They were hoping that he could convince them. They watched his fine, distinguished face; they watched his sombre, unflinching eyes; they watched his steady hands as they rested on the arms of the chair; they watched him with fear in their hearts: the fear that he would falter and betray himself. He entered a simple, direct denial of the accusation made against him. His story was not a long one, and it would have to go uncorroborated, for, as he said himself, there was no one upon whom he could call for support. In the first place, he declared that he did not know that he was suspected of having robbed his partners until after many months had passed. He was aware of the investigation, but it had never entered his head that he could be the person under suspicion. He admitted taking a hurried and perhaps ill-advised departure from New York, and, in answer to a direct question from his own counsel, declared that he would never reveal his reason for leaving so secretly and in such haste. Facing the jury he stated calmly, deliberately and in a most resolute manner that he would go to prison for the rest of his days, that he would suffer lasting ignominy and disgrace, before he would publicly account for this action on his part. When he learned that a true bill had been returned against him by the Grand Jury, his first impulse was to return to his own country and fight the charge. Reflection convinced him that he was safe as long as he remained in his sequestered home in Switzerland, and he made up his mind to remain there and die with unlifted disgrace bearing down upon his good name rather than to return and face the probability of having to account for his absence. That, and that alone, was responsible for his decision to remain where he was. No one knew of his whereabouts, not even his own kith and kin. He was as safe as if he were already dead. Then, in solemn, unforgettable tones he declared that he had never taken a penny belonging to the Cornwallis Realty and Investment Company, that he was innocent of the charge brought against him, notwithstanding the fact that appearances were sufficient to convict. Time brought a change in him. He decided to return and face his accusers. He did not hope to convince them that he was innocent. He only wanted the opportunity to stand before the world and proclaim his innocence. He had no testimony to offer. He could only say that he had not done this monstrous thing of which he was accused. His testimony was given as a simple statement. He was allowed to tell his brief story without the interpolation of a single question by his counsel. Succinctly but with scant bitterness, he recited the story of his own unfair treatment at the hands of his former partners. He touched very casually upon that phase of the matter, as if it were of small consequence to him now. There were no harsh words for the men who had tricked him. One could not help having the feeling that he looked upon them as beneath his notice.