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 The Man who Changed his Plea
The dignified-looking usher, holding his long black rod in one hand and dressed with the formality which his position demanded, after a few seconds of silent waiting leaned towards the Judge. The latter, wearing all the paraphernalia of his almost sacred office, had sunk a little forward in his chair and was watching through half-closed eyes the thickly packed crowd of men and women who had risen to their feet in anticipation of his departure. The echo of the prisoner's shout which had rung through the court a few seconds before seemed to be still vibrating in the air...
 

 Mr. Mirakel
Mademoiselle was seated at the extreme end of an ornate but crudely fashioned wooden bench very near the corner of the seafront at Cintra. Monsieur had been seated in thoughtful silence a dozen feet away for some time. There came a moment, however, when he rose slowly to his feet and, with a little bow and his hat in his hand, addressed her. It was the first time that the silence had been broken between them. Perhaps that was as well, for they were strangers.
"Mademoiselle," he began.
Mademoiselle half rose to her feet with an indignant little flutter of her skirt and an angry frown. "Mademoiselle will pardon me," he continued, speaking English, but with an accent which pronounced his southern nationality...

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