Brayham, with a King’s Bench cough, admitted that he had few misgivings as to the ultimate upshot. Upon the waiter’s return without a newspaper, affirming a copy not to be procurable, judicial inquiries elicited from the man that the general _furore_ for news was less due to popular interest in the famous _cause célèbre_ than to popular thirst for details with reference to the Assassinations at Serajevo. Which brought from Lady Wathe the shrill query: "Sarajevo—where’s Sarajevo? Ask him about the Verdict—I simply must know!" The Verdict had been "Not Guilty," according to the waiter.... The Goblin screamed: "But she is!—she is! Good heavens, my dear Sir Thomas! Isn’t it murder to riddle an editor to death in his own office, before his subordinates, with bullets from a revolver you’ve hidden in your muff?" Brayham summoned up his best King’s Bench manner to answer: "If he dies—and a jury don’t happen to decide that you’re innocent—the evidence is against you, my dear ma’am!" Lady Wathe’s vivacious gestures provoked astounding coruscations from her panoply of jewels. She had been certain from the first that there would be no capital sentence. But "Not Guilty." ... Surely it should have been Mazas for life. Or New Caledonia—didn’t they send murderesses to New Caledonia? Brayham, with a tone and manner even more deeply tinged with the King’s Bench, begged leave to correct—arah!—his very dear friend’s impression that the blameless and much-tried lady, now probably—aha—arah!—supping in the company of her husband and her advocate in her own luxurious dining-room, might, without libel, be called a murderess. Like—aha!—many other highly-strung women, Madame Perdroux had had recourse to the revolver as the _ultima ratio_. But the Verdict pronounced by the President of the Paris Court of Assize that afternoon had—arah!—purged—— "Bother the Verdict!" snapped the Goblin. Brayham, incensed at this irreverence, replied with acrimony. The pair wrangled as Paris had wrangled since March 16th, while the great, crowded restaurant buzzed with the name of an obscure town in Eastern Europe—"_Sarajevo, Sarajevo_"—tossed and bandied from mouth to mouth. We have learned to our bitter cost the appalling significance of this crime of Sarajevo, which had dwarfed in the estimation of the keen-witted Parisians the most sensational _cause célèbre_ ever tried before a French Criminal Court. The Perdroux trial and its probable result had split Paris into hostile factions. The Press had attacked or defended, lauded or vilified the chief personages of the drama with tireless energy for weeks. The Verdict of "Not Guilty" would have caused fierce rioting upon the boulevards this sultry night of July. Blood would have been spilt between the partisans of Madame Perdroux and her opponents, but for this unexpected bolt from the blue.