Door opens at back of room. Sound of marching steps. Then are seen coming along through a zoo-like cage round two sides of the room three figures, burly civilian-clothed one in the middle, uniformed officer fore and aft. They line up this side of a rail fencing the jurors off from an area before the Judge. Burly figure is very well dressed. Stands solidly on his feet, eyes trained directly on the Judge. Holds a dark soft hat in his hands which he clasps behind his back. What from a position somewhat to the rear can be seen of the side of his face reveals a heavy scar, the result evidently of a knife slash across one cheek. The Judge puts his palms together and addresses this person. "You are charged with murder," he begins. He says it rather gently, in a somewhat chiding manner, as though he had said, "Bad fellow, bad fellow." Just then, "For the defendant!" calls out an attendant, and another figure hurries forward. The defendant's attorneys have not appeared, it seems. Their case is not quite prepared. A postponement is asked. "Why is it not prepared?" asks the Judge. The defendant speaks out. Declares his attorney has not been paid. Judge's reply is that the attorney provided for him is an able man, who will see that all his rights are observed. Grants postponement until the next morning, positively no further. Officer by his side plucks defendant's coat tail, and starts him off back through the cage. As he goes he is heard to say that his attorney will not be there in the morning either. And as he turns, my friend gets, with a shock, a full-face view of him. He had never expected anybody off the melodramatic stage to _look_ so much like a murderer. Scarey, that face, a countenance almost majestic in its ruthlessness and force: gangster, gunman, typically personified. Jurors excused until ten-thirty next day. As they move toward the door, two attractively dressed young women arise from the rear. "Who are the ladies?" asks one. "Friends of the defendant," says another. Next day, game called sharp on the stroke of the clock. Following preliminaries of the day before, attendant spins that little roulette wheel sort of an affair. Looks at slip thus drawn. "John Cole," he cries. Mr. Cole passes round behind jury box, reappears in far corner at left of Judge. "Rigmarole-rigmarole-solemnly swear, rigmarole," chaunts attendant there, thrusting very dilapidated Bible before him. Mr. Cole takes what later will be the witness chair. Assistant district attorney arises and explains the case to him. The charge is murder in the first degree. The prosecution must rely largely on the testimony of an accomplice. Defendant sits in whispered consultation with his attorney, his arm almost around him. As prosecutor seats himself, attorney for the defense gets up to put Mr. Cole through his paces. A fat, oily-looking man, with (it is evident) a browbeating manner in reserve.