Courts. Their encounter was entirely a matter of
accident, though Gordon doesn't think so. Nevertheless, the facts are
that Gordon chanced to wander into General Sessions while waiting for
some papers, and happened to find his _bete-noir_ prosecuting a case of
burglary, and it was merely a matter of habit that caused him to study
the prisoner as closely as he did.

The man's face was gentle, and almost expressionless in its vague wonder
at the scene before him. Something had its grip on him--just what he did
not seem to know--but something monstrous and merciless in its
mechanism, and something was being said about him--just what he did not
appear to comprehend.

Gordon watched the listless figure, and the weary droop of the head, and
interpreted for himself.

Perhaps the poor wretch had struggled when arrested, but without
avail--had stormed and protested to the sergeant at the police station,
with no result--had denied and explained to the Magistrate at the
hearing, but to no end. The Law--a hideous Something--resistless in its
power, relentless in its purpose, wanted him. These men--the one on the
Bench, the one behind the rail, those others in uniform--wished him out
of the way. Perhaps he had concluded he could best propitiate them by
giving as little trouble as possible. So he sat there inert and silent,
fascinated into non-resistance, watching the doors of his prison open
somewhat as a rabbit must watch the widening jaws of a snake.

It is impossible to comprehend the feeling without experiencing it, but
Gordon was a lonely sort of man, who sometimes felt himself apart from,
instead of a part of, the universe, and so he understood.

Mr. Assistant District Attorney Willard was presenting his case ably,
handling his points with so much care that Gordon asked the policeman
sitting beside him if the trial was of any importance.

"Importance? Well, I should say so! Don't you see the Chief sitting up
near the rail?"

Gordon glanced in the direction indicated and observed the Chief of
Police, note book in hand, watching every move of the District Attorney.

"Who is he?" he asked, nodding toward the prisoner.

"Why the larrup says his name is Winter--and don't he look innocent?
Well, he's really Red Farrell, a crook we've been after for years. But
there's nothin' much gets by us, I guess.--Eh?"

But Gordon was studying the prisoner again and did not respond.

Winter? Where had he heard that name? Why, of cou