When it came time for him to speak, he told a straight story about his own actions on that night, and he was corroborated by Allan; but he knew that their words had little weight against that other testimony.  Of course, he was remanded for trial, and that night the newspapers of the city were crowded with columns of sensational reading-matter bearing upon the crime.

Anson, the lawyer, gave him a ray of encouragement as he left.

“Don’t go too much on this hearing,” he said.  “I think we’ll pull you out all right.”

“You think!  I dare say Ramon Alfarez can get a dozen men to perjure themselves as easily as he got those two.”

“Exactly.  But I have a little coup that I intend to spring at the right moment.”

“For Heaven’s sake, tell me what it is.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t just yet.  In the first place, one must handle these people exactly right or they explode.”

“But give me an idea at least.  I’m really interested in the outcome of this case, you know.”

Anson smiled.  “Of course you are, and I’ll tell you as soon as I can, but not now.”

“These Spiggoties would enjoy standing me up against a wall with my head in a rag—­they’d make it a holiday and ring all the bells in town.”

“I can’t assure you that it isn’t serious,” Anson acknowledged, gravely, “for it is—­any time an American goes to court in this country it is serious—­but that doesn’t mean that we’ll lose.”

“You may be a good lawyer,” said Kirk, ruefully, “but you’re a blamed poor comforter.  I—­I wish my dad was here; he’d fix it.  He wouldn’t let ’em convict me.  He’s great, my dad is.  He can swear—­ like the devil.”  His voice caught, and his eyes were unusually bright as he turned away to hide his emotions.  “I like him better than any man I’ve ever met, Anson.  And you watch him come when he hears I’m in trouble.”

He wrote a lengthy cablegram, which the lawyer, with a peculiar smile, agreed to despatch at once.  He spent a sleepless night.  In the morning a message came signed by Copley—­Kirk’s heart leaped at the familiar name—­saying that Darwin K. Anthony had left Albany for the West on Sunday night, and could not be located for a few days.

“He was never gone when I needed money,” the son mused.  “He’ll be worried when he hears about this, and he has enough to worry him as it is.  I’m mighty sorry, but—­I simply must have him.”

Anson brought in the day’s papers, which alluded, as usual, to Cortlandt’s death as a murder, and printed their customary sensational stories, even to a rehash of all that had occurred at the stag supper.  This in particular made Kirk writhe, knowing as he did that it would reach the eyes of his newly made wife.  He also wondered vaguely how Edith Cortlandt was bearing up under all this notoriety.  The lawyer brought the further news that Allan was in captivity as an accessory to the crime, and that henceforth Kirk need expect but few visitors.  Somebody—­probably Ramon Alfarez—­had induced the officials to treat their prisoner with special severity.