a table, upon which was a bottle filled with water with a glass fitting over the top of it.
"The atmosphere of this place makes one feel ill," said Northcote, when the constable had borne away Mr. Whitcomb's card.
"They have another apartment which will make you feel a lot worse than this," said that gentleman cheerfully, unbuttoning his coat and providing himself with a chair. "Take a seat and make yourself quite at home. It will take our polite friend with the hair at least three-quarters of an hour to penetrate through morasses of red tape and officialdom in its most concentrated form into the governor's parlor and then to get back again to us. I have known him take an hour."
"Good Lord," said Northcote, "I shall be dead long before that."
"Pretend you are Dante, and try to think out the first canto of your 'Inferno,'" said Mr. Whitcomb, taking a crumpled copy of the Law Journal out of his coat, fixing his glass, and proceeding to peruse it with admirable spirit and amiability.
Northcote remained standing. He was too completely the victim of the emotions that had been excited in him to simulate composure. He walked up and down the room in nervous agitation, and examined the bare walls and the grated window.
"I see they have revived this flatulent controversy in regard to the value of circumstantial evidence in the capital charge," said Mr. Whitcomb.
"One would certainly say it ought always to be admitted under the greatest reserve," said Northcote.
