Bentley, following his elaborate system of arrangement, bustled about with a deputy at hand so that he could command him, pushed back the crowd, locked the doors, and thereafter admitted no one unless he wished to. The spectators filled the space outside the bar, and encroached on the space within, forming a dense, closely-packed circle in the center of which were the jury, the lawyers at their tables, Archie and Danner, the reporters, the old stenographer, and Glassford looking down from the bench. The spectators in a strained, nervous silence stared into the pit where the game was to be played, the game for which Eades and Marriott were nerving themselves, the game that had Archie’s life for its colossal stake. But as the afternoon wore on, expectations were not realized; the interest flagged. It was seen that the sensations would not come for days, the proceedings were to move slowly and with a vast and pompous deliberation to their unrevealed climax. Eades called as witnesses several laborers who had been of the crowd that pursued Archie and Curly down the tracks that morning. After them came Weber, the coroner, a fleshy man with red face and neck, who described the inquest, then his official physician, Doctor Zimmerman, a young man with a pointed beard, who wore three chains on his breast, one for the eye-glasses he was constantly readjusting, another for his clinical thermometer, and another for his watch. He gave the details of the post-mortem examination, described the dissection of Kouka’s body, and identified the bullet. The crowd pressed forward, trying to find some sensation in the ghastly relic. Eades gave the bullet to the nearest juryman, who examined it carefully and passed it on. It went from hand to hand of the jurymen, each rolled it in his palm, studied it with a look of wisdom; finally it returned to Eades. And the jurors leaned back in their chairs, convinced that Kouka was dead.