Margaret put her handkerchief to her eyes to stem the threatening tide, while Thomas hastened to forestall the avalanche by informing her, as he placed a comforting hand on her arm, that he would be able, at least, to try the case. Had Lem Townsend been able to prevent the latter, he would have done so, but he was too young as a jurist to allow criticism of his knowledge of points of law, and he reluctantly gave consent to the trial of the case. It was with a beating heart and a jaw set against the impending quiver of a not too slender frame that she held up her hand for the oath and took her place upon the stand, looking about with a terror that was new born in eyes heretofore ungiven to everything but treacle. Her lips trembled an almost inaudible reply to the clerk's question. She was still standing, and Thomas, noticing this, motioned her to be seated, beginning at the same time her examination. "Mrs. Davis, where do you live?" he asked. His own tones were of no certain quality, for the firm pressure of Townsend's white lips and his obvious intention of steering clear of any attempt at honeyed coercion on Margaret Davis's part were not encouraging. In vain she cast her eyes about in an effort to inveigle the sympathy of Lem Townsend. He stared straight ahead at the paper in front of him, although he saw not a word. Her answer to Thomas's question came with a gasp. "New York." Then realizing that her case was lost and her entire six months' sojourn at Calivada was as nothing unless she immediately corrected her mistake, she gasped a second time as she drew the folds of her blue-velvet cape about her. "Oh no! I don't mean that at all. I live here--I live here in Nevada and I've lived here long enough to get a divorce. The judge--" and here she stopped for breath, making another attempt to corral his stubborn favor--"his Honor--" she jerked, with a quick breath, "can tell--you that." But the judge did not smile and his eyes remained rigid in their sockets as they glared at the paper in his hand. "Just answer the questions, please, Mrs. Davis," Thomas cautioned her pleasantly, although as a witness she was disconcerting. "Well," she drawled, fidgeting in her chair, "that's not easy when you're sworn to tell the truth." A titter ran through the court-room and was brought to an abrupt end by the sheriff's gavel. Thomas resumed his examination. "You are the wife of Gerald Davis, are you not?" She nodded. "And when and where were you married to him?" "Seven years ago, October fifth--in Peoria." She glanced about at the sea of smiling faces, again seeking sympathy from the judge. Again he was adamant. "You were living in Peoria?"