LITMIR.BIZ

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      "THE prosecution rests"—the district attorney sat down, and, his hand rumpling in habit through his grey hair, looked over at John Randall, a stern, though not altogether unsympathetic smile upon his lips.

      There was a sudden stir in the little courtroom—and a tremulous, sibilant sound, the involuntary intake of many breaths, seemed to waver, tense, full of suspense, over the packed and crowded benches.

      It was already afternoon. One by one the witnesses had testified as Lee had called them, and now the State's case was at an end. One by one as Lee had finished with his witnesses, he had glanced toward Randall and nodded, signifying that they were at the disposal of the defence for cross-examination, but each time Randall had merely shaken his head.

      It had not lasted long. Lee's examination of his witnesses—most of the forenoon had been taken up with the impanelling of a jury and the court formalities. The coroner had testified that Doctor Merton had come to his death from the blow of a heavy instrument over the left side of his head; the fender bar had been put in evidence; Marston had testified to Varge's confession; Robson had given his evidence; Harold Merton had followed; and after him, corroborating one point in his story, the disappearance of Varge from the house, had come Mrs. MacLaughlin—and that had been all.

      ​Once only had there been any demonstration—and that no more than a low rustle, the rubbing of clothes on chairs, the faint shuffle of feet, as Harold Merton had taken the stand. But this, Merton, for the first moment or so, had appeared to sense, for his face had seemed to pale a little as his restless black eyes had shot glances around the room, and his first words had come hoarse and jerky, stumbling. After that, he had made an excellent witness, creating an impression of credibleness, speaking quietly without haste or hesitation, facing the prisoner, his eyes holding steadily on Varge's face.

      And through it all, Varge had sat with scarcely a movement, his head slightly bowed, beside Handerlie, the deputy sheriff; his eyes, except during Harold Merton's testimony, when from between clasped hands they had held the other magnetically, dividing their attention for the most part between John Randall and a large oblong parcel that lay on the table before the young attorney.

      There had been something of quiet confidence in the way Randall had allowed each witness to step down unchallenged, implying something in reserve, a masked battery, to which all this was but extraneous and futile, that had troubled Varge more and more as the trial had progressed. "Thank God, I can save you," had been Randall's last words to him that morning. What had Randall discovered—what was in that unwieldy parcel on the attorney's table? Randall could not have got at the truth—he had let Harold Merton go from the stand unquestioned. What then? What was this thing that kept Randall sitting there so sure a master of himself?

      ​Nor had the young attorney's actions been significant only to Varge. From Joe Malloch, the blacksmith, who sat amongst those on the front bench, his doubled fists crowded between his knees, his honest, bearded face out-thrown a little from bended shoulders, to the twelve men in the jury box, each in attitudes of strained attention, to the set sea of faces behind Malloch, to Lee, the district attorney, whose glance more than once rested with speculative curiosity on the package before Randall, to Judge Crosswaite on the bench, silver-haired, his kindly face grave and serious, all seemed subtly conscious of some startling thing impending, that gradually had charged the courtroom with suspense until now that the crucial moment had arrived the very air seemed electrified with expectation.

      John Randall rose with slow deliberation from his chair.

      "Varge to the stand!"

      A murmur, instantly hushed, swept through the room.

      Varge stood up, and, for the first time since the trial had begun, the eyes of the two men met—in Randall's there was a light that seemed to mingle determination and assurance with a lurking sense of ironic command; in Varge's eyes there was only grave scrutiny.

      As Varge, led by Handerlie, stepped into the witness box, and, with hand upraised, took the oath, every eye in the room was upon him. Motionless as he stood, he seemed like some splendid statue, the masterpiece of a famous sculptor, in which grace, strength and rugged beauty were wrought and blended with a master's skill—the hair, as it fell over the clear, white, broad brow, might have been put there by Michael Angelo himself; ​and the expression on his face, half sombre, half patient resignation, in perfect consonance with the rôle he played, might, too, have been the work of no less cunning fingers.

      Varge's hand dropped and rested on the rail. His eyes swept the courtroom with a single rapid glance—and held an instant upon the round, red, blatant face of Mart Robson, that somehow seemed to stand out and force itself upon his vision. Flashing, quick, curiously inconsequent it seemed, his mind went back to the day when, boys of ten, he had fought and licked the other for shoving Hettie Elmslie into a mud puddle; he remembered that very well, and he remembered Mrs. Merton's dismay and anxiety at his own puffed cheek, her gentle reproof tempered with a large slice of apple-sauce cake—no, it wasn't so curiously inconsequent after all—it was Mrs. Merton's face he saw now, steeling him against he knew not what was to come, as he fixed his eyes on John Randall again.

      "Varge," began Randall, in a brisk, pleasant voice, "you have stated that at one o'clock in the morning, believing all of the household in bed, you stole downstairs to the library for the purpose of stealing Doctor Merton's cash-box?"

      "Yes," Varge answered quietly.

      "You did this deliberately, with premeditation?"

      "Yes."

      "You knew that the cash-box was kept in the wall cupboard?"

      "Yes."

      "Was this cupboard usually locked or unlocked?"

      "Locked," replied Varge—and a load seemed ​suddenly swept from his mind; he knew now what Randall's "proof" was—it was to come out after all, to come out almost ironically. "Doctor Merton always carried the key with him."

      "You expected, then, to find it locked?"

      "Yes."

      "And that night when you went to it, was it locked or unlocked?"

      "Locked."

      "How did you open it?"

      "I pried it open with the fender bar."

      "This one here, that has been put in evidence?"—Randall pointed to where the bar lay on the table.

      "Yes."

      "Where did you find the bar when you went into the room?"

      "In its usual place—before the fireplace."

      "Was it bent then, or straight?"

      "It was straight."

      Randall's voice rose suddenly, caustically.

      "If you deliberately, premeditatively started out to burglarise a receptacle that you knew, or, amounting to the same thing, expected would be locked, doesn't it seem a rather strange thing that you went unprepared with any tool or implement with which to open it?"

      A low sound, indescribable, more like a deep, prolonged sigh than anything else, swept through the courtroom. The jury, as one man, leaned forward more intently.

      "I knew the fender bar was there—I intended to use that," answered Varge.

      "Ah, I see!" said Randall smoothly. "You stole ​across the room, and at once picked up the fender bar from the fireplace?"

      "Yes."

      "The bar, you have said, was straight when you found it?"

      "Yes."

      "Where did you go then?"

      "I went to the cupboard in the wall where the cash-box was kept."

      "Let us be exact on this point,"

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