Daniel observed him a moment in silence. He was perfectly aware that argument was useless, and he was not altogether prepared to argue for Fanchon. His brother--who looked ill and wretched--was apparently falling asleep, so Daniel went to the table, confiscated a half-empty bottle of whisky, and switched off the lights. He drew up the shades and opened all the windows, and the dead atmosphere of the room was revivified with sunshine and air. Daniel looked at William again, but there was no movement or sound from him, so the lame brother left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He had a strange feeling as if he had closed it upon a corpse, as if the brother he had known had passed away, and into this shell that was left behind some other spirit had entered. The thought reminded Daniel of the seven devils of the Bible. Certainly the change in William was for the worse. But he had no time to think of William. His business took him to Judge Jessup’s office, and from there to the court-house, where a panel of the grand jury had been summoned. As he made his way toward Jessup’s office he encountered a crowd on the main street, and saw a hearse proceeding toward the station, carrying a plain pinewood box. The inquest being over, Corwin’s body was to be shipped to New York. Daniel had to wait for the hearse to pass, aware of the curious glances that came his way. A picture rose before his mind of a little girl of fifteen being married to a coarse brute more than twice her age, who wanted her to earn his living for him. If he could only get that picture clean-cut before a jury! Daniel had that delicate keenness of perception that makes great orators feel their audiences. He knew intuitively the thing that touched the heart, he had latent in him a gift for playing on the feelings of the masses, as some musicians have in them a singular power to draw more music from the chords of their instruments than other men. He had perceived it, too, in Fanchon, if he could only mold her to her rôle. He was trying to marshal his thoughts, to see a way to bring Fanchon before the jury without losing the effect of her evidence, when he reached Jessup’s office. The judge, who was waiting to go before the grand jury, was sitting in his swivel chair in his shirt-sleeves, with his hat on. He scarcely glanced up when Daniel entered, for he was listening to a visitor. Samuel Bernstein sat in the prisoner’s dock--as Daniel called the stiff chair by the window where the judge seated his doubtful clients and penalized them with a savage, unwavering observation. He was observing Bernstein now over the tops of his glasses, exactly as he would have observed a gipsy-moth. To his mind, Bernstein had been nearly as disastrous. The motion-picture producer seemed to be suffering extremely from the heat. He had his hat off, and was mopping beads of perspiration from his forehead.