“They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our only hope lies in an alibi.” “What is that?” I inquired dully. He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell me what tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that have leaked out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at what hour did you leave Miss Pathzuol that night?” “At about midnight.” “And went directly home?” “Directly home.” “After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? any of your fellow-lodgers?” “I don’t remember.” “But you must make an effort to remember. Try.” “I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence irritated me. “You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were the life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, and that was the truth. Next day his face wore a somber expression. “This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and your fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know you are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.” At last the trial began. I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. I heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was the least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the result. Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of the trial is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story of it. The first day was used in securing a jury. The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.” The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted between Veronika and myself. “When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney. “In its usual condition.” “That is to say, locked?” “Precisely.” “It had not been broken open or tampered with?” “Not so far as I could see.” “That’s all.” On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover.