My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had already sworn to. “John Marshall!” called the prosecutor. It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like her, was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults. “That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the judge. “Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter. I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein joined me in my cell. “How about that key?” he demanded. “I know nothing about it.” “How about the blood on your handkerchief?” “I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.” “You are sure you did not reenter the house?” “Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.” “Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?” “They have.” “Will you take the stand?” “What for?” “Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.” “No.” “I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.” “What do I care for my life?” “But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’ “No,” I replied, stubbornly. He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. He went his way. “Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury be directed to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the prosecution has failed to show any motive on the part of my client for the crime of which he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly circumstantial, as in the present case, a failure to show motive is fatal.” “I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide the case on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My landlady took the witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. He called a handful more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I am ready to sum up, your honor.” “Do so,” replied the Court. Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for word; yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time.