FROM THE LIFE
for leaving the jury-list, passed the rail, and came down the court-room aisle toward the ex-policeman. He came toward Arnett also, and the sculptor half rose from his seat before he realized that Wickson was not aware of him. There was a look of solemn friendliness and sympathy in the District Attorney's face as he went by—a look that ignored Arnett and yet moved him to turn and watch.
Wickson put his hand on Cooney's shoulder. "I'm glad to see you out again, Cooney," he said. "I've been mighty sorry for what happened. I had to do it. We all have to do things sometimes that we don't want to do. But if I can help you in any way now, I want to know it."
Cooney scowled up at him out of bloodshot and befuddled eyes, dropped the puffed lids sulkily, and muttered something unintelligible.
"I've never felt it was your fault," Wickson went on. "I know what it is to be a policeman in this town. I know what the conditions are. If you think of any way that I can help you to make a fresh start, come and see me, will you?"
Cooney looked up again, and there was the beginning of a maudlin self-pity in his bleary gaze.
"I don't want to fight vice any more," Wickson said—with his absurd seriousness that never saw itself incongruous in any circumstances. "I want to fight the conditions that make vice."
But by this time Collins had seen what had hap-
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