Just such a mob as should have watched this duel gathered in the court-room. Heaven knows where they came from—these women with out-of-date clothes and pendent earrings; these perfumed girls with slashing hats and equivocal eyes. They crowded in, guarded by fatted municipal underlings; they filled one-third of the court-room; and all day, like cigarette girls at a bullfight, they chewed sweetmeats and craned and whispered and grinned. Then there were those who had business there—that honest, white old man, General Molineux, unwavering in belief in his “boy,” for one; for another, there was Harry Cornish—gray from head to foot this one. He was dressed in gray; his gloves were gray; his very face was gray, and the eyes in his deep-lined face were the color of ashes. All day he sat watching the prisoner with swift, furtive glances; watching the reporters; watching the audience; always watching, watching. There was never so observing a man. What of Molineux? He made an excellent witness. He gave an impression of utter sincerity. Perhaps this was due to Mr. Black’s admirable examination. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was telling the truth. In any case, he scored heavily. The jurymen nodded approval. Had the case gone to them last night they would have given him—beyond all doubt—the key of the street. Molineux, too, looked content. The Assistant District Attorney began slowly. Round-shouldered, stooping a bit, in an ill-fitting new coat, with red face and prognathous jaw, he stood for a moment staring at the prisoner. His eyes were burned out as though from lack of sleep. Molineux straightened up in his chair and joined his hands in his lap. Evidently he was summoning all his resolution and all his self-possession. At last he was face to face with the man who for nearly four years had bent every energy of his fierce nature to the task of destroying him; of blackening his home, and branding him with the red mark of murder. And this he knew would be the fiercest assault of all—the final one. He was on guard. They crossed swords very ceremoniously at first. Beneath all the politeness there was, on one side, a deadly and savage earnestness; on the other was the wariness of the man whose back is to the wall and who fences for his life. And yet how suave they were! They might have been rehearsing the amiable history of Gaston and Alphonse. It was “Mr. Molineux” and “Mr. Osborne.” One almost expected the “My dear Mr. Molineux” and “My dear Mr. Osborne.” And so, with a curious, almost artificial smile on his red and heavy face, the great Apache of the District-Attorney’s office began. He wanted to know about the divorce case. “How old were you, Mr. Molineux?” he asked. “Fifteen, Mr. Osborne,” was the answer. Mr. Osborne looked painfully shocked; just so a man might look should he be arrested as a burglar while making a midnight call upon a friend. “Fifteen!” he repeated. “And the husband was a dear personal friend of yours, was he not?”