young lawyer at his side, and yet for the first time in his life he was pitying himself. Things had really gone hard with him. He had tried his best to do the right thing of late, but fate had at last overpowered him. He was losing faith in the impulses which had led him, blind under the blaze of youthful enthusiasm, to that seat here under the cold, accusing eye of the law. He was drawn out of his lethargy by the clear, ringing, confident voice of the solicitor. It was a strong, an utterly heartless speech, “the gang” thought. Duty to the State and public protection was its key-note. Personally, Mayhew had nothing but the kindliest feeling and strongest admiration for the defendant. He belonged to one of the best and oldest families in the South, and was a man of undaunted courage and remarkable brains. But with all that, Mayhew believed, as he tugged at his heavy mustache and stared with confident eyes at the magistrate, he could show that lurking under the creditable and refined exterior of the defendant was a keenly vindictive nature--a nature that was maddened beyond forbearance by opposition. The solicitor promised to show by competent witnesses, when the matter was brought to trial, that Carson Dwight believed--mark the word _believed_--without an iota of proof, that Dan Willis had fired upon him in the mob that was attempting to lynch Pete Warren. Believing this, your honor, I say, with no sort of proof, I think the State will have no trouble in establishing the fact that Dwight had sufficient _motive_ for what was done, and that he deliberately and with aforethought went armed with no other intent than to kill Willis. Furthermore, Mayhew could show, he declared, that Dwight had carefully concealed the deed, letting it go out to the world that the finding of the coroner's jury was correct, and making no statement to the contrary till he was driven to it by the encroachments of verifiable rumor and the certainty of adverse action by the grand jury. That being the status of the case, the solicitor could only urge upon the court its duty to hold Carson Dwight on the charge of murder in the first degree. Deep in his slough of depression, Dwight, looking over the breathless audience, noticed the serious faces he knew and loved. Helen was deathly pale, and her father sat with bowed head, fingering his gold-headed ebony cane. Keith Gordon's face was as full of reproach for what the solicitor had said as that of a grief-stricken woman. Wade Tingle sat flushed with rebellious anger, and Bob Smith, not grasping the full import of the high-sounding words, stared from under his neatly plastered hair like a wondering child at a funeral. It was Mam' Linda's almost savage glare that more firmly fixed Carson's wandering glance. She sat there, her visage full of half-savage passion, her large lip hanging low and quivering, her breast heaving, her eyes gleaming.