Entering the village of Hedgewood, the limousine slowed down somewhat and came to a smooth stop in front of the courthouse. The gray-haired man embarked with surprising agility and entered the building. In ten minutes he came out again. His face wore a puzzled, incredulous expression, but it was wreathed in smiles. Something had evidently just been told him which he was finding difficult to comprehend.
"Ask somebody where Carmelita Drake's cottage is and then drive there," he instructed the chauffeur. The chauffeur questioned a lounger upon the low concrete wall enclosing the lawn in front of the courthouse, and five other loungers came forth eagerly to answer his question. The cottage of Carmelita Drake had become a show-place over night.
"By Jove, it's wonderful," the gray-haired man was telling his companion as the machine started again. "The trial is over and he has been acquitted. I don't understand it, but they tell me Carmelita confessed at the last minute that she was guilty of the shooting. Entirely justified, of course,—the Hindu branded her upon the back, a fearful sight they tell me. She showed the brand to the jury, and the whole courtroom went mad. A miracle."
"Carmelita—guilty?" the other man was repeating. He seemed unwilling to believe it.
