“Gentlemen of the jury, where the people have failed to prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt it is the duty of the court to direct a verdict.  In this case, though by inference the testimony points strongly toward the prisoner, there is no direct proof against him and I am accordingly constrained—­much as I regret it—­to instruct you to return a verdict of not guilty.”

In the confusion which followed the rendition of the verdict a messenger entered breathlessly and forcing his way through the crowd delivered a folded paper to Mr. Tutt, who immediately rose and handed it to the clerk; and that official, having hurriedly perused it and pursed his lips in surprise, passed it over the top of the bench to the judge.

“What’s this?” demanded Babson.  “Don’t bother me now with trifles!”

“But it’s a writ of habeas corpus, Your Honor, signed by Judge Winthrop, requiring the warden to produce Miss Beekman in Part I of the Supreme Court, and returnable forthwith,” whispered Mr. McGuire in an awe-stricken voice.  “I can’t disregard that, you know!”

“What!” cried Babson.  “How on earth could he have issued a writ in this space of time?  The thing’s impossible!”

“If Your Honor please,” urbanely explained Mr. Tutt, “as—­having known Miss Beekman’s father—­I anticipated that the witness would pursue the course of conduct which, in fact, she has, I prepared the necessary papers early this morning and as soon as you ordered her into custody my partner, who was waiting in Judge Winthrop’s chambers, presented them to His Honor, secured his signature and brought the writ here in a taxicab.”

Nobody seemed to be any longer interested in O’Connell.  The reporters had left their places and pushed their way into the inclosure before the dais.  In the rear of the room O’Brien was vainly engaged in trying to placate the Pearl Button Kids, who were loudly swearing vengeance upon both him and Peckham.  It was a scene as nearly turbulent as the old yellow clock had ever witnessed.  Even the court officers abandoned any effort to maintain order and joined the excited group about Mr. Tutt before the bench.

“Does Your Honor desire that this matter be argued before the Supreme Court?” inquired Mr. Tutt suavely.  “If so I will ask that the prisoner be paroled in my custody.  Judge Winthrop is waiting.”

Babson had turned pale.  Facing a dozen newspapermen, pencils in hand, he quailed.  To hell with “face.”  Why, if he went on any longer with the farce the papers would roast the life out of him.  With an apology for a smile that was, in fact, a ghastly grin, he addressed himself to the waiting group of jurymen, lawyers and reporters.

“Of course, gentlemen,” he said, “I never had any real intention of dealing harshly with Miss Beekman.  Undoubtedly she acted quite honestly and according to her best lights.  She is a very estimable member of society.  It will be unnecessary, Mr. Tutt, for you to argue the writ before Judge Winthrop.  The relator, Althea Beekman, is discharged.”