perceive them; then, as her eyes met the prisoner’s, she half started from her chair, her face like marble. As for Jimmy, Godfrey was astonished to perceive the fascinated gaze he bent upon Miss Croydon. What was the connection between them? Where could they possibly have met? Was Jimmy guilty, after all? Certainly Simmonds had no longer any doubt of it, to judge by his beatific expression of countenance.
It was over in an instant—Miss Croydon gripped back her self-control and the prisoner managed to remove his eyes from her; but Goldberg had perceived their agitation, and the gaze he bent upon the witness grew perceptibly more stern.
“Miss Croydon,” he began, “you have described the guilty man as short and heavy-set with a dark moustache turning up at the ends. Look at the prisoner before you—is he the man?”
“He is not,” replied the witness in a firm voice and without an instant’s hesitation.
Jimmy was again watching her with expressive eyes.
“You are sure?”
“Perfectly sure; there is little or no resemblance.”
“You do not know the prisoner?”
“No, sir; I have never before seen him.”
“He was talking with the janitor last night when you entered the Marathon.”
“I had on a heavy veil at the time and could not see distinctly.”
The answers came promptly, calmly. Goldberg hesitated and glanced at Simmonds’s crestfallen, face. Was he justified in pushing her further? He glanced
