In the box Crozier kept his eye on the crown attorney, who prosecuted,
and on the judge. He appeared not to see any one in the court-room,
though Kitty Tynan had so placed herself that he must see her if he
looked at the audience at all. Kitty thought him magnificent as he told
his story with a simple parsimony but a careful choice of words which
made every syllable poignant with effect. She liked him in his grave
mood even better than when he was aflame with an internal fire of his
own creation, when he was almost wildly vivid with life.

"He's two men," she had often said to herself; and she said it now as she
looked at him in the witness-box, measuring out his words and measuring
off at the same time the span of a murderer's life; for when the crown
attorney said to the judge that he had concluded his examination there
was no one in the room--not even the graceless Burlingame--who did not
think the prisoner guilty.

"That is all," the crown attorney said to Crozier as he sank into his
chair, greatly pleased with one of the best witnesses who had ever been
through his hands--lucid, concentrated, exact, knowing just where
he was going and reaching his goal without meandering. Crozier was about
to step down when Burlingame rose.

"I wish to ask a few questions," he said.

Crozier bowed and turned, again grasping the rail of the witness-box with
one hand, while with an air of cogitation and suspense he stroked his
chin with the long fingers of the other hand.

"What is your name?" asked Burlingame in a tone a little louder than he