"Eleven jury-men were
for acquittal, I am told, and the twelfth, a fellow named Jock Hibben
talked them over."
"Jock Hibben? I know the man. A radical Socialist who has been giving
us some trouble at the university. Quite an orator, I believe, but a
fanatic. You have made a motion for a new trial?"
"It has been refused."
"Indeed! And you appeal it, of course?"
"Yes."
"The decision is bound to be reversed," the Doctor assured him, "and
the second trial will go in your favor. I have never doubted the
ultimate outcome. What is that scratching noise?"
Miss Lady, who was just entering, paused to listen, then she suddenly
set the cup she carried on the table, and flung open the door.
A long, shaggy, disheveled dog, with small, sad eyes, and a stub of a
tail, hurled himself upon her, and began rapturously to lick her
hands.
"It's Mike," she cried joyously, sitting on the floor and gathering
her muddy visitor into her arms. "I knew he'd find out we were home.
Oh! you blessed, blessed dog!"
Mike, unable to restrain his transports, made a mad tour of the room,
upsetting the stack of manuscript that the Doctor had neatly arranged
on a stand beside him.
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