Wilkinson watched the face of the Court as he had watched the faces of the jurymen.
"This is Gilchrist's chance to square himself, Morehead," he announced huskily. "He's got to give us a new trial, or we'll know the reason why."
But Judge Gilchrist merely swept the court-room with a weary glance.
"Motion denied," he said briefly, and with as much concern as if he brushed away a fly. He now turned to the jury. "Gentlemen," he went on gratefully, "you are discharged for the balance of the week—after this long, protracted trial—with the thanks of the Court, for the fairness, justice and impartiality of your verdict. Good-day, gentlemen."
"Wha—what!" gasped Wilkinson in a voice that could be heard all over the court-room. "Does he mean to say that this verdict is just—does he, Morehead?"
Colonel Morehead frowned with vexation.
"Keep quiet, Wilkinson," was all he said.
The Court waited until the jury had filed out, watching them as they went. Then his glance returned to the coterie of counsel at the table.
"Counsellor," he remarked to Beekman, "what day will be most convenient to you for sentence? And you, Mr. Leech?"
Up to this time Leslie, who had been sitting at the counsel table with her father, had listened in a sort of daze to the proceedings of the court. She had heard all the testimony, understanding it as best she could, and had gathered from her father's manner and that of his counsel, particularly Beekman's, that the whole thing was a mere matter of form, from which her father would come out unscathed and unscarred. The verdict had simply added to this vagueness; but when the Court had pronounced the significant and ugly word 'sentence,' it brought her up, as it were, all standing; and half-rising from her seat she held out her hand in an imploring gesture.