Gathered in Judge Russell’s courtroom were as many of the office assistants as could escape from their duties, anxious to officiate at the legal demise of Caput Magnus.  Even the Honorable Peckham could not refrain from having business there at the call of the calendar.  It resembled a regular monthly conference of the D.A.’s professional staff, which for some reason Tutt and Mr. Tutt had also been invited to attend.  Yea, the spectators were all there in the legal colosseum waiting eagerly to see Caput Magnus enter the arena to be gobbled up by Tutt & Tutt.  They thirsted for his blood, having been for years bored by his brains.  They would rather see Caput Magnus made mincemeat of than ninety-nine criminals convicted, even were they guilty of bigamy.

But as yet Caput Magnus was not there.  It was ten-twenty-nine.  The clerk was there; Mr. Higgleby, isosceles, flabby and acephalous as ever, was there; Tutt and Mr. Tutt were there; and Bonnie Doon, and the stenographer and the jury.  And on the front bench the two wives of Higgleby sat, side by side, so frigidly that had that gentleman possessed the gift of prevision he would never have married either of them; Mrs. Tomascene Startup Higgleby and Mrs.—­or Miss—­Alvina Woodcock (Higgleby)—­depending upon the action of the jury.  The entire cast in the eternal matrimonial triangular drama was there except the judge and the prosecutor in the form of Caput Magnus.

And then, preceding the judge by half a minute only, his entrance timed histrionically to the second, he came, like Eudoxia, like a flame out of the east.  In swept Caput Magnus with all the dignity and grace of an Irving playing Cardinal Wolsey.  Haggard, yes; pale, yes; tremulous, perhaps; but nevertheless glorious in a new cutaway coat, patent-leather shoes, green tie, a rosebud blushing from his lapel, his hair newly cut and laid down in beautiful little wavelets with pomatum, his figure erect, his chin in air, a book beneath his arm, his right hand waving in a delicate gesture of greeting; for Caput had taken O’Leary’s suggestion seriously, and had purchased that widely known and authoritative work to which so many eminent barristers owe their entire success—­“How to Try a Case”—­and in it he had learned that in order to win the hearts of the jury one should make oneself beautiful.

“What in hell’s he done to himself?” gasped O’Leary to O’Brien.

“He’ll make a wonderful corpse!” whispered the latter in response.

“Order in the court!  His Honor the Judge of General Sessions!” bellowed an officer at this moment, and the judge came in.

Everybody got up.  He bowed.  Everybody bowed.  Everybody sat down again.  A few, deeply affected, blew their noses.  Then His Honor smiled genially and asked what business there was before the court, and the clerk told him that they were all there to try a man named Higgleby for bigamy, and the judge, nodding at Caput, said to go ahead and try him.