the reader is not particularly concerned with the progress of the trial, for he has already attended many. It is enough to say that a jury with undershot jaws, who had proved by previous experience their indifference to capital punishment and to all human sympathy, were finally selected and that the witnesses were duly called, and testified to the usual facts, while the Pearl Button Kids and the rest, spitting surreptitiously beneath the benches, eagerly drank in every word. There was nothing for Mr. Tutt to do; nothing for him to deny. The case built itself up, brick by brick. And Shane O'Connell sat there unemotionally, hardly listening. There was nothing in the evidence to reflect in any way upon the honor of the O'Connells in general or in particular. He had done that which that honor demanded and he was ready to pay the penalty—if the law could get him. He assumed that it would get him. So did the Tutts.
But when toward the end of the third day nothing had yet been brought forward to connect him with the crime Tutt leaned over and whispered to Mr. Tutt, "D'ye know, I'm beginning to have a hunch there isn't any case!"
Mr. Tutt made an imperceptible gesture of assent.
"Looks that way," he answered out of the corner of his mouth. "Probably they'll spring the connecting evidence at the end and give us the coup de grâce."
At that moment a police witness was released from the stand and O'Brien stepped to the bench and whispered something to the judge, who glanced at the clock and nodded. It was twenty minutes of four, and the jury were already getting restless, for the trial had developed into a humdrum, cut-and-dried affair.
Miss Beekman sitting far back in the rear of the court room suddenly heard O'Brien call her name, and a quiver of apprehension passed through her body. She had never testified in any legal proceeding, and the idea of getting up before such a crowd of people and answering questions filled her with dismay. It was so public! Still, if it was going to help O'Connell—
"Althea Beekman," bellowed Cap. Phelan, "to the witness chair!"
Althea Beekman! The gentle lady felt as if she had been rudely stripped of all her protective clothing. Althea! Did not the law do her the courtesy of calling her even "Miss"? Nerving herself to the performance of her duty she falteringly made her way between the crowded benches, past the reporters' table, and round back of the jury box. The judge, apparently a pleasant-faced, rather elderly man, bowed gravely to her, indicated where she should sit and administered the oath to her himself, subtly dwelling upon the phrase "the whole truth," and raising his eyes heavenward as he solemnly pronounced the words "so help you God!"
"I do!" declared Miss Beekman primly but decidedly.
Behind her upon the court-room wall towered in its flowing draperies the majestic figure of the Goddess of the Law, blindfolded and holding aloft the scales of justice. Beside her sat in the silken robes of his sacred office a judge who cleverly administered that law to advance his own interests and those of his political associates. In front of her, treacherously smiling, stood the cynical, bullet-headed O'Brien. At a great distance Mr. Tutt leaned on his elbows at a table beside Shane O'Connell. To them she directed her gaze and faintly smiled.
"Miss Beekman," began O'Brien as courteously as he knew how, "you reside, do you not, at Number 1000 Fifth Avenue, in this city and county?"
"I do," she answered with resolution.
"Your family have always lived in New York, have they not?"
"Since 1630," she replied deprecatingly and with more confidence.
"You are prominent in various philanthropic, religious and civic activities?"
"Not prominent; interested," she corrected him.
"And you make a practise of visiting prisoners in the Tombs?"
She hesitated. What could this be leading to?
"Occasionally," she admitted.
"Do you know this defendant, Shane O'Connell?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him on the twenty-third day of last month?"
"I think so—if that was the day."
"What day do you refer to?"
"The day I had the talk with him."
"Oh, you had a talk with him?"
"Yes."
"Where did you have that talk with him?"
"In the counsel room of the Tombs."
O'Brien paused. Even his miserable soul revolted at what he was about to do.
"What did he say?" he asked, nervously looking away.
Something in his hangdog look warned Miss Beekman that she was being betrayed, but before she could answer Mr. Tutt was on his feet.
"One moment!" he cried. "May I ask a preliminary question?"
The court signified acquiescence.
"Was that conversation which you had with the defendant a confidential one?"
"I object to the question!" snapped O'Brien. "The law recognizes no confidential communications as privileged except those made to a priest, a physician or an attorney. The witness is none of these. The question is immaterial and irrelevant."
"That is the law," announced the judge, "but under all the circumstances I will permit the witness to answer."
Miss Beekman paused.
"Why," she began, "of course it was confidential, Mr. Tutt. O'Connell wouldn't have told me anything if he had supposed for one moment I was going to repeat what he said. Besides, I suggested that I might be able to help him. Yes, certainly our talk was confidential."
"I am sorry," gloated O'Brien, "but I shall have to ask you what it was."
"That is not a question," said Mr. Tutt calmly.
"What did the defendant say to you in the counsel room of the Tombs on the twenty-third of last month?" cautiously revised O'Brien.
"I object!" thundered Mr. Tutt, his form towering until seemingly it matched that of the blind goddess in height. "I object to the answer as requiring a breach of confidence which the law could not tolerate."
Judge Babson turned politely to Miss Beekman.
"I regret very much that I shall be obliged to ask you to state what the defendant said to you. You will recall that you yourself volunteered the information that you had had the talk in question. Otherwise"—he coughed and put up his hand—"we might possibly never have learned of it. A defendant cannot deprive the people of the right to prove what he may have divulged respecting his offense merely by claiming that it was in confidence. Public policy could never allow that. It may be unpleasant for you to answer the question but I must ask you to do so."
"But," she protested, "you certainly cannot expect me to betray a confidence! I asked O'Connell to tell me what he had done so that I could help him—and he trusted me!"
"But you are not responsible for the law! He took his chance!" admonished the judge.
Slowly Miss
