“May it please the Court,” said Mr. Cavendish, “after the disgraceful confessions of the witness, and the revelation of his criminal character, it will not comport with my own self-respect to question him further.”

“Paddlin’ off, eh?” said Jim, with a comical smile.

“Witness,” said the Judge, “be silent and step down.”

“No ’fense, Jedge, I hope?”

“Step down, sir.”

Jim saw that matters were growing serious.  He liked the Judge, and had intended, in some private way, to explain the condition of his hair as attributable to his fright on being called into Court as a witness, but he was obliged to relinquish his plan, and go back to his seat.  The expression of his face must have been most agreeable to the spectators, for there was a universal giggle among them which called out the reproof of the Court.

“Helen Dillingham” was next called for.  At the pronunciation of her name, and her quiet progress through the court-room to the stand, there was a hush in which nothing was heard but the rustle of her own drapery.  Mr. Belcher gasped, and grew pale.  Here was the woman whom he madly loved.  Here was the woman whom he had associated with his scheme of European life, and around whom, more and more, as his difficulties increased and the possibilities of disaster presented themselves, he had grouped his hopes and gathered his plans.  Had he been the dupe of her cunning?  Was he to be the object of her revenge?  Was he to be betrayed?  Her intimacy with Harry Benedict began to take on new significance.  Her systematic repulses of his blind passion had an explanation other than that which he had given them.  Mr. Belcher thought rapidly while the formalities which preceded her testimony were in progress.

Every man in the court-room leaned eagerly forward to catch her first word.  Her fine figure, graceful carriage and rich dress had made their usual impression.

“Mrs. Dillingham,” said the Judge, with a courteous bow and gesture, “will you have the kindness to remove your veil?”

The veil was quietly raised over her hat, and she stood revealed.  She was not pale; she was fresh from the woods, and in the glory of renewed health.  A murmur of admiration went around the room like the stirring of leaves before a vagrant breeze.

“Mrs. Dillingham,” said Mr. Balfour, “where do you reside?”

“In this city, sir.”

“Have you always lived here?”

“Always.”

“Do you know Paul Benedict?”

“I do, sir.”

“How long have you known him?”

“From the time I was born until he left New York, after his marriage.”

“What is his relation to you?”

“He is my brother, sir.”

Up to this answer, she had spoken quietly, and in a voice that could only be heard through the room by the closest attention; but the last answer was given in a full, emphatic tone.