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"They are bound to convict me, Raymond! Isn't it horrible?" "They shall never do it, never!" cried the young man. And then a sharp rapping on the desk terminated the brief conversation and restored quietness to the little courtroom. The next witness called was Mrs.
Rubano's father, a decent, sorrowing old man, sat in the rear of the courtroom, probably wondering how it had all happened, for he came evidently of a clean, law-abiding family. But there was nothing in the appearance of the insolent criminal at the bar to show that he was of the same breed.
As she came into the dingy, stuffy little courtroom she didn't note the throng which filled it to the last crowded inch of standing-room; did not note the scores of sympathetic faces of her anxious, loyal friends and neighbors; did not even see her father and Otto standing inside the railing, faith and courage in their eyes as they saw her advancing.
But he sat near Niles, waiting for the opportune moment, and, before the morning session was over, since he saw that the time was drawing near, he wrote a note to Niles, explaining his plan to surprise Holmes fully, which he handed to him in the quiet courtroom. "That's great great!" said Niles. "It's immense, Jamieson! I never dreamed of anything like that. Heavens!
He hastened for a policeman, and this was how the party came to be arrested and brought before Judge Obadiah. Had Passepartout been a little less preoccupied, he would have seen the detective settled in a corner of the courtroom, watching the proceedings with an interest easily understood; for the warrant had failed to reach him at Calcutta, as it had done at Bombay and Suez.
The writer once tried a case where the defendant was a Hebrew named Bauman, charged with perjury. Mr. Abraham Levy was the counsel for the defendant. Having left an associate to select the jury the writer returned to the courtroom to find that his friend had chosen for foreman a Hebrew named Abraham Levy. Needless to say, a disagreement of the jury was the almost inevitable result.
And some one at the back of the courtroom said in a deep voice; "Read the lady's letter." It seemed inevitable. Mr. Bromley had separated a letter from the bundle of papers. Involuntarily Marcia started up. But the knocking of the gavel, sounding smartly, insistently, above the confusion, brought unexpected deliverance.
The coroner mounted the platform and rapped on a desk with his knuckles. "The ahem! courtroom will come to order!" he called out, gazing around on all sides. There was a final buzz and then the place became quiet, broken only by the ticking of a big round clock on the wall. "We are gathered here ahem! to inquire into the mysterious deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Barry Langmore," went on the coroner.
He whipped a man who admitted he did not have a copy of the "Iliad" in his house; publicly destroyed the record of a charge against one of his friends; and when his wife applied for a divorce, he burst into the courtroom and vacated proceedings by carrying the lady off by force.
"You were in the police court on a charge of assault and battery brought by your wife on Tuesday morning, and you were in the prisoner's cage at the moment Turnbull died. How then was it possible for you to be at the McIntyre's at midnight on Monday?" "I was out on bail and appeared in the courtroom just in time for my trial," Sylvester explained.
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