"Why, Mr. Reder, we said the judge said we could infer. Don’t you remember?" Church looked into his face hopefully, and waited. Broadwell got slowly to his feet, and moved toward the little group deliberately, importantly, as if he alone could explain. "Here, have my chair, Mr. Reder," said Broadwell with intense politeness. "No, nefer mind," said Reder, afraid to move. "What the judge said," Broadwell began, "was simply this. He said that if it was to be inferred from all the facts and circumstances adduced in evidence--" "Besides," Church broke in, "that old woman said he _was_ the fellow, down at the police station--it was in the paper, don’t you remember?" "Oh, but the judge said we wasn’t to pay attention to anything like that," said Grey. "Well, but he said we could infer, didn’t he?" "Just let me speak, please," insisted Broadwell, "His Honor went on to say--" he had just recalled that that was the proper way to speak of a judge, and then, the next instant, he remembered that it was also proper to call the judge "the Court," and he was anxious to use both of these phrases. "That is, the Court said--" And he explained the meaning of the word "infer." Reder was listening attentively, his head bent, his hand resting on his hip. Broadwell talked on, in his low insinuating tone. Reder made no reply. After a while, Broadwell, his eyes narrowing, said softly, gently: "Gentlemen, shall we not try another ballot?" Menard got up wearily, his hat in readiness again. The jurors began rummaging among the scraps for ballots. A street-car was just scraping around the curve at the corner, its wheels sending out a shrill, grinding noise. "Great heavens!" exclaimed McCann, taking out his watch, "it’s five thirty! Morning! We’ve been here all night!" Outside the city was still wrapped in a soft thick darkness. Eades was sleeping soundly; his mother, when she kissed him good night, had patted his head, saying, "My dear, brave boy." Marriott had just sunk into a troubled doze. Glassford was snoring loudly in his warm chamber; Koerner and his wife were kneeling on their bed, their hands clasped, saying a prayer in German, and over in the jail, Archie was standing with his face pressed against the cold bars of his cell, looking out across the corridor, watching for the first streak of dawn. XX Marriott awoke with a start when the summons came. The jury had agreed; his heart leaped into his throat. What was the verdict? He had a confused sense of the time, the world outside was dark; he could have slept but a few minutes, surely it was not much later than midnight. He switched on the electric light, and looked at his watch. It was half-past six--morning. He dressed hurriedly, and went out.