“. . . And so, gentlemen, your verdict will be either ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty on the ground of insanity.’ You may retire!”
But the jury showed no disposition to retire. Instead, the foreman whispered to the man beside him, who in turn communicated with his neighbour, who did likewise, until the circle had been completed. Then the foreman looked up at the judge and said:
“Unless the law requires us to go out we don’t need to leave the box.”
“I will receive your verdict,” said His Honor, who felt positive that under the circumstances nobody could possibly criticise his conduct of the case.
The foreman stood up.
“We find the defendant ‘not guilty—on the ground of insanity’—and,” he added with asperity, “we would like to find the gas company guilty of manslaughter, if that is correct.”
“I will receive the first part of your verdict—and treat the rest as a recommendation,” smiled the judge. “I congratulate you, gentlemen. I thank you for your attention. I think that is all for the day?—The defendant is discharged.”
“. . . With the thanks of the court!” murmured Mr. Redmond as they all arose. Then stepping to the dais he asked humbly: “May I take you home in a taxi, Miss Devens?”
And so the monads who composed the jury, and who had neither heard nor listened to the law, and who neither understood it nor could have understood it, nor applied it if they had got it into their heads, these twelve monads, being human monads, did what the human emotions within their bosoms directed them to do.
The judge nodded to Mr. Dollar.
“Adjourn court,” he directed.
Captain Lynch lifted his goatee ceilingward.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! This court stands adjourned until Monday morning at ten o’clock!”
As if a stop-cock had been pulled in the bottom of an aquarium, the contents of the Criminal Term began to run out—at first sucking away only those nearest the entrance, then as the current strengthened, pulling them all into the aisles and leaving only the lees upon the benches: Mr. Wilhelm Ganz, the woman in chinchilla, a punctilious drunk, and a “nut” with a package of papers tied in a newspaper who wanted “to speak to the judge just for a minute.”
His Honor, now at last relieved of all official responsibility, shook hands cordially with Miss Devens.
“Sorry we couldn’t give you a more thrilling afternoon. Look in on us again. Remember me kindly to your father.” The shining pink spot of his cranium bobbed down the three steps of the dais above the flying carpet of his gown and disappeared into the robing-room. At the other end of the aquarium the fish were wriggling in a solid mass through the big doors.
“Quiet there!” admonished the officer. “Stop your shoving!”
A cold shaft of air pierced the sickly-sweet atmosphere. A sallow law clerk, with an armful of books, hunched his shoulders to light a cigarette.
Miss Devens was looking past the gallant Mr. Michael Redmond at the group clustered around Renig and his attorney.
“Take me home?” she repeated. “Oh, my own motor is waiting, thank you.”
“May I come to see you sometime?”
“Oh, do.” She was barely polite. “What is the name of that young lawyer?”
“Dillon—Hugh Dillon. He is with Hoyle and O’Hara.”
From the counsel table Dillon saw the girl pull her sables about her white round neck. He also noted, with unconscious satisfaction, the dismissal in her gesture, and how Mr. Redmond imperceptibly dissolved into the group about Mr. Dollar. But his mind was occupied with Renig. The fellow was a nervous wreck, and another family had already moved into his flat. He might lend him a blanket and let him sleep on the sofa in the office for a night or two. Then he saw the reporters step aside to allow the redheaded girl, who had been sitting beside the judge, to approach. Why should she come hanging around? It annoyed him even more than her gratuitous presence. Why couldn’t she have the decency—having paraded her vulgar curiosity all the afternoon—to take herself off? Still, he was not unconscious of the fact that she was pretty in a bizarre, theatrical sort of way. He could see “Deacon” Terry of The Tribune extending a wicked ear, and Charley White of The Sun drifting innocently in their direction.
“Mr. Dillon?”
A wisp of auburn hair had escaped the rim of her small toque, the rich colour in vivid contrast with her pellucid skin and the strange blue of her eyes. Somewhere, when on leave in Paris, he had seen a picture of a woman with that sort of colouring, and it had taken his fancy—in the Louvre, maybe, or was it the Luxembourg? He got to his feet.
“My name is Devens—Moira Devens. I would like to do something for Mr. Renig.” Her voice was low, her manner contained.
He felt somehow impelled to do as she wished. Without replying, he turned to the ashen face of the man beside him, who was staring vacantly at the Blind Goddess.
“This lady wants to talk to you, Paul!”
“I don’t feel like talkin’!”
Miss Devens sat down on the other side of the table and leaned forward on her arms.
“Mr. Renig, I want you to let me help you.”
Renig, for the first time since his trial had begun, stopped the slow rhythmic movement of his jaws.
“That’s all right, miss. I can make out.”
“But I— Oh, please, isn’t there anything I can do?” The reporters made a semicircle behind her.
“Speak up, Paul!” urged Charley White. “Don’t be bashful. We all know you’re broke.”
The muscles of Renig’s face twitched. Then he muttered something to Dillon, studiously looking away from the girl meanwhile.
“Mr. Renig tells me,” said Hugh, “that if you really want to help him, there is one thing he feels very deeply about—he owns only the old yellow suit he has on. He would like to wear black for his wife and child.”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” suddenly sobbed Renig, dropping his face in his hands. “Oh, Jesus!” he rasped, as he searched in his pocket for a handkerchief.
Dillon put his arm about him.
“Buck up, old man!”
The girl opened a bag of gold mesh and took from it a roll of yellow bills.
“Please take this!” she said, pushing it under Renig’s sleeve. “It will keep you going for a while.”
Renig fingered the money in bewilderment.
“Five hundred dollars!—My wife and baby are dead from a leak in the gas, and you give me five hundred dollars? Is that straight?”
“Sure, she’s a rich woman!” interjected “Deacon” Terry, with a prophetic vision of a full column on the morrow’s front page.
“But why—should you give me five hundred dollars?”
The girl closed her bag with a snap.
“Because,” she answered half whimsically, “because—well!—for one thing my father happens to be a director of the gas company.”
“Holy Mike!” ejaculated Charley White, searching quickly for his hat, which had rolled under the table. “Let me get to the ’phone!”
At that instant Mr. Wilhelm Ganz, who had been listening attentively, shouldered his way into the group.
“Listen here!” he declared, “if there’s money going ’round how about the seventy-two fifty he owes the company?”