Under the gas light that supplemented a far, dusty window in the Recorder’s Court, stood Bess. She swayed, and her face twitched occasionally; but her glance was level, and her head erect. Behind a high desk sat a man well past middle age. His florid complexion caused his long grey mustache to appear very white. His eyes were far apart and suggested a kindness that was born of indolence, rather than of wide compassion. His hands were slender and beautifully made, and he sat with elbows on desk, and finger-tips touching. When he spoke it was in a drawl that suggested weariness. “What is the charge, Officer?” he asked. “Bein’ under the influence of dope, an’ creatin’ a disturbance in Catfish Row, yer Honor,” replied the policeman who stood by the prisoner. “Anybody hurt?” “Not as we was able to see, yer Honor.” The judge turned to the prisoner. “Have you ever been here before?” “No, suh,” came the reply in a low, clear tone. “The officer of the day thinks she has, yer Honor,” put in the policeman, “but he can’t swear to it. She looks like a hundred others, he says, scar and all; an’ they change names so fast you get nothing from the records.” The judge regarded the prisoner with amiability. The thermometer on the wall beside him registered ninety. It was asking too much of good-nature to require it to subvert itself in such heat. “I suppose we will have to give you the benefit of the doubt,” he said. Then he turned to the officer. “After all, it’s the man who sold her the poison we want. I was kept here three hours yesterday by dope cases. I want it put a stop to.” He contracted his brows in a weak attempt at sternness, and directed a steady gaze at Bess. “Who sold you that dope?” She met his eyes squarely. “I don’t t’ink I know um again,” she said in a low, even tone. “I buy from um in de dark, las’ night, an’ he gone off right away.” “It’s no use, Your Honor,” put in the policeman. “They won’t give each other away.” The judge fixed the culprit with a long scrutiny. Then he asked: “Have you any money to pay a fine?” “No, suh. Yuh’ll jus’ hab tuh gib’ me my time.” A man entered the room. “I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” he said, “but there is a cripple outside in a goat-cart who says he is prepared to pay the woman’s fine.” “Eh; what’s that?” exclaimed the judge. “Is it that black scoundrel, Porgy, the beggar?” “That’s him, Yer Honor,” replied the man, with a grin. “Why, the highwayman takes a dime from me every time I venture on King Charles Street. And here he has the audacity to come and offer to pay a fine.” “Don’t tek he money, Boss.” The prisoner said the words steadily, then caught her lower lip with her strong, white teeth. “Address the Court as ‘Your Honor,’ not ‘Boss,’” ordered the judge. “Yo’ Honuh,” amended the culprit. For a long moment the Recorder sat, his brow contracted. Then he drew a large, cool, linen handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face.