important, if not vitally necessary, position with the defendant company, he felt, as he expressed it, that he should be present to hearten up counsel in the case, and to give moral encouragement and protection to his father on whom a heavy verdict might fall with peculiar severity. With one hand ungloved, toying with his cane, he had sat and listened, with apparently deep interest, to Westgate's speech. But whether the lawyer's eloquence or the face of the plaintiff's wife was the greater attraction, it would have been difficult to discover. For, while his ears appeared to be attuned to the one, his eyes were certainly fixed upon the other, and his gaze was one of distinct admiration.
When Westgate concluded his address and took his seat, Barry turned to the rector and whispered:
"Great speech, that of Phil's, wasn't it?"
"Yes," replied the rector. "From the standpoint of clear logic it was faultless."
"Too bad he couldn't have had twelve men with brains and education to take it in. Trying a case before an ordinary jury is more or less of a farce. Really, you know, the law ought to be so changed that only men of unusual intelligence, men with property interests of their own, could sit on a jury."
The rector smiled. He was well aware of Barry's undemocratic tendencies, and he knew just as well that to argue the point with him would be quite futile. Nevertheless, he said:
"Oh, I don't know! It seems to me that heart and conscience should count for something in the jury box."
"Ah," replied Barry, "there's your mistake. Cases should be decided according to law and logic, not according to sentiment. Take this case, now. Here's a devilish—I beg your pardon!—an extraordinarily handsome woman, of the same general social class as most of the jurors. Plaintiff's wife, you know. She goes to the stand and tells a moving tale of hardship and suffering. Sits there and turns eloquent eyes from
