At that moment a police witness was released from the stand and O'Brien stepped to the bench and whispered something to the judge, who glanced at the clock and nodded. It was twenty minutes of four, and the jury were already getting restless, for the trial had developed into a humdrum, cut-and-dried affair. Miss Beekman sitting far back in the rear of the court room suddenly heard O'Brien call her name, and a quiver of apprehension passed through her body. She had never testified in any legal proceeding, and the idea of getting up before such a crowd of people and answering questions filled her with dismay. It was so public! Still, if it was going to help O'Connell-- "Althea Beekman," bellowed Cap. Phelan, "to the witness chair!" Althea Beekman! The gentle lady felt as if she had been rudely stripped of all her protective clothing. Althea! Did not the law do her the courtesy of calling her even "Miss"? Nerving herself to the performance of her duty she falteringly made her way between the crowded benches, past the reporters' table, and round back of the jury box. The judge, apparently a pleasant-faced, rather elderly man, bowed gravely to her, indicated where she should sit and administered the oath to her himself, subtly dwelling upon the phrase "the whole truth," and raising his eyes heavenward as he solemnly pronounced the words "so help you God!" "I do!" declared Miss Beekman primly but decidedly. Behind her upon the court-room wall towered in its flowing draperies the majestic figure of the Goddess of the Law, blindfolded and holding aloft the scales of justice. Beside her sat in the silken robes of his sacred office a judge who cleverly administered that law to advance his own interests and those of his political associates. In front of her, treacherously smiling, stood the cynical, bullet-headed O'Brien. At a great distance Mr. Tutt leaned on his elbows at a table beside Shane O'Connell. To them she directed her gaze and faintly smiled. "Miss Beekman," began O'Brien as courteously as he knew how, "you reside, do you not, at Number 1000 Fifth Avenue, in this city and county?" "I do," she answered with resolution. "Your family have always lived in New York, have they not?" "Since 1630," she replied deprecatingly and with more confidence. "You are prominent in various philanthropic, religious and civic activities?" "Not prominent; interested," she corrected him. "And you make a practise of visiting prisoners in the Tombs?" She hesitated. What could this be leading to? "Occasionally," she admitted. "Do you know this defendant, Shane O'Connell?" "Yes." "Did you see him on the twenty-third day of last month?" "I think so--if that was the day." "What day do you refer to?" "The day I had the talk with him." "Oh, you had a talk with him?" "Yes." "Where did you have that talk with him?" "In the counsel room of the Tombs." O'Brien paused. Even his miserable soul revolted at what he was about to do.