Wilson said that he had three witnesses, the Misses Clarkson, who would testify that they met a veiled young woman leaving Judge Driscoll’s premises by the back gate a few minutes after the cries for help were heard, and that their evidence, taken with certain circumstantial evidence which he would call the court’s attention to, would in his opinion convince the court that there was still one person concerned in this crime who had not yet been found, and also that a stay of proceedings ought to be granted, in justice to his clients, until that person should be discovered.  As it was late, he would ask leave to defer the examination of his three witnesses until the next morning.

The crowd poured out of the place and went flocking away in excited groups and couples, taking the events of the session over with vivacity and consuming interest, and everybody seemed to have had a satisfactory and enjoyable day except the accused, their counsel, and their old lady friend.  There was no cheer among these, and no substantial hope.

In parting with the twins Aunt Patsy did attempt a good-night with a gay pretense of hope and cheer in it, but broke down without finishing.

Absolutely secure as Tom considered himself to be, the opening solemnities of the trial had nevertheless oppressed him with a vague uneasiness, his being a nature sensitive to even the smallest alarms; but from the moment that the poverty and weakness of Wilson’s case lay exposed to the court, he was comfortable once more, even jubilant.  He left the courtroom sarcastically sorry for Wilson.  “The Clarksons met an unknown woman in the back lane,” he said to himself, “THAT is his case!  I’ll give him a century to find her in—­a couple of them if he likes.  A woman who doesn’t exist any longer, and the clothes that gave her her sex burnt up and the ashes thrown away—­oh, certainly, he’ll find HER easy enough!” This reflection set him to admiring, for the hundredth time, the shrewd ingenuities by which he had insured himself against detection—­more, against even suspicion.

“Nearly always in cases like this there is some little detail or other overlooked, some wee little track or trace left behind, and detection follows; but here there’s not even the faintest suggestion of a trace left.  No more than a bird leaves when it flies through the air—­yes, through the night, you may say.  The man that can track a bird through the air in the dark and find that bird is the man to track me out and find the judge’s assassin—­no other need apply.  And that is the job that has been laid out for poor Pudd’nhead Wilson, of all people in the world!  Lord, it will be pathetically funny to see him grubbing and groping after that woman that don’t exist, and the right person sitting under his very nose all the time!” The more he thought the situation over, the more the humor of it struck him.  Finally he said, “I’ll never let him hear the last of that woman.  Every time I catch him in