“Well, you see, Mr. Charlton, this is precisely a case in which we will not accept a pitched battle, if we can help it.  After a while, when the prosecuting parties feel less bitter toward you, we might get some of the evidence mislaid, out of the way, or get some friend on the jury, or—­well, we might manage somehow to dodge trial on the case as it stands.  Experience is worth a great deal in these things.”

“There are, then, two possibilities for me,” said Charlton very quietly.  “I can run away, or we may juggle the evidence or the jury.  Am I right?”

“Or, we can go to prison?” said Conger, smiling.

“I will take the latter alternative,” said Charlton.

“Then you owe it to me to plead guilty, and relieve me from responsibility.  If you plead guilty, we can get a recommendation of mercy from the court.”

“I owe it to myself not to plead guilty,” said Charlton, speaking still gently, for his old imperious and self-confident manner had left him.

“Very well,” said Mr. Conger, rising, “if you take your fate into your own hands in that way, I owe it to myself to withdraw from the case.”

“Very well, Mr. Conger.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Charlton!”

“Good-morning, Mr. Conger.”

And with Mr. Conger’s disappearance went Albert’s last hope of escape.  The battle had been fought, and lost—­or won, as you look at it.  Let us say won, for no man’s case is desperate till he parts with manliness.

Charlton had the good fortune to secure a young lawyer of little experience but of much principle, who was utterly bewildered by the mystery of the case, and the apparently paradoxical scruples of his client, but who worked diligently and hopelessly for him.  He saw the flaw in the indictment and pointed it out to Charlton, but told him that as it was merely a technical point he would gain nothing but time.  Charlton preferred that there should be no delay, except what was necessary to give his counsel time to understand the case.  In truth, there was little enough to understand.  The defense had nothing left to do.

When Albert came into court he was pale from his confinement.  He looked eagerly round the crowded room to see if he could find the support of friendly faces.  There were just two.  The Hoosier Poet sat on one of the benches, and by him sat Isa Marlay.  True, Mr. Plausaby sat next to Miss Marlay, but Albert did not account him anything in his inventory of friends.

Isabel wondered how he would plead.  She hoped that he did not mean to plead guilty, but the withdrawal of Conger from the case filled her with fear, and she had been informed by Mr. Plausaby that he could refuse to plead altogether, and it would be considered a plea of not guilty.  She believed him innocent, but she had not had one word of assurance to that effect from him, and even her faith had been shaken a little by the innuendoes and suspicions of Mr. Plausaby.