The Assistant District Attorney glanced down at the papers in his hand and then up at the well-dressed, stockily built man occupying the witness stand. His manner was conciliatory.  
“According to your testimony¹, Mr. Clymer, the prisoner, John Sylvester, was honest and reliable, and faithfully performed his duties as confidential² clerk,” he stated. “Just when was Sylvester in your employ?”
 
“Sylvester was never in my employ,” corrected Benjamin Augustus Clymer. The president of the Metropolis³ Trust Company was noted⁴ for his precision of speech. “During the winter of 1918 I shared an apartment with Judge James Hildebrand, who employed Sylvester.”
 
“Was Sylvester addicted⁵ to drink?”
 
“No.”
 
“Was he quarrelsome?”
 
“No.”
 
“Was Sylvester married at that date?”
 
At the question a faint smile touched the corners of Clymer's clean shaven mouth and his eyes traveled involuntarily toward the over-dressed female whose charge of assault and battery against her husband had brought Clymer to the police court as a “character” witness in Sylvester's behalf.
 
“Sylvester left Judge Hildebrand to get married,” he explained. “He was a model clerk; honest, sober, and industrious⁶.”
 
“That is all, Mr. Clymer.” The Assistant District Attorney spoke⁷ in some haste. “You may retire, sir,” and, as Clymer turned to vacate the witness box, he addressed the presiding judge.
 
Clymer did not catch his remarks as, on stepping down, he was button-holed by a man whose entrance had occurred a few minutes before through the swing door which gave exit from the space reserved for witnesses and lawyers into the body of the court room.
 
“Sit over here a second,” the newcomer said in an undertone, indicating the long bench under the window. “Has Miss McIntyre been here?”
 
“Miss McIntyre—here?” Clymer stared in amazement⁸ at his questioner. “No, certainly not.”
 
“Don't be so positive,” retorted the lawyer heatedly, his color rising at the other's incredulous tone. “Helen McIntyre telephoned me to meet her, and—by Jove, here she comes,” as a slight stir at the back of the court room caused him to glance in that direction.
 
A gray-haired patrolman, cap in hand, was in the lead of the small procession which filed up the aisle⁹, and Clymer gazed in astonishment¹⁰ at Helen McIntyre and her twin sister, Barbara. What had brought them at that hour to the police court?
 
The court room was filled with men, both white and black, while a dozen or more slatternly negro women were seated here and there. The Assistant District Attorney's plea for a postponement¹¹ of the Sylvester case on the ground of the absence of an important witness and the granting of his plea was entirely¹² lost on the majority of those in the court room, their attention being wholly centered on Helen McIntyre and Barbara, whose bearing and clothes spoke of a fashionable and prosperous world to which nearly all present were utterly¹³ foreign.
 
Barbara, sensitive to the concentrated regard which their entrance had attracted, drew closer to Dr. Amos Stone, their family physician, who had accompanied them at her particular request. Except for Mrs. Sylvester, she and her sister were the only white women in the room.
 
Before they could take the seats to which they had been ushered¹⁴, the clerk's stentorian¹⁵ tones sent the girls' names echoing down the court room and Barbara, much perturbed¹⁶, found herself standing¹⁷ with Helen before the clerk's desk. There was a moment's wait and the deputy marshal, who had motioned to one of the prisoners sitting in the “cage” to step outside, emphasized his order with a muttered imprecation to hurry. A slouching figure finally shambled past him and stopped some little distance from the group in front of the Judge's bench.
 
“House-breaking,” announced the clerk. “Charge brought by—” He looked up at the two girls.
 
“Miss Helen McIntyre,” answered one of the twins composedly. “Daughter of Colonel Charles McIntyre of this city.”
 
“Charge brought by Miss Helen McIntyre,” continued the clerk, “against—” and his pointed¹⁸ finger indicated the seedy looking man slouching before them.
 
“Smith,” said the latter, and his husky voice was barely audible.
 
“Smith,” repeated the clerk. “First name—?”
 
“John,” was the answer, given after a slight pause.
 
“John Smith, you are charged by Miss Helen McIntyre with house-breaking. What say you—guilty or not guilty?”
 
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and shot an uneasy look about him.
 
“Not guilty,” he responded.
 
At that instant Helen caught sight of Benjamin Clymer and his companion, Philip Rochester, and her pale cheeks flushed faintly at the lawyer's approach. He had time but for a hasty handshake before the clerk administered the oath to the prisoner and the witnesses in the case.
 
Rochester walked back and resumed his seat by Clymer. Propping¹⁹ himself in the corner made by the bench and the cage, inside of which sat the prisoners, he opened his right hand and unfolded a small paper. He read the brief penciled message it contained not once but a dozen times. Folding the paper into minute dimensions he tucked it carefully inside his vest pocket and glanced sideways at Clymer. The banker hardly noticed his uneasy movements as he sat regarding Helen McIntyre standing in the witness box. Although paler than usual, the girl's manner was quiet, but Clymer, a close student of human nature, decided²⁰ she was keeping her composure by will power alone, and his interest grew.
 
The Judge, from the Bench, was also regarding the handsome witness and the burglar with close attention. Colonel Charles McIntyre, a wealthy manufacturer, had, upon his retirement²¹ from active business, made the National Capital his home, and his name had become a household word for philanthropy, while his twin daughters were both popular in Washington's gay younger set. Several reporters of local papers, attracted by the mention of the McIntyre name, as well as by the twins' appearance, watched the scene with keen expectancy²², eager for early morning “copy.”
 
As the Assistant District Attorney rose to question Helen McIntyre, the Judge addressed him.
 
“Is the prisoner represented by counsel?” he asked.
 
For reply the burglar shook his head. Rising slowly to his feet, Philip Rochester advanced to the man's side.
 
“If it please the court,” he began, “I will take the case for the prisoner.”
 
His offer received a quick acceptance from the Bench, but the scowl²³ with which the burglar favored him was not pleasant. Hitching²⁴ at his frayed²⁵ ............