Judge Cushion answered back in clarion tones, that, law or no law, I must be given an opportunity to explain many circumstances; that the law of God and common sense entitled me to every opportunity to prove my innocence. He declared that I could easily explain away all the ugly suspicion that attached to me through my association with the bogus United States deputy marshal. But it was a fruitless argument for me. Judge Doe decided that I could not testify on my own behalf, and in this manner another thong was added to those already binding the millstone to my neck. The remainder of the trial was a vague dream to me. Judge Cushion made a masterly plea for the defence, and Assistant District Attorney Wheeler, the brightest legal brain then attached to Mr. Lane’s office, wove a web of evidence about Shinburn and spoke of my suspicious acquaintance with the man Wyckoff. I know the judge wept as he pleaded my case, and I know that Lawyer Wheeler was bitter in his arraignment of Shinburn. Standing out prominently in my memory, however, are the words he chose in closing his “summing up” for the prosecution. They were directed to the witness William Matthews. “And this is the sort of a witness they bring from the reeking hells of New York to be a witness in a New Hampshire court of justice,” he cried, pointing to Matthews. I thought it was a terrible thing to hear said of a man, and wondered why this friend of Shinburn’s did not measure the assistant district attorney’s length on the floor, in front of the very eyes of the judge and jury. Judge Doe charged the jurors to consider well the facts in the testimony, and told them what was evidence and what was not. It was a hard, merciless review of the case, and I shivered with apprehension. It struck me like a chill wind from a damp, mouldy cavern. The jury retired, and when it was evident that they would not bring in a verdict that day, I was taken to a cell to await the morning. Oh, the uncertainty, the horror of it all! As I was conducted to the court-room the next day, it did not take long to tell what the verdict was; for I could read the dreaded news in the face of Sumner Warren, the foreman, as he and the other jurymen filed to their seats. I felt faint with the strain. “Guilty!” I heard Sumner Warren say, in response to the clerk’s solemn question. “Guilty!” I groaned to myself. “Was ever there such injustice?” “Bad enough, but I’m glad it’s no worse, George,” said my good friend and attorney, Mr. Lynde. “We’ll have you free--a disagreement is as good as an acquittal, in this case.” “How? what? why?” I stammered, all but dazed. “Shinburn has been convicted, but the jury has disagreed in your case!” said he. “That’s why they were out all night. Six of them believe you are not guilty.” “Thank God!” I breathed. “Then six of them believe that I could not be guilty of the awful crime charged to me. But how in God’s name can _any_ of them believe it?”