The trial dragged its slow length through the greater part of the morning, without any incident of interest. One witness after another came upon the stand, was examined, and dismissed; each adding something to the weight of evidence against the prisoner, Unwick. The son of the murdered man, Varley by name, sat nearly opposite to Bergan, by the side of the prosecuting attorney; and being of a restless temperament, as well as gifted with extraordinary facility in the use of a pencil, he busied himself, as he listened to the monotonous drone of a witness, with mechanically sketching the faces of the witnesses or the spectators, or scenes and places that he had visited, recalled to his mind by the evidence, or by his own roving thoughts. One of these caught Bergan's eye, and he furtively watched its progress, while seeming to be occupied with his papers. When finished, it was carelessly dropped on the floor, like those which had preceded it; and the skilful pencil quickly set to work on a new subject. In a moment or two, Bergan dropped one of his papers, in a way to take it well under the table, and immediately stooped to get it. When he reappeared, a close observer might have noticed that the look of patient watchfulness, which his face had worn so long, was gone; but the keenest eyes would have been puzzled to read his present expression. Was it triumph, or thankfulness, or perplexity, or a mixture of all? Mr. Varley was now put upon the stand, to furnish some small link in the chain of evidence that the prosecution was drawing so skilfully around the prisoner. The little that he was desired to say being said, the opposing counsel politely inquired if Mr. Arling had any questions to ask. "One or two, if you please," answered Bergan, quietly; and rising, and turning toward the witness, he said:-- "I believe you stated, Mr. Varley, that you had never seen the place where your father died?" "No; he bought it, and removed to it after I went abroad." "Have you visited it, since your return?" "I have not. I only got here just before the commencement of this trial, and I have been kept too busy since to find time for the trip." "Then you have never seen the room where your father came to his death?" "No, certainly not," returned the witness, beginning to look a little startled by this unaccountable persistency. "Has it ever been very minutely described to you?" Varley hesitated;--more, it was evident, to consider what could be the possible drift of the question, than to search his memory for a correct answer. He finally ventured to say that to the best of his recollection he had been favored with no such description. "According to my notes of the evidence taken during this trial," pursued Bergan, "the only facts about the room brought out with much distinctness, were the positions of the bedstead and the window near it;--does your memory serve you with any additional particulars?"