"I wish there were no prisons, I do, I does--’cause why?-- This old treadmill makes me feel ill, I only pinch my belly for to fill, Wi’ me ’ands, Wi’ me dukes, Wi’ me clawrs, Me mud hooks." Archie scowled; he wished, for once, the Duke would keep still. He was trying to think, trying to assure himself that his trial would turn out well. Day after day, Marriott had come, and for hours he and Archie had sat in the long gray corridor, in the dry atmosphere of the overheated jail, conferring in whispers, because Archie knew Danner was listening at the peep-hole in the wall. Marriott was perplexed; how could he get Archie’s true story before the jury? He had even consulted Elizabeth, told her the story. "Oh, horrible!" she exclaimed. "But surely, you can tell the jury--surely they will sympathize." He had shaken his head. "Why not?" "Because," said Marriott, "the rules of evidence are designed to keep out the truth." "But can’t Archie tell it?" "I don’t dare to let him take the stand." "Why?" "Because he’ll be convicted if he does." "And if he doesn’t?" "The same result--he’ll be convicted. He’s convicted now--the mob has already done that; the trial is only a conventional formality." "What mob?" "The newspapers, the preachers, the great moral, respectable mob that holds a man guilty until he proves himself innocent, and, if he asserts his innocence, looks even on that as a proof of his guilt." Eades had announced that Archie would be tried for the murder of Kouka, and Elizabeth had been impressed. "Wasn’t that rather fine in him?" she asked. "Yes," said Marriott, "and very clever." "Clever?" "He means to try him for the murder of Kouka, and convict him of the murder of Margaret Flanagan." This morning then, Archie awaited the hour of his trial. The night before he had played solitaire, trying to read his fate in the fall of the fickle cards. The first game he had lost; then he decided that he was entitled to two out of three chances. He played again, and lost. Then he decided to play another--best three out of five--he might win the other two. He played and won the third game. He lost the fourth. And now he stood and waited. At half-past eight he drew on his waistcoat and his coat, giving them a final brushing. The Duke was singing again: "An’ I wish there were no bobbies, I do, I does--’cause why?-- This oakum pickin’ gives me such a lickin’, But still I likes to do a bit o’ nickin’, Wi’ me ’ands, Wi’ me dukes, Wi’ me clawrs, Me mud hooks." The last words of the song were punctuated by the clanging of the bolts. "Koerner!" called out Danner’s voice.