“Pardon me!” interrupted the foreman petulantly.  “Which is the lady you mean was married to the defendant in New York?  You said she was sitting by the other lady and that you meant the one with the red feather, but you didn’t say whether the one with the red feather was the other lady or the one you were talking about.”

Caput gagged and turned pink.

“I—­I—­” he stammered.  “The lady in the red bonnet is—­the—­New York lady.”

“You mean she isn’t his wife although the defendant went through the form of marriage with her, because he was already married to another,” suggested His Honor.  “You might, I think, put things a little more simply.  However, do it your own way.”

“Ye-es, Your Honor.”

“Go on.”

But Caput was lost—­hopelessly.  Every vestige of the composure so laboriously acquired at Madam Winterbottom’s salon had evaporated.  He felt as if he were swinging in midair hitched to a scudding aeroplane by a rope about his middle.  The mucous membranes of his throat were as dry and as full of dust as the entrails of a carpet sweeper.  His vision was blurred and he had no control over his muscles.  Weakly he leaned against the table in front of the jury, the room swaying about him.  The pains of hell gat hold upon him.  He was dying.  Even the staff felt compunction—­all but the Honorable Peckham.

Judge Russell quickly sensed the situation.  He was a kindly man, who had pulled many an ass out of the mire of confusion.  So with a glance at Mr. Tutt he came to Caput’s rescue.

“Let us see, Mr. Magnus,” he remarked pleasantly; “suppose you prove the Illinois marriage first.  Is Mrs. Higgleby in court?”

Both ladies started from their seats.

“Mrs. Tomascene Higgleby,” corrected His Honor.  “Step this way, please, madam!”

The former Miss Startup made her way diffidently to the witness chair and in a faint voice answered the questions relative to her marriage of the preceding spring as put to her by the judge.  Mr. Tutt waved her aside and Caput Magnus felt returning strength.  He had expected and prepared for a highly technical assault upon the legality of the ceremony performed in Cook County.  He had anticipated every variety and form of question.  But Mr. Tutt put none.  He merely smiled benignly upon Caput in an avuncular fashion.

“Have you no questions, Mr. Tutt?” inquired His Honor.

“None,” answered the lawyer.

“Then prove the bigamous marriage,” directed Judge Russell.

Then rose at the call of justice, militantly and with a curious air of proprietorship in the overmarried defendant, the wife or maiden who in earlier days had answered to the name of Alvina Woodcock.  Though she was the injured party and though the blame for her unfortunate state rested entirely upon Higgleby, her resentment seemed less directed toward the offending male than toward the Chicago lady who was his lawful