speaking, to hesitate before his words, and, when he did answer, to
betray in his tone no great amount of confidence. He looked weary and
somewhat crestfallen, as if his will were being broken down, or
subjected to a severe strain, the truth being ground out of him by some
irresistible process.

"That's John Steele cross-examining now!" Captain Forsythe whispered to
the girl. "And that's Dandy Joe, as he's called, one of the police
spies, cheap race-track man and so on, in the box. He came to the front
in a murder trial quite celebrated in its day, and one I always had my
own little theory about. Not that it matters now!" he added with a sigh.

But the girl was listening to another voice, a clear voice, a quiet
voice, a voice capable of the strongest varying accents. She looked at
the speaker; he held himself with the assurance of one certain of his
ground. His shoulders were straight and broad; he stood like an athlete,
and, when he moved, it was impossible to be unconscious of a certain
physical grace that came from well-trained muscles. He carried his head
high, as if from a habit of thought, of looking up, not down, when he
turned from the pages of the heavy tomes in his study; his face conveyed
an impression of intelligence and intensity; his eyes, dark, deep,
searched fully those they rested on.

He had reached a point in his cross-examination where he had almost
thoroughly discredited this witness for the prosecution, when turning
toward a table to take up a paper, his glance, casually lifting, rested
on the distinguished party in the rear of the room, or rather it rested
on one of them. Against the dark background, the girl's golden hair was
well-calculated to catch the wandering gaze; the flowers in her hat, the
great bunch of violets in her dress added insistent alluring bits of