Defense called Jonathan Alexander, a druggist who testified that on the night in question he had been roused at half past three by the prisoner, who had said his wife was ill, and had purchased a bottle of a proprietary remedy from him.  His identification was absolute.

The defense called Jennie Brice’s sister, and endeavored to prove that Jennie Brice had had no such scar.  It was shown that she was on intimate terms with her family and would hardly have concealed an operation of any gravity from them.

The defense scored that day.  They had shown that the prisoner had told the truth when he said he had gone to a pharmacy for medicine that night for his wife; and they had shown that a woman, answering the description of Jennie Brice, spent two days in a town called Horner, and had gone from there on Wednesday after the crime.  And they had shown that this woman was attired as Jennie Brice had been.

That was the way things stood on the afternoon of the fourth day, when court adjourned.

Mr. Reynolds was at home when I got there.  He had been very much subdued since the developments of that first day of the trial, sat mostly in his own room, and had twice brought me a bunch of jonquils as a peace-offering.  He had the kettle boiling when I got home.

“You have had a number of visitors,” he said.  “Our young friend Howell has been here, and Mr. Holcombe has arrived and has a man in his room.”

Mr. Holcombe came down a moment after, with his face beaming.

“I think we’ve got him, Mrs. Pitman,” he said.  “The jury won’t even go out of the box.”

But further than that he would not explain.  He said he had a witness locked in his room, and he’d be glad of supper for him, as they’d both come a long ways.  And he went out and bought some oysters and a bottle or two of beer.  But as far as I know, he kept him locked up all that night in the second-story front room.  I don’t think the man knew he was a prisoner.  I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting by the window, reading the evening paper’s account of the trial—­an elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking.

Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled in a blanket—­not that I think his witness even thought of escaping, but the little man was taking no chances.

At eight o’clock that night the bell rang.  It was Mr. Howell.  I admitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room.  I had not seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me.  He was dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and he looked as if he had not slept for days.

Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined.

“You haven’t been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?” I asked.

“Oh, no, I’m well enough, I’ve been traveling about.  Those infernal sleeping-cars—­”

His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother’s picture, with the jonquils beneath.