He tried to conceal his anxiety by nervously lighting a cigar.  He would have given a year’s salary to have Mock Hen safely up the river, even on a conviction for manslaughter in the third, for the newspapers were making his life a burden with their constant references to the seeming inability of the police department and district attorney’s office to prevent the recurrence of feud killings in the Chinatown districts.  What use was it, they demanded, to maintain the expensive machinery of criminal justice if the tongs went gayly on shooting each other up and incidentally taking the lives of innocent bystanders?  Wasn’t the law intended to cover Chinamen as much as Italians, Poles, Greeks and niggers?  And now that one of these murdering Celestials had been caught red-handed it was up to the D.A. to go to it, convict him, and send him to the chair!  They did not express themselves precisely that way, but that was the gist of it.  But Peckham knew that it was one thing to catch a Chinaman, even red-handed, and another to convict him.  And so did Mr. Tutt.

The old lawyer smiled blandly—­after the fashion of the Hip Leong Tong.  Of course, he admitted, it would be much simpler to dispose of the case as Mr. Peckham suggested, but his client was insistent upon his innocence and seemed to have an excellent alibi.  He regretted, therefore, that he had no choice except to go to trial.

“Then,” groaned Peckham, “we may as well take the winter for it.  After this there’s going to be a closed season on Chinamen in New York City!”

Now though it was true that Mock Hen insisted upon his innocence, he had not insisted upon it to Mr. Tutt, for the latter had not seen him.  In fact, the old lawyer, recognizing what the law did not, namely that a system devised for the trial and punishment of Occidentals is totally inadequate to cope with the Oriental, calmly went about his affairs, intrusting to Mr. Bonnie Doon of his office the task of interviewing the witnesses furnished by Wong Get.  There was but one issue for the jury to pass upon.  Quong Lee was dead and his honorable soul was with his illustrious ancestors.  He had died from a single blow upon the head, delivered with an iron bar, there present, to be in evidence, marked “Exhibit A.”  Mock Hen was alleged to have done the deed.  Had he?  There would be nothing for Mr. Tutt to do but to cross-examine the witnesses and then call such as could testify to Mock’s alibi.  So he made no preparation at all and dismissed the case from his mind.  He had hardly seen a dozen Chinamen in his life—­outside of a laundry.

* * * * *

On the morning set for the trial Mr. Tutt, having been delayed by an accident in the Subway, entered the Criminal Courts Building only a moment or two before the call of the calendar.  Somewhat preoccupied, he did not notice the numerous Chinamen who dawdled about the entrance or the half dozen who crowded with him into the elevator, but when Pat the elevator man called, “Second floor!—­Part One to your right!—­Part Two to the left!” and he stepped out into the marble-floored corridor that ran round the inside of the building, he was confronted with an unusual and somewhat ominous spectacle.