do you understand? What have you got to say?"