Trials always wearied Ronnie. They were so slow, so tedious: there were so many fiddling details, usually unimportant, to be related and analyzed. Why did they take the trouble? Sault was guilty by his own confession, and yet they were treating him as though he were innocent. What did it matter whether it was eight or nine o'clock when the policeman stopped the car in Woking and asked Sault to produce his license? Why bother with medical evidence as to the course the bullet took--Moropulos was dead, did it matter whether the bullet was nickel or lead? From time to time sheer ennui drove him out of the court. He had no work to do--his description of Sault in the dock, his impression of the court scene, had been written before he left his hotel. The verdict was inevitable. Yet still they droned on, these musty lawyers; still the old man on the bench interjected his questions. Sir John, in his opening speech, had discounted his client's confession. Sault felt that he was morally guilty. It was for the jury to say whether he was guilty in law. A man in fear of his life had the right to defend himself, even if in his defense he destroyed the life of the attacker. The revolver was the property of Moropulos, was it not fair to suppose that Moropulos had carried the pistol for the purpose of intimidating Sault, that he had actually threatened him with the weapon? And the judge had taken this possibility into account and his questions were directed to discovering the character and habits of the dead man. Steppe, had he been in the box, would have saved the prisoner's life. Ronnie Morelle knew enough to enlighten the judge. Steppe had not come, Ronnie would have been amused if it were suggested that he should speak. The end of the trial came with startling suddenness. Ronnie was out of court when the jury retired, and he hurried back as they returned. The white-headed associate rose from behind his book-covered table and the jury answered to their names. "Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your verdict?" "We have." The voice of the foreman was weak and almost inaudible. "Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?" A pause. "Guilty." There was a sound like a staccato whisper. A quick explosion of soft sound, and then silence. "Ambrose Sault, what have you to say that my lord should not condemn you to die?" Ambrose stood easily in the dock: both hands were on the ledge before him and his head was bent in a listening posture. "Nothing." His cheerful voice rang through the court. Ronnie saw him look down to the place where Sir John was sitting, and smile, such a smile of encouragement and sympathy as a defending lawyer might give to his condemned client; coming from the condemned to the advocate, it was unique. The judge was sitting stiffly erect. He was a man of seventy, thin and furrowed of face. Over his wig lay a square of black silk, a corner drooped to his forehead.