and made to wait in this, to her, shameful public manner, but she could not help admiring all the more the dignity and superiority of his presence even here.  He was not even pale, as she saw, just the same firm, calm soul she had always known him to be.  If he could only see her now; if he would only look so she could lift her veil and smile!  He didn’t, though; he wouldn’t.  He didn’t want to see her here.  But she would tell him all about it when she saw him again just the same.

The two burglars were quickly disposed of by the judge, with a sentence of one year each, and they were led away, uncertain, and apparently not knowing what to think of their crime or their future.

When it came to Cowperwood’s turn to be called, his honor himself stiffened and straightened up, for this was a different type of man and could not be handled in the usual manner.  He knew exactly what he was going to say.  When one of Mollenhauer’s agents, a close friend of Butler’s, had suggested that five years for both Cowperwood and Stener would be about right, he knew exactly what to do.  “Frank Algernon Cowperwood,” called the clerk.

Cowperwood stepped briskly forward, sorry for himself, ashamed of his position in a way, but showing it neither in look nor manner.  Payderson eyed him as he had the others.

“Name?” asked the bailiff, for the benefit of the court stenographer.

“Frank Algernon Cowperwood.”

“Residence?”

“1937 Girard Avenue.”

“Occupation?”

“Banker and broker.”

Steger stood close beside him, very dignified, very forceful, ready to make a final statement for the benefit of the court and the public when the time should come.  Aileen, from her position in the crowd near the door, was for the first time in her life biting her fingers nervously and there were great beads of perspiration on her brow.  Cowperwood’s father was tense with excitement and his two brothers looked quickly away, doing their best to hide their fear and sorrow.

“Ever convicted before?”

“Never,” replied Steger for Cowperwood, quietly.

“Frank Algernon Cowperwood,” called the clerk, in his nasal, singsong way, coming forward, “have you anything to say why judgment should not now be pronounced upon you?  If so, speak.”

Cowperwood started to say no, but Steger put up his hand.

“If the court pleases, my client, Mr. Cowperwood, the prisoner at the bar, is neither guilty in his own estimation, nor in that of two-fifths of the Pennsylvania State Supreme Court—­the court of last resort in this State,” he exclaimed, loudly and clearly, so that all might hear.

One of the interested listeners and spectators at this point was Edward Malia Butler, who had just stepped in from another courtroom where he had been talking to a judge.  An obsequious court attendant had warned him that Cowperwood was about to be sentenced.  He had really come here this morning in order not to miss this sentence, but he cloaked his motive under the guise of another errand.  He did not know that Aileen was there, nor did he see her.