" ... confined for ten years in State's Prison at hard labour," concluded the Court.
The people looked at one another aghast; but Murgatroyd smiled a smile of complete satisfaction. As for Leslie, she turned a startled, half-reproachful glance at the Assistant District Attorney, and then her face went white and her head sank slowly down upon her arm that lay upon the table. Unconsciously Beekman rested his hand lightly upon her shoulder, and although the court-room seemed whirling about his head, he presently found himself counting the heart throbs that shook her frame. At the table Wilkinson's counsel exchanged glances, only Morehead and Durand apparently retaining their self-possession, and proceeded to gather their papers together, and scoop them into capacious leather bags, shutting the bags loudly with a snap.
Wilkinson's face was scarlet, his eyes flashing fire. From the instant of the rendition of the jury's verdict he had been a spluttering volcano of righteous indignation; but now, as he glared at the Court, he was searching in his mind for some torture, some vengeance fitting for a judge who dared....
"Do you mean to tell me, Gilchrist," he shouted so that all might hear, and advancing toward him, "that you've got the nerve to——"
The Court rapped for order.
"Clear the court-room!" he ordered; and turning to Beekman he added: "Counsellor, your client is beside himself. Take charge of him, or I'll have somebody do it for you."
Morehead and Flomerfelt pulled Wilkinson down into his seat and held him there while a court officer stood over him threateningly. For a brief instant, only, Gilchrist let his cold, judicial gaze meet the hot belligerence of Peter V. Wilkinson; then he rose, gathered his robes about him, and passed on to his private chambers.
Immediately four New York newspaper men boldly took possession of the bench and got three flashlights of Wilkinson struggling in the grasp of his attorneys. It took less than three-quarters of an hour to clear the court-room, but within that time New York was reading the headlines: "Ten years at hard labour in State's Prison for Peter V. Wilkinson, the multi-millionaire." As a piece of news it was unquestionably quite worth while; and in an incredibly short space of time London and Paris had it; that night Constantinople had it; the world had it and gloated over it.
"What are they going to do to you, father?" cried Leslie, when two uniformed officers laid hands upon Wilkinson.
"That's what I'd like to know," he answered in alarm.