The moment he was sworn, Miles Feversham was on his feet.  He held in his hand a magazine, in which during the recess, he had been engrossed, and his forefinger kept the place.

“I object to this witness,” he said sonorously and waited while a stir, like a gust of wind in a wood, swept the courtroom, and the jury straightened, alert.  “I object, not because he defrauded the widow of David Weatherbee out of her half interest in the Aurora mine, though, gentlemen, you know this to be an open fact, but for the reason that he is a criminal, self-confessed, who should be serving a prison sentence, and a criminal’s testimony is not allowable in a United States court.”

Before he finished speaking, or the Court had recovered from the shock, Mr. Bromley had taken a bundle of papers from his pocket and stepped close to the jury box.

“This is an infamous fabrication,” he exclaimed.  “It was calculated to surprise us, but it finds us prepared.  In ten minutes we shall prove it was planned six months ago to defame the character of the Government’s witness at this trial.  I have here, gentlemen, a copy of the Alaska record showing the transfer of David Weatherbee’s interest in the Aurora mine to Hollis Tisdale; it bears the signature of his wife.  But this extract from Mr. Tisdale’s will, which was drawn shortly after his return from Alaska, last year, and while he was dangerously ill in Washington, proves how far it was from his intention to defraud the widow of David Weatherbee.”  Here Mr. Bromley read the clause.

Tisdale, standing at ease, with his hand resting on his chair, glanced from the attorney to Foster.  No mask covered his transparent face; the dark circles under his fine, expressive eyes betrayed how nearly threadbare his hope was worn.  Then, suddenly, in the moment he met Tisdale’s look, wonder, swift intelligence, contrition, and the gratitude of his young, sorely tried spirit flashed from his countenance.  To Hollis it became an illuminated scroll.

“As to the main charge,” resumed Mr. Bromley, “that is ridiculous.  It is based on an unfortunate accident to an Indian child years ago.  The distorted yarn was published in a late issue of a sensational magazine.  No doubt, most of you have read it, since it was widely circulated.  Different—­isn’t it?—­from that other story of Mr. Tisdale which came down from Cascade tunnel.  Gentlemen, I have the letter that was enclosed with the manuscript that was submitted to Sampson’s Magazine.  It was not written by the author, James Daniels, but by a lady, who had offered to dispose of the material for him, and who, without his knowledge, substituted a revised copy.”