Then Babson cleared his decks and rising in dignity expounded the law to the sheep in a rich mellow voice, in which he impressed upon them the necessity of preserving the integrity of the jury system and the sanctity of human life.  He pronounced an obituary of great beauty upon the deceased barber—­who could not, as he pointed out, speak for himself, owing to the fact that he was in his grave.  He venomously excoriated the defendant who had deliberately planned to kill an unarmed man peacefully conducting himself in his place of business, and expressed the utmost confidence that he could rely upon the jury, whose character he well knew, to perform their full duty no matter how disagreeable that duty might be.  The sheep nodded.

“You may retire, gentlemen.”

Babson looked down at Mr. Tutt with a significant gleam in his eye.  He had driven in the knife to the hilt and twisted it round and round.  Angelo had almost as much chance as the proverbial celluloid cat.  Mr. Tutt felt actually sick.  He did not look at the jury as they went out.  They would not be long—­and he could hardly face the thought of their return.  Never in his long experience had he found himself in such a desperate situation.  Heretofore there had always been some argument, some construction of the facts upon which he could make an appeal, however fallacious or illogical.

He leaned back and closed his eyes.  The judge was chatting with O’Brien, the court officers were betting with the reporters as to the length of time in which it would take the twelve to agree upon a verdict of murder in the first.  The funeral rites were all concluded except for the final commitment of the corpse to mother earth.

And then without warning Angelo suddenly rose and addressed the court in a defiant shriek.

“I killa that man!” he cried wildly.  “He maka small of my wife!  He no good!  He bad egg!  I killa him once—­I killa him again!”

“So!” exclaimed Babson with biting sarcasm.  “You want to make a confession?  You hope for mercy, do you?  Well, Mr. Tutt, what do you wish to do under the circumstances?  Shall I recall the jury and reopen the case by consent?”

Mr. Tutt rose trembling to his feet.

“The case is closed, Your Honor,” he replied.  “I will consent to a mistrial and offer a plea of guilty of manslaughter.  I cannot agree to reopen the case.  I cannot let the defendant go upon the stand.”

The spectators and reporters were pressing forward to the bar, anxious lest they should lose a single word of the colloquy.  Angelo remained standing, looking eagerly at O’Brien, who returned his gaze with a grin like that of a hyena.

“I killa him!” Angelo repeated.  “You killa me if you want.”

“Sit down!” thundered the judge.  “Enough of this!  The law does not permit me to accept a plea to murder in the first degree, and my conscience and my sense of duty to the public will permit me to accept no other.  I will go to my chambers to await the verdict of the jury.  Take the prisoner downstairs to the prison pen.”