The newspaper men ganged him. He was photographed—alone. His client was forgotten. He rather enjoyed having his picture in the papers. He made a good picture, looked precisely what a great criminal lawyer is supposed to look like. He was fifty, and he showed it, but not a few of the youthful reporters about him would have given up their youth for that distinguished countenance. Such a man as Sanders would have to be very shrewd to live up to his face.
"A statement to the press, Mr. Sanders?"
The newspaper men fawned. Sanders' brow wrinkled slightly as he drew upon the reservoir of his memory for another of his well rehearsed bits of impromptu wit.
"My distinguished opponent, District Attorney Roberts," he said lightly, "has hinted rather bluntly that in the conduct of this case I have not had justice on my side. You may say to the imbeciles who read your newspapers that any man may go ahead when he is sure he is right, but it takes a good lawyer to go ahead when he's sure he's wrong."
With that off his chest, Jason Sanders walked away.
The several persons who made obsequious way for him as he entered the elevator strained their ears to make out his mumbling. They failed. They would doubtless have succeeded had they been close by when District Attorney Roberts announced so heatedly: "There will be one murderer you won't get off, and that will be your own!" For it was this that Jason Sanders repeated as he rode downstairs.
Outside, his chauffeur awaited him, smiling broadly. The chauffeur shared vicariously the celebrity of his employer and felt a personal triumph in this latest victory.
"Great goin', boss!"
Sanders tried deperately not to show his pleasure at this very sincere flattery. It irked him to know that he was really fond of this big fellow. All his life he had tried to care as little about as few people as possible. Whenever he began to love his fellow men he knew he was drunk and went home to bed. Nevertheless he beamed. He would have to give the chauffeur an extra day off.
He had placed one foot on the running-board of his limousine when he felt a hand upon his sleeve. He turned quickly with annoyance.
His features relaxed with recognition. The thin, tapering fingers that clutched his arm were those of the sallow, sickly youth who had sat all through the trial with the district attorney.
"Hello, Costello," said Sanders patiently. "What can I do for you?"
Costello did not answer. He withdrew his hand and thrust it into an outside coat pocket. When it was withdrawn it contained a small single-shot pistol of foreign make. The little barrel was pointed directly at Sanders' heart.
With his arm Sanders carelessly restrained his chauffeur, who had made a vigorous movement forward.
"Here, here, Costello!" he said indulgently. "This is no way for you to behave! I've only done my duty for my client. You say he killed your sister. The jury has just said he didn't. That's that. So put away that toy pistol and shake hands."
Costello's lips quivered slightly as he watched Sanders extend his hand. Then he shot Sanders through the heart.
Lying alone in that strange room, Sanders was in a panic. How long he had been there he did not know. He had awakened a few minutes ago and tried to sit up. But he had been unable to do so. At first he had not been seriously per-
