“There were two rings,” he repeated. “One was a mizpah ring—like this one,” and he drew the ring from his finger. “My mother gave this ring to me long ago. I have always worn it. Miss Cheeseborough admired it, and I gave her one like it for a Christmas present. Then, when we became engaged, she said that should be her engagement ring—she would have no other. But when we came to arrange for our wedding she decided that the mizpah ring should be our wedding ring. It was sentiment,” he added; “it was her wish. And so I bought the second ring, of which Mr. Osborne has just spoken.”
All this was said very simply. There was, however, such pathos in the voice, so fine a sincerity in the face, that the effect upon the jury and upon the audience was extraordinary. It was the first time that Molineux had shown his heart—he held it out for the Assistant District Attorney to peck at. And there was a pause. Mr. Osborne fumbled his papers and hesitated. Then he asked a few unimportant questions, which did not mask his defeat. Abruptly he sat down. The famous duel had been fought and lost. Molineux had outpointed him at every turn. For a while the Mad Mullah of the District Attorney’s office sulked, refusing comfort. In vain Jerome hugged him round the neck and patted his shoulder.
It has lasted fifteen minutes. In that time the case was virtually tried. Osborne’s last attack was not his best. The Apache who goes out for a scalp should not loiter by the way to throw stones at a woman. So far from helping his case by bringing in Mrs. Molineux, he hurt it.
Osborne’s attack upon the prisoner’s wife paved the way for his most telling defeat. It opened the door for Molineux. It permitted him to recount the romance of the ring. It gave him an opportunity to show that there was more in him than a keen and wary brain—that there was a heart. And that went home to the jury. All the world loves love, and a juryman is like the rest of us—part of the world.
He gave Molineux his opportunity, for the man who defends a woman is always in the right.
And he used it superbly. There were no heroics. There was only the story of the ring. There was only romance. There was only a hint of true love and an old love story. That was all, but it turned the truculent prosecutor’s attack into utter defeat. Osborne knew it. Molineux knew it. The great cross-examiner’s promised flaying of Molineux had miscarried. Had Osborne been retained for the defence he could have done no more for the pallid little prisoner. He flung himself into his chair and sat there, gulping ice water, mopping his red face.