In the
court room he sat waiting and watching.
When the special counsel for the State, a man of great name in the
courts, had finished his insistent persistent cry for the blood of the
silent unemotional Brown, McGregor acted. Springing to his feet he
shouted hoarsely across the silent court room to a large woman sitting
among the witnesses. "They have tricked you Mary," he roared. "The
tale about the pardon after the excitement dies is a lie. They're
stringing you. They're going to hang Andy Brown. Get up there and tell
the naked truth or his blood be on your hands."
A furor arose in the crowded court room. Lawyers sprang to their feet,
objecting, protesting. Above the noise arose a hoarse accusing voice.
"Keep Polk Street Mary and every woman from her place in here," he
shouted. "They know who killed your man. Put them back there on the
stand. They'll tell. Look at them. The truth is coming out of them."
The clamour in the room subsided. The silent red-haired attorney, the
joke of the case, had scored. Walking in the streets at night the
words of Edith Carson had come back into his brain, and with the help
of Margaret Ormsby he had been able to follow a clue given by her
suggestion.
"Find out if your man Brown has a sweetheart."
In a moment he saw the message the women of the underworld, patrons of
O'Toole's, had been trying to convey to him.
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