Again Sampson, who was enjoying Mr. Stevens' discomfiture, looked at Miss Hildebrand. Simultaneously eleven other gentlemen sitting in two parallel rows, looked at her. She may have found it too difficult to look at all of them at once, so she confined her gaze to Sampson, who felt in duty hound--as a juror sworn to be fair and impartial--to look the other way as quickly as possible. He was sorry that he was obliged to do this, for there was something in her eyes that warranted quite a little time for analysis. The cross-examination proceeded. Sampson, resolutely directed his gaze out of its natural channel and devoted a great deal more attention to the witness than he felt that the witness deserved. He could not help feeling, however, that he was treating Miss Hildebrand with unnecessary boorishness. No doubt she looked at him from time to time, and she must have felt a little bit hurt, not to say offended--by his somewhat conspicuous indifference. Suddenly he pricked up his ears. Mr. O'Brien had put to the witness a question that had something of a personal interest in it. “James Hildebrand, Jr., lost his wife in 1906, did he not, Mr. Stevens?” “I don't remember the year.” “You remember when he was married, however, do you not?” “I can't say. I think it was in 1888.” The witness had turned a rather sickly green. He spoke with an effort. “The year after you and he graduated from college, wasn't it?” “We were in the class of '87.” “You are still unmarried, I believe, Mr. Stevens?” “I am unmarried, sir,” said the witness, sitting up a little straighter in the chair. “Did you know Miss Katherine Alexander before she was married to James Hildebrand?” “I did,” said Stevens, his face set. Sampson ventured a swift look at Alexandra Hildebrand. She was looking down at the table, her face half averted. It struck him as exceedingly brutal of Mr. O'Brien to drag this poor girl's dead mother into the public light of--But the lawyer asked another question. “You and young Mr. Hildebrand remained friends for a number of years after his marriage, did you not?” “I always thought so.” “You never bore him any ill will?” “What do you mean?” “I withdraw the question. When was it that you and James Hildebrand, Jr., ceased to be friends?” “I--I don't know. I cannot go into that matter, Mr. O'Brien. I--” Mr. Stevens was visibly distressed. “Wasn't it in 1895 that you and he ceased to be friends?” persisted the lawyer. “There was a terrible misunderstanding, I--that is, I should say--” “In 1895, wasn't it?” “I think so.” Mr. Stevens was perspiring. He looked beseechingly at the district attorney, who happened to be gazing pensively out of the window at the time. “You were a frequent and welcome visitor at young Hildebrand's home up to 1895, weren't you?” “It was through no fault of mine that the friendship was broken off. Mr. Hildebrand behaved in a most outrageous manner toward me.”