The Twelfth Juror
Tumultuously the session was resumed. At the door was a riot. There a squad of police fought back surging nondescripts clamoring for admission, fighting for entrance to the continuous show. A woman fainted. Another had her gown torn off. One man retired with a blackened eye.
During the recess Orr got for a moment with Sylvia and Mrs. Waldron. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.
Sylvia took his hand and pressed it. In her eyes was victory, in her face delight. “I never knew before how Protean you are. You have won.”
Orr tossed his head. “Not by a long shot. Besides, there is the jury. Eleven look imbecile and the twelfth looks ill. There is no telling at all what they will do or will not. But aren’t you to eat anything?” He turned to Mrs. Waldron. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Very,” said the lady, “but I can’t do a thing with Sylvia. I—”
She would have said more, but the jury had filed in. The judge was entering, preceded by the cry “Hats off!”
Orr slipped back to his corner, to which Annandale, with his matinee air and the keeper for usher, had already returned. For a moment Orr bent to him, then to his associates but briefly. Bending again to Annandale he told him to take the stand.
The move, wholly unexpected, unusual, almost exceptional in murder cases, created an impression that was excellent, a sense of admiration for