The note was written and despatched in care of the glowering bailiff, who, it seems, had an engagement to go to the movies that evening and couldn’t believe his ears when he ascertained that the boobs had not yet agreed upon a verdict in what he regarded as the clearest case that had ever come under his notice.

In the meantime, the third juror explained his vote for acquittal.  He was a large, heavy-jowled man with sandy mustache and a vacancy among his upper teeth into which a pipe-stem fitted neatly.  He was the superintendent of an apartment building in Lenox Avenue.

“I think it’s a frame-up,” he said, pausing to use the bicuspid vacancy for the purpose of expectoration.  “That’s what I think it is.  Now I’m in a position as superintendent of a flat building to know a lot about what goes on among the bachelor tenants.  I ain’t sayin’ that the prisoner didn’t go to Mr. What’s-His-Name’s flat without an invitation.  You bet your life he wasn’t expected, if my guess is correct.  I tell you what I think,—­and my opinion ought to be worth a lot, lemme tell you,—­I think there’s something back of all this that wasn’t brought out in the trial.  Now here’s something I bet not one of you fellers has thought about.  What evidence is there that this Chancy woman is that deaf man’s sister?  Not a blamed word of evidence, except their own statement.  She ain’t his sister any more than I am.  Did you ever see two people that looked less like they was related to each other?  You bet you didn’t.  Now I got a hunch that the prisoner follered her to that guy’s apartment.  What for, I don’t know.  Maybe for blackmail.  He got onto what was goin’ on, and makes up his mind to rake in a nice bunch of hush-money.  That’s been done a couple of times in the apartment buildin’ I’m superintendent of.  A feller I had workin’ for me as a porter cleaned up five or six hundred dollars that way, he told me.  This robbery business sounds mighty fishy to me.  Now I’m only tellin’ you the way the thing looks to me.  I don’t think that woman is Wollop’s sister any more than she is mine.  It’s a frame-up, the whole thing is.  Look at the way this Wollop says he tied her up and all that.  Humph!—­Can’t you fellers see through this whole business?  He tied her up so’s the police would find her tied up, that’s what he done.  The chances are she’s some woman customer of his that’s got stuck on him, tryin’ hats and all that,—­and maybe gettin’ all the hats she wants for nothin’,—­and this feller Smilk he gets onto the game and goes out for a little money.  See what I mean?”

So loud and so furious was the discussion that followed the extraordinary deductions of Juror No. 9, that the bailiff had to rap half a dozen times before he could make himself heard.  Finally the foreman, purple in the face, called out through the haze of smoke: 

“Come in!”

“The judge says for you to come into the court room for instructions,” announced the officer.  “Never mind your hats and coats.  No cigars, gents.  Leave ’em here.  They’ll be safe.  Come on, now.  It’s nearly time to go to supper.”