difficulty he climbed the steps and entered its dark shadows.  A faint light emanated from the tops of the stained-glass windows.  Down below a candle burned on either side of the altar while a flickering gleam shone from the red cup in the sanctuary lamp.  Worn out, drugged for lack of sleep, faint for want of food, old Mr. Tutt sank down upon one of the rear seats by the door, and resting his head upon his arms on the back of the bench in front of him fell fast asleep.

He dreamed of a legal heaven, of a great wooden throne upon which sat Babson in a black robe and below him twelve red-faced angels in a double row with harps in their hands, chanting:  “Guilty!  Guilty!  Guilty!” An organ was playing somewhere, and there was a great noise of footsteps.  Then a bell twinkled and he raised his head and saw that the chancel was full of lights and white-robed priests.  It was broad daylight.  Horrified he looked at his watch, to find that it was ten minutes after ten.  His joints creaked as he pulled himself to his feet and his eyes were half closed as he staggered down the steps and hailed a taxi.

“Criminal Courts Building—­side door.  And drive like hell!” he muttered to the driver.

He reached it just as Judge Babson and his attendant were coming into the courtroom and the crowd were making obeisance.  Everybody else was in his proper place.

“You may proceed, Mr. Tutt,” said the judge after the roll of the jury had been called.

But Mr. Tutt was in a daze, in no condition to think or speak.  There was a curious rustling in his ears and his sight was somewhat blurred.  The atmosphere of the courtroom seemed to him cold and hostile; the jury sat with averted faces.  He rose feebly and cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “I—­I think I covered everything I had to say yesterday afternoon.  I can only beseech you to realize the full extent of your great responsibility and remind you that if you entertain a reasonable doubt upon the evidence you are sworn to give the benefit of it to the defendant.”

He sank back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hands, while a murmur ran along the benches of the courtroom.  The old man had collapsed—­tough luck—­the defendant was cooked!  Swiftly O’Brien leaped to his feet.  There had been no defense.  The case was as plain as a pike-staff.  There was only one thing for the jury to do—­return a verdict of murder in the first.  It would not be pleasant, but that made no difference!  He read them the statute, applied it to the facts, and shook his fist in their faces.  They must convict—­and convict of only one thing—­and nothing else—­murder in the first degree.  They gazed at him like silly sheep, nodding their heads, doing everything but bleat.