The obscure defendant charged with murder has little reason to
complain of the law's delays. The morning following the arrest of
Victor Ancona, the newspapers published long sensational articles,
denounced him as a fiend, and convicted him. The grand jury, as it
happened, was in session. The preliminaries were soon arranged and
the case was railroaded into trial. The indictment contained a
great many counts, and charged the prisoner with the murder of Nina
San Croix by striking, stabbing, choking, poisoning, and so forth.

The trial had continued for three days and had appeared so
overwhelmingly one-sided that the spectators who were crowded in
the court room had grown to be violent and bitter partisans, to
such an extent that the police watched them closely. The attorneys
for the People were dramatic and denunciatory, and forced their
case with arrogant confidence. Mason, as counsel for the prisoner,
was indifferent and listless. Throughout the entire trial he had
sat almost motionless at the table, his gaunt form bent over, his
long legs drawn up under his chair, and his weary, heavy-muscled
face, with its restless eyes, fixed and staring out over the heads
of the jury, was like a tragic mask. The bar, and even the judge,
believed that the prisoner's counsel had abandoned his case.

The evidence was all in and the People rested. It had been shown
that Nina San Croix had resided for many years in the house in
which the prisoner was arrested; that she had lived by herself,
with no other companion than an old negro servant; that her past
was unknown, and that she received no visitors, save the Mexican
sailor, who came to her house at long intervals. Nothing whatever
was shown tending to explain who the prisoner was or whence he had
come. It was shown that on Tuesday preceding the killing the