An aged, doddering man tottered to the chair. He scarcely spoke in answer to Eades's questions; when he did, it was in the weak, quavering voice of senility. He had no occupation, knew none of the lawyers, had no knowledge of the case, had neither formed nor expressed opinions, and had no scruples against capital punishment.
"You believe that the laws should be executed and upheld?" said Eades in an insinuating tone.
"Heh?" said the old man, leaning forward with an open palm behind his hairy ear.
Eades repeated the question and the fellow nodded.
Marriott turned in disgust from this stupid, senile man who was qualified, as impatiently as Glassford had turned from the intelligent man who was disqualified. And then, just as Walker was making for the jury-box, Marriott used his last peremptory challenge.
A moment later he saw his mistake. Gard was calling a name he knew.
"William A. Broadwell."
The short winter afternoon was closing in. For half an hour shadows had been stealing wearily through the room; the spectators had become a blurred mass, the jurymen lounging in the box had grown indistinct in the gloom. For some time, the green shade of the electric lamp on the clerk's desk had been glowing, but now, as Broadwell came forward, the old bailiff, shuffling across the floor, suddenly switched on the electricity, and group by group, cluster by cluster, the bulbs sprang into light, first in the ceiling, then on the walls, then about the judge's bench. There was a touch of the theatrical in it, for the lights seemed to have been switched on to illuminate the entrance of this important man.
He was sworn and took the witness-chair, which he completely filled, and clasped his white hands across his round paunch with an air that savored of piety and unction. The few gray hairs glistening at the sides of his round bald head gave it a tonsured appearance; fat enfolded his skull, rounding at his temples, swelling on his clean-shaven, monkish cheeks, falling in folds like dewlaps over his linen collar. He sat there with satisfaction, breathing heavily, making no movement, excepting as to his thin lips which he pursed now and then as if to adjust them more and more perfectly to what he considered the proper expression of impeccability. Marriott was utterly sick at heart. For he knew William A. Broadwell, orthodox, formal, eminently respectable, a server on committees, a deacon with certain cheap honors of the churchly kind, a Pharisee of the Pharisees.
In his low solemn voice, pursing his lips nicely after each sentence as if his own words tasted good to him, Broadwell answered Eades's questions; he had no opposition to capital punishment, indeed, he added quite gratuitously, he believed in supporting it; he had great veneration for the law, and--oh, yes, he had read accounts of the murder; read them merely because he esteemed it a citizen's duty to be conversant with affairs of the day, and he had formed opinions as any intelligent man must necessarily.
"But you could lay aside those opinions and reach a conclusion based purely on evidence, of course, Mr. Broadwell?"
"Oh, yes, sir," said Broadwell, with an unctuous smile that deprecated the idea of his being influenced in any but the legitimate way.
"We are thoroughly satisfied with Mr. Broadwell, your Honor," said Eades.
"One minute, Mr. Broadwell," began Marriott.
Glassford looked at Marriott the surprise he felt at his presumption, and Marriott felt an opposition in the room. Broadwell shifted slightly, pursed his lips smugly and looked down on Marriott with his wise benevolence.
"Mr. Broadwell, you say you read the accounts of the tragedy?"
"Yes."
"Did you read all of them?"
"I believe so."
"Read the report of the evidence given on the preliminary hearing?"
"Yes."
"Read the editorials in the _Courier_?"
"Yes."
"You respect its opinions?"
"I do, yes."
"Your pastor preached a sermon on this case, did he not?"
"He made applications of it in an illustrative way."
"Quite edifying, of course?"
Marriott knew he had made a mistake, but the impulse to have this fling had been irresistible. Broadwell bowed coldly.
"And all these things influenced you?"
"Yes."
"Exactly. And on them you have formed an opinion respecting the guilt or innocence of this young man?"
Broadwell cast a hasty sidelong glance at Glassford, as if this had gone quite far enough, but he said patiently:
"Yes."
"And it would require evidence to remove that opinion?"
"I presume it would."
"You know it would, don't you?"
"Yes."
"We submit a challenge for cause, your Honor," said Marriott.
Glassford turned to Broadwell with an air that told how speedily he would make an end of this business.
"You have talked with none of the witnesses, Mr. Broadwell?"
"Oh, no, sir," said Broadwell, smiling at the absurdity.
"The accounts you read were not stenographic reports of the evidence?"
"No, sir; abstracts, rather, I should say."
"Exactly. Were the conclusions you came to opinions, or mere impressions?"
"Mere impressions I should say, your Honor."
"They are not to be dignified by the name of opinions?"
"Hardly, your Honor."
"If they were, you could lay them aside and try this case on its merits, basing your judgment on the evidence as it is adduced, and on the law as the court shall declare it to you?"
"Certainly, your Honor."