He gave Molineux his opportunity, for the man who defends a woman is always in the right. And he used it superbly. There were no heroics. There was only the story of the ring. There was only romance. There was only a hint of true love and an old love story. That was all, but it turned the truculent prosecutor’s attack into utter defeat. Osborne knew it. Molineux knew it. The great cross-examiner’s promised flaying of Molineux had miscarried. Had Osborne been retained for the defence he could have done no more for the pallid little prisoner. He flung himself into his chair and sat there, gulping ice water, mopping his red face. The prisoner kept his seat in the witness chair. Governor Black arose. His hands in his pockets, a smile on his face, he looked at his client. “I have no questions to ask,” he said cheerfully. “That is all, Mr. Molineux.” The prisoner went back to his accustomed place. The old father got him by the hand. They laughed softly as they gripped hands. The little prisoner was years younger than he was two days ago. His eyes looked human and bright. At last he could see the sunlight shining. He and hope were together again. His lawyers shook his hand again and again. The old General whispered to him, proud and happy. It was as though the case was already won. And it all happened in fifteen minutes—in ten minutes—in five minutes—while Molineux was telling the story of the ring. A better witness never took the stand. Unguided, without a single interruption from his counsel, he foiled the great Apache of the prosecution at every turn. If he did not win his case, it is because the case is past winning. He won, at all events, the sympathy of the swarming spectators. He impressed, in any case, the wearied jurors. Again it was rapier first and bludgeon second. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Room with the Little Door, by Roland Burnham Molineux