And when her eyes flashed with indignation during the uncalled-for tirade of the assistant district attorney, Sampson developed a bitter hatred for the man. When she appeared crushed and bewildered by the vicious attacks of the fellow, and shrank down in her chair like a frightened child, Sampson wanted to take her in his strong, comforting arms and--But, of course, there wasn't any use thinking about such a thing as that. It was not one of his duties as a juror. The case went to the jury at four o'clock that afternoon, after a somewhat protracted and, to Sampson, totally unenlightening charge by the justice, who advised the jurors that they must weigh the evidence as it was found and forbear allowing their sympathies to overcome their sense of justice. And so on and so forth. He made it very hard for the jurors. If they went entirely by the evidence, there wasn't anything left for them to do but to find the defendant guilty. Sampson had hoped for ameliorating suggestions from the learned justice on which he could base a sensible doubt as to the guilt of the defendant. But, in so many words, the justice announced that the preponderance of the evidence was in favour of the State. He told the jurors it was their duty and privilege to take the defendant's unsupported testimony for what they considered it to be worth and to place it in opposition to the evidence produced by the State. It was then their duty to render a fair and impartial verdict on the evidence. As the twelve men filed out of the box on their way to the jury room, Sampson shot a glance at Alexandra Hildebrand. He would not see her again until he returned to the seat he had occupied for six days, and after that she was to pass out of his life entirely. He hoped that she would not be there when he came back with his verdict. It would be much easier for him. He did not attempt to deceive himself any longer. If he lived up to his notions of honour and integrity, there was but one verdict he could return. (He wondered if his companions would prove to be as rigid in this respect as he.) She was looking in the opposite direction, her chin in her hand. She did not meet his unhappy gaze. He was grateful for that. CHAPTER IV Whatcheb say your name was?” demanded No. 8, aggressively. “I didn't say,” said Sampson coolly. “Call me No. 3, if you don't mind. I'll answer to it.” “Well, my name is Hooper, and that's what I want to be called.” “I'm not going to call you anything,” said Sampson, turning away in his loftiest manner. “Well, I guess it's just as well you don't,” snorted No. 8, sticking out his chest, and it wasn't a very obtrusive chest at that. Putting it back to where it normally belonged was a much less arduous job for No. 8 than sticking it out. He couldn't have stuck it out at all if he hadn't possessed the backing of ten men. In short, the jury had been out for seven hours and the last ballot stood eleven to one for acquittal. Sampson was the unit.