“I will swear that you were aboard my ship with me every hour of the night on which the crime of which you stand accused was committed. An absolute alibi alone can save you. May God forgive you! May God forgive me! and may the people of Massachusetts pardon Perjured Jack Dunlap.” Such was the letter sent by the sailor, by well paid and trusty hand, to the successful suitor for Lucy’s hand, now closely mewed within the prison walls of Boston’s strongest jail. Could any man’s love be greater than the love of him who sent that letter? XX The court room was crowded, not only by the casual visitors to such places, who are ever in search of satisfaction to their morbid curiosity, but also by the most fashionable of Boston’s elite society. The preliminary examination in the case of the Commonwealth vs. Walter Burton was on the docket for hearing that day. Nearly a month had elapsed since the arrest; all that an unlimited amount of money could accomplish had been done to ameliorate the terrible position of the prisoner. More than a million dollars was offered in bail for the accused, and it was hoped that by a preliminary examination such a strong probability of the establishment of an alibi could be presented, that the Court would make an order permitting the acceptance of bail for the appearance of the accused after the report of the Grand Jury. Neither old John Dunlap nor Burton’s wife was present. Jack had insisted that they must not be in the court-room when he was called upon to give his evidence. Lieutenant Thomas Maxon, bronzed, stalwart, and serious, sat beside his friend Jack Dunlap among the witnesses for the defense. With a face of ghastly white, Jack Dunlap, his arm still in a sling, stared straight before him, heedless of the stir and flutter around him while the audience was waiting the appearance of the judge and the accused. There was a look of desperate resolve and defiance on Burton’s face as he entered the court-room between two officers and took his seat at the counsel table behind the lawyers who appeared for the defense. The prosecuting attorney proceeded, when the case was called, to present the case for the Commonwealth with the coldness and emotionless precision that marks the movements of an expert surgeon as he digs and cuts among the vitals of a subject on the operating table. Chapman was much embarrassed and very nervous on the witness stand; his testimony was fairly dragged from his livid, unwilling lips; he interjected every doubt and possible suspicion that might weigh against his evidence and weaken the case of the Commonwealth. When he left the stand he staggered like one intoxicated as he walked back to his seat among the witnesses. When the case of the people was closed, the leading counsel for the defense, one most learned in the law, arose and, making a few well-chosen introductory remarks, turned to a bailiff and said,