“And now, gentlemen,” broke in Sampson crisply, “since we have reached the conclusion that we are trying Mr. Hildebrand and not Miss Hildebrand, perhaps we would better have our coffee.” At ten o'clock the jury filed into the courtroom and took their places in the box. Each was conscious of what he was sure must look like a ten days' growth of beard, and each wore the stem, implacable look that is best described as “hang-dog.” A dozen pairs of eyes went on an uneasy journey in quest of an object of dread. She was not there. There were a dozen sighs of relief. Good! If they could only get it over with and escape before she appeared! What was all this delay about? They were ready with their verdict; why should they be kept waiting like this? No wonder men hated serving on juries. The Court came in and took his seat. He looked very stern and forbidding. He looked, thought Sampson, like a man who has been married a great many years and is interested only in his profession. A few days earlier he looked more or less like an unmarried man. “Gentlemen of the jury,” began the Clerk after the roll-call, “have you arrived at a verdict?” “We have,” said No. 1, with an involuntary glance in the direction of the door. The verdict itself was clear and concise enough. “We, the jury, find the defendant, James W. Hildebrand, guilty as charged.” The old man's eyes fell. A quiver ran through his gaunt body. An instant later, however, he sat erect and faced his judges, and a queer, indescribable smile developed slowly at the corners of his mouth. Sampson was watching him closely. Afterwards he thought of this smile as an expression of supreme indulgence. He remembered feeling, at the moment, very cheap and small.