"Mr. O'Bannon's in court," she answered in a tone which seemed to suggest that almost anyone would know that. By this time, mounting the stairs with more dignity, Miss Bennett entered, appealing and conciliatory. "We want so much to see him," she murmured. Miss Finnegan softened and said that she'd telephone over to the courthouse. He might be able to get over for a minute. She telephoned and hung up the receiver in silence. "When will he be here?" demanded Lydia. "When he's at liberty," Miss Finnegan answered coldly. Waiting did not calm Lydia nor the atmosphere of the office, which proclaimed O'Bannon's power. People kept coming in with the same question--when could they see the district attorney? An old foreigner was there who kept muttering something to Miss Finnegan in broken English. "Yes, but then your son ought to plead," Miss Finnegan kept saying over and over again, punctuating her sentence with quick roulades on the typewriter. There was a thin young man with shifty eyes, and a local lawyer with a strong flavor of the soil about him. Miss Bennett watched Lydia anxiously. The girl was not accustomed to being kept waiting. Her bank, her dentist, the shops where she dealt had long ago learned that it saved everybody trouble to serve Miss Thorne first. At last O'Bannon entered. Lydia sprang up. "Mr. O'Bannon----" she began. He held up his hand. "One minute," he said. He was listening to the story of the old woman, not even glancing in Lydia's direction; yet something in the bend of his head, in the strain of his effort to keep his eyes on his interlocutor and his mind on what was being told him made Miss Bennett believe he was acutely aware of their presence. Yet Lydia patiently bore even this delay. Miss Bennett drew a breath of relief. The girl had evidently come resolved to show her better side. The impression was strengthened when he approached them. Lydia's manner was gentle and dignified. "Mr. O'Bannon," said she, "I feel distressed at the sentence of my maid--Evans." Miss Bennett looked on like a person seeing a vision--Lydia had never seemed--had never been like this--gentle, feminine, well, there was no other word for it, sweet--poignantly sweet. She did not see how anyone could resist her, and glancing at the district attorney she saw he was not resisting, on the contrary, with bent head, and his queer light eyes fixed softly on Lydia's he was drinking in every tone of her voice. Their voices sank lower and lower until they were almost whispering to each other, so low that Miss Bennett thought fantastically that anybody coming in unexpectedly might have thought they were lovers. "She isn't a criminal," Lydia was saying. "She was tempted, and she has confessed. Won't you help me to save her?" "I can't," he whispered back. "It's too late. She's been sentenced."