Mr. Tutt looked at the clock, which pointed to three.  The regular hour of adjournment was at four.  Delay was everything in a case like this.  A juryman might die suddenly overnight or fall grievously ill; or some legal accident might occur which would necessitate declaring a mistrial.  There is, always hope in a criminal case so long as the verdict has not actually been returned and the jury polled and discharged.  If possible he must drag his summing up over until the following day.  Something might happen.

“About two hours, Your Honor,” he replied.

The jury stirred impatiently.  It was clear that they regarded a two-hour speech from him under the circumstances as an imposition.  But Babson wished to preserve the fiction of impartiality.

“Very well,” said he.  “You may sum up until four-thirty, and have half an hour more to-morrow morning.  See that the doors are closed, Captain Phelan.  We do not want any interruption while the summations are going on.”

“All out that’s goin’ out!  Everybody out that’s got no business, with the court!” bellowed Captain Phelan.

Mr. Tutt with an ominous heightening of the pulse realized that the real ordeal was at last at hand, for the closing of the case had wrought in the old lawyer an instant metamorphosis.  With the words “The defense rests” every suggestion of the mountebank, the actor or the shyster had vanished.  The awful responsibility under which he labored; the overwhelming and damning evidence against his client; the terrible consequences of the least mistake that he might make; the fact that only the sword of his ability, and his alone, stood between Angelo and a hideous death by fire in the electric chair—­sobered and chastened him.  Had he been a praying man in that moment he would have prayed—­but he was not.

For his client was foredoomed—­foredoomed not only by justice but also by trickery and guile—­and was being driven slowly but surely towards the judicial shambles.  For what had he succeeded in adducing in his behalf?  Nothing but the purely apocryphal speculation that the dead barber might have threatened Angelo with his razor and that the witnesses might possibly have drawn somewhat upon their imaginations in giving the details of their testimony.  A sorry defense!  Indeed, no defense at all.  All the sorrier in that he had not even been able to get before the jury the purely sentimental excuses for the homicide, for he could only do this by calling Rosalina to the stand, which would have enabled the prosecution to cross-examine her in regard to the purchase of the pistol and the delivery of it to her husband—­the strongest evidence of premeditation.  Yet he must find some argument, some plea, some thread of reason upon which the jury might hang a disagreement or a verdict in a lesser degree.