He turned to a shelf and got down a volume--probably he had already dismissed the case from his mind; and Jeff came out into the alley, above which towered the walls of the courthouse where soon he was to appear before judge and jury, with only that dry old recluse to stand between him and the penitentiary. The terrible mistake he had made was duly impressed on him that night by Kirby, who drove over to arrange to take him to town to consult Allen and Cathcart in the morning. Jeff had to admit now what he had done, and Kirby was dumfounded. “You want to go to the pen?” he demanded, pointing his finger at his tenant, his white beard thrust belligerently forward. “You think you’d like it there, old man? Do you know how strong the evidence is against you? Don’t you know, Jeff, I wouldn’t have sent you up if it hadn’t been? Have you any notion how slim yo’ chance is? My God, man--old Donaldson!” “He’s smart, Mr. Kirby!” cried Jeff. “Ever seen his books? Piled up to the ceilin’, clutterin’ up the winders and fireplaces?” “An’ what kind of books? Ol’ law books in one room, yes. Novels an’ po’try in the other! It was the novels an’ po’try you saw; an’ it’s the novels an’ po’try he reads. Jeff, listen to me--what made him take the case, God only knows. He’s forgot about it by now. His mind is back on them ol’ Romans an’ centurions. There’s been millions an’ billions of people in the world he knows about--history an’ the like. What difference does one ol’ feller in the pen make to him? He was thinkin’ about ancient Babylon an’ Sodom an’ Gomorrah this mornin’. He don’t even know what he’s done. He’ll forget to come to the trial! Now let’s get down to brass tacks. You let me go to town to-morrow an’ tell him you’ve changed yo’ mind. It’s yo’ life you’re playin’ with, man! If you go to the pen for arson you’ll die there! You’ll never come out again! You’re too old!” Jeff’s face knotted with pain. But he was true to his simple code. “It--it’s too late, Squire. I’ve give him the case. It wouldn’t be fair--no, it wouldn’t be fair.” On the third day of the March term of court, at a quarter of nine in the morning, pale and drawn of face, old Jeff climbed the spiral stairs of the courthouse with Squire Kirby, grimly silent, beside him. Only one communication, in all the weeks that had elapsed since Jeff’s visit to him, had Colonel Donaldson sent. That was a crisp notice to appear this morning in court. Behind them followed Bill Carson and his wife, and little Ella. A strange postscript to the notice had read: “I’m requesting that Ella Carson be present in court.” “He’s all balled up,” Kirby had sneered when he read it. “He likely thinks it was Ella Carson that was present at the sto’ that night instead of Sam Raine’s wife!” Down the aisle they passed, the crowd that was already filling the court-room turning to look at them curiously. Kirby shot a quick glance at the lawyers’ tables inside the bar rail.