Mead's face set into a grim defiance that rejoiced Harlin more than anything that had happened since his client's imprisonment, as he answered: "I've been expecting this. Who is it and what's his testimony?" "I haven't been able to learn any details about it--merely that he will swear he saw you kill Whittaker. I'm not positive who the man is, but I feel reasonably sure I've spotted him. I think he is a Mexican, a red-headed Mexican, called Antone Colorow." Mead nodded. "I think likely," he said, and then he told Judge Harlin how Antone had tried to lasso him and of the angry man's threats of revenge for his broken wrists. "I've expected all along," he added, "that they'd come out with some such lay as that. I don't see how we can buck against it," he went on, despondently, "for I can't prove an alibi. Unless you can break down his testimony we might as well give up." "I guess there won't be any difficulty about that," said Harlin assuringly. "What you've just told me will be a very important matter, and if I can keep Mexicans off the jury it won't take much to convince Americans that he is lying, just because he is a Mexican." After Judge Harlin went away Mead sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and his broad shoulders rounded into an attitude of deep dejection. "What is the use?" his thoughts ran. "They are bound to get me sooner or later, and it might just as well be now as any time. It won't make any difference whether they clear me or convict me. She will believe me guilty anyway, because her father and all her friends will say so." He rose and began pacing the room and his thoughts turned persistently to Marguerite Delarue. Since he had heard the rumor of her approaching marriage to Wellesly he had tried not to let his thoughts rest upon her, but sometimes the rush of his scanty memories would not be forbidden.