‘Two things are clear—first, that the person who last came into the house, and did up the fastenings, was the prisoner; second, that the prisoner had a latchkey, whether her own one found again or one which she borrowed from Miss Lewis. Now, if the prisoner had committed this murder, let us see what she would naturally have done in trying to throw suspicion off herself.

‘In the first place, I say she would not have fastened up the front-door. To do so was practically saying that the crime was not the work of an outsider. No, she would have left the door wide open, as if the criminal were some common robber who had carried off his booty and run away. In the second place, she would have thrown away her latchkey, so as to make it appear that she had not been outside. These points are so important that, with your permission, I will repeat them again.’

Anyone who has had experience of juries knows how difficult it is to get into their minds a process of logical reasoning. To the trained lawyer such a thing is not so hard, but even to him it is far easier to master reasoning from a book than by word of mouth. Oral teaching has its advantages, doubtless, but few things are harder than to convey ideas of any subtlety by means of speech to an audience.

Tressamer patiently set to work, and for twenty minutes he repeated and explained all that he had been saying. When he thought that the jury really understood him he returned to where he had started from, and re-directed their suspicions on Lewis.

‘Before I sit down I think I ought to suggest to you how this crime really was done. You have heard the story of the prosecution. Now let me put to you my story on behalf of the prisoner.

‘The deceased woman was wealthy. About her jewels we know nothing, and I do not refer to them, but she had other property to a large extent. The whole of this was to go at her death to a nephew. For two years she lived in this house alone night after night with the prisoner, and nothing happened. At last the nephew who was to inherit her wealth suddenly returned from the other end of the world. That night she met her death.

‘At twelve o’clock her companion, who suffered from sleeplessness, went out for a long walk. Hardly had she closed the door behind her than the murderer stole up to it and made his way in. Probably he had a latchkey. We know that Miss Owen had mislaid hers. It may have been that. We also know that Miss Lewis had a spare one, and that her nephew was to take up his residence in the house on the very next morning. So that, mark this, if the murder had been deferred for one more day he would have fallen under the same suspicion as Miss Owen, and probably a good deal more.

‘The murderer entered, as I said, by means of his latchkey. But it was the first time he had used it. He did not know the peculiarity of the latch. He raised it too high, and it stuck.

‘Not staying to notice this, in his wickedness, he passed into the house and upstairs. He tried the door of his aunt’s—I mean the deceased’s—room. It was, of course, locked, as it was found the following morning. He went into the next, Miss Owen’s, which he knew to be empty, having seen her leave the house. Through this he passed into the adjoining chamber. Beneath the bed, in all probability, lay a chest of valuables. Charity would fain suggest that his first intention was merely to steal these, and that the blacker crime was, in a sense, forced upon him by the awakening of the sleeper. The secrets of that terrible night will never be known. We cannot say what passed in that room between that strong, evil man and that weak old woman. We only know the result. A blow was struck, perhaps blows. A life was taken, and the robber became a murderer as well.

‘The next step was to remove the body. For what reason it matters not. It is an impulse with all murderers to conceal the traces of their guilt. They dig holes in the earth and bury it, they carry it into the wilderness and hide it, they sink it in the depths of the sea. But the earth will not contain it, the wilderness betrays the ghastly secret, the waves cast up the horror.’

His voice rang through the crowded court like that of one possessed, and every man trembled.

‘He lowered it through the window, where the traces were found next day. Then, clutching up his booty, and forgetting, it may be, that all would be his erelong, or possibly not feeling sufficiently sure of his heirship, he hurried down, with agitated tread, so that even the half-sleeping girl in the room above could discern a something strange about his walk.

‘Then he carried off the body, mutilated for some mysterious and terrible reason which may never be revealed—possibly to lighten his hideous load; but let me spare you these shocking considerations. (All this, remember, Lewis asks you to think was done by a young girl not twenty years of age.)

‘You know the rest. You know how the fisherman saw others that night, one of them a tall man, going in the direction of the bay where the remains were washed ashore within twenty-four hours. One only point I have to notice. Whether in carelessness, or whether in hellish malice, that man left a damning stain upon the door-handle in the prisoner’s room. I say I know not whether he did this in his haste and guilty dread, or whether he did this with a deliberate and diabolical intention of throwing suspicion upon a hapless, innocent girl, whom he has since pursued through every stage of this history, and under every form of law, with the persistence of a machine, and the passion of a bloodhound!’

The speaker’s voice vibrated with the fury which he threw into this denunciation. The jury trembled under his eye, as he rolled it fiercely from face to face. As for the object of these fearful invectives, he turned red and white by turns, and would have interrupted over and over again if he had not been almost forcibly restrained by the solicitor for the prosecution.

Tressamer went on, after a moment’s pause to recover from his exhaustion:

‘And Eleanor Owen, what of her? What was she doing meanwhile? Pacing the shore, and trying to soothe her throbbing head with the medicine of the sea breezes. At last she returns, tired and abstracted. She puts her key into the latch, the door yields before her; she notices nothing, but comes in, closes and fastens the door behind her, and retires to rest. And there she sleeps the sleep of innocence, knowing nothing, dreaming nothing, of the dark shadow which hangs over her head, nothing of the foul deed which has so recently been perpetrated under that roof, nothing of the frightful stain upon the empty bed next door, nothing of that yet more appalling stain which will meet her eyes when she attempts to pass out of her own room into that.

‘The next morning she awakes. Just as she is dressed, the servants rush up; the whole horror bursts upon her. She is stunned. She does not realise what has happened, or how it concerns her. She finds herself seized and dragged away by this devoted nephew and his creatures. And thus, gentlemen, in that state of darkness and bewilderment, has she rested ever since, and must rest till your just verdict sends her forth once more into the light of day, and the verdict of another jury, not less courageous and righteous than yourselves, sends the real author of this hidden tragedy to the doom he has now doubly deserved.’

He sat down. But there was no applause in court, as happens so often at the end of a speech on the prisoner’s behalf. All present felt that they had listened not so much to a plea for Eleanor Owen as to an accusation against John Lewis. The barrister had put it too plainly for any man to be deceived. It was not a mere question of guilt or innocence. The issue now before the jury was—which of these two is guilty?

CHAPTER IX.

As soon as he was fairly on his feet, his leader came into court and took his seat. The other case in which he had been engaged had come to an end shortly before this, but Prescott had purposely lingered outside, so as to avoid the duty of replying, which would have been assigned to him had he returned in time. As he had heard nothing of the case, nor of Tressamer’s defence, the course he adopted was the best even for the interests of the prosecution—in fact, it was the course usually followed under parallel circumstances.

The first part of Pollard’s reply was simply a recapitulation of the evidence. Afterwards he made an attempt to answer the attack on Lewis.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘my learned friend has practically charged Mr. Lewis with this murder. On what grounds has he done so? What evidence has he brought against Mr. Lewis? Mr. Lewis is the heir of the deceased, it is true, but then he is her nephew. When he came back from Australia, he went at once to see her. He has told you, in answer to my questions, that this was out of gratitude to her for her kindness to him when he was a young man. There is nothing suspicious, therefore, in his going to her before his sister, who lived in the North of England, moreover, probably a long way off.

‘Then my learned friend has laid stress on the fact that this crime occurred the night of his arrival. But I submit, gentlemen, that it would have been more natural if he had abstained from it the first night, and done it some time after, if he did it at all. I might suggest to you that the prisoner did it the night Mr. Lewis arrived on purpose to throw suspicion on him.’

And so on. Finally he closed in a form of words which even the most inexperienced prosecutor has by heart.

‘In conclusion, gentlemen, I ask you to banish from your minds every trace of prejudice, and to forget everything which you have read elsewhere about this case, and to determine it solely on what has passed here to-day. If the evidence you have heard leaves a fair and reasonable doubt in your minds as to the prisoner’s guilt, no doubt you will acquit her; but if that evidence is so strong and convincing that you are morally satisfied that the deceased woman met her death at the prisoner’s hands, then it is your duty to return a verdict of guilty.’

With this he sat down, and his brother leant over and congratulated him, while the other solicitors began to consider whether there might not be something in the young man after all.

And now it was Sir Daniel Buller’s turn, and all eyes were directed upon him as he settled himself in his chair, with his face towards the jury, who strove to catch his lordship’s eye, and conveyed as much appreciation as possible into their faces.

‘Gentlemen of the jury, it now becomes my duty to recall your attention to the facts of this case, and to give you what assistance I can towards finding your verdict. You have been told by counsel on both sides that this is a grave and important case. Gentlemen, every case which comes before a criminal court is grave and important. In this case, it is true, the life of a fellow creature is at stake, but that consideration ought not to affect you one way or the other in bringing to bear upon the evidence before you that impartiality and cautious discrimination which it is the duty of a jury to apply indifferently to every matter that may come before them.’

A slight sensation of relief in the jury-box. Among the audience an impression that his lordship is going against the prisoner.

‘The duties of a jury in a case like this are exceedingly simple, but perhaps it may be advisable that I should briefly remind you in what they consist. And, first of all, it is, I am sure, unnecessary for me to insist on the absolute necessity of your resolutely putting out of your minds every particle of knowledge, and every impression of whatever kind, which you may have collected in regard to this case from sources external to the inquiry conducted here to-day. It is, I feel, equally superfluous for me to caution you against attaching the smallest weight to any evidence which I was compelled in the course of this case to exclude. The law of evidence is the accumulated experience of the ablest intellects that have adorned that Bench of which I am so unworthy an occupant.’ (Strong impulse on part of jury to murmur ‘No,’ manfully suppressed.) ‘And in applying it I can only say that I have never personally laboured under any hesitation as to its general soundness, though I may occasionally doubt as to its applicability to particular instances.

‘You will remember that allusion was made by the prosecution in their opening to the supposed existence of certain valuables, the property of the deceased. It is my duty to tell you, speaking as judge in this case, with all the evidence before me, that there is not sufficient evidence that any such valuables were in the deceased’s possession at the time when she came to her unhappy end, and that in any case there is not a particle of evidence that the prisoner had ever heard, or was even remotely aware, of the existence of the articles in question.

‘Whether they were there or no is, of course, immaterial to the case. The jeweller, whose name, I believe, was John—Thomas—no——’

‘William Williams, my lord,’ called out Pollard.

‘Ah, thank you, Mr. Pollard! But it is of no consequence, because, as I am explaining to you, gentlemen, his evidence really ought not to affect your minds one way or the other. Even if deceased bought these things, there is no evidence that she kept them by her. She may have disposed of them in some manner of which we know nothing. The fact that they have been missing since her decease affords in itself some ground for supposing that she did so part with the control over this property. But, as I must repeat, what became of it is perfectly immaterial, because there is absolutely nothing in the whole of the evidence before us, and by which we must be guided, to fix the prisoner with knowledge that these valuables existed at all.

‘You will observe, gentlemen, how important this becomes when we come to consider the question of motive. I agree with Mr. Tressamer, about whose general line of defence I shall have something to say presently’—(Tressamer frowned, the rest of the Bar looked nervous)—‘in saying that the apparent absence of motive is the most inexplicable feature in the case for the prosecution. You will, of course, have fresh in your minds the evidence of the servant on this point.’ (The jury found it quite hopeless to even pretend that they had anything of the sort.) ‘I refer to her statement, which I will read to you presently’—(visible depression in the jury-box and throughout the court)—‘that deceased promised the prisoner on one occasion to leave her a legacy, or something of that sort. Gentlemen, that is peculiarly and emphatically a matter for you to deal with, and on which it would be out of place for me to offer you any guidance whatever.’ (Dismay among several jurymen, stolid pride among others.) ‘If you believe that evidence, and I confess I am wholly unable to follow the prisoner’s counsel in some of his comments upon the general demeanour of the witnesses, most of whom appeared to me to give their evidence with every appearance of impartiality, and in a manner which showed that they realised their responsibility—but all that, again, is rather a matter for you than for me—if, I say, you believe that evidence as to the legacy, you must consider for yourselves what weight you ought fairly to attach to it, and how far in your opinion it furnishes a motive adequate to inspire the very heinous crime into which we are now inquiring.’

The jury by this time were fairly at sea. They could not for the life of them make out which side his lordship was taking, and, of course, it never once occurred to them that he was trying to avoid taking any side at all.

‘And now, gentlemen, to consider the evidence against the prisoner more in detail.’ (Suppressed sighs from the gentlemen.) ‘This is one of those cases which depend entirely on what is commonly known as circumstantial evidence. Well, gentlemen, the evidence of circumstances is just as good as any other evidence, and very often it is far more reliable and far less subject to be vitiated by improper influences than ocular and oral testimony. In cases of this kind it is seldom that we can get anything but circumstantial evidence. When a man is going to do a wicked and criminal act he does not call witnesses around him. No, he avoids all human sight, he perpetrates his deed in secrecy, and all that we can do is to seek to penetrate the mystery by such means as are at our disposal.’

Impression confirmed that judge is against the prisoner. Tressamer looking slightly anxious.

‘The question for us, therefore, or rather for you, gentlemen’—(the jury look important)—‘is not whether the evidence is circumstantial or not, but whether it is sufficient to convict the prisoner. Sufficient, that is, in your opinion, as men of intelligence and firmness, bringing to bear on this case the same qualities of mind which you bring to bear from day to day upon your ordinary avocations, whatever those may be. That the evidence is sufficient in law I am reluctantly compelled to decide. Whether the court which deals with points of this description will confirm my judgment or overrule it I cannot say. In the meantime, you must take it from me that you are legally justified in convicting the prisoner. Whether you are really justified on the facts is, of course, a very different question.’

Impression among many that judge is going for acquittal. Jury still in doubt.

‘This is one of those cases which make a judge congratulate himself on the existence of trial by jury. It is one of those peculiarly difficult cases in which the mind is perplexed between its desire to mete out punishment for a singularly atrocious crime, and its inability to disentangle the knotted skein of mystery which shrouds the whole circumstances of the affair. I rejoice unaffectedly that the responsibility of discharging this delicate and dangerous task is thrown not upon my shoulders, but upon yours.’

Undisguised dismay of jury. They cast appealing looks round the court and meet nothing but contempt. The general feeling now is that the judge is in the prisoner’s favour. By this time the majority of those present share the same view.

Then Sir Daniel proceeded to go into the evidence at great length, reading passages here and there from his notes. When he came to the evidence of the servant Rees, he threw out a suggestion which struck doubt into many a mind which had till then believed in the prisoner’s innocence.

‘A very great deal in this case undoubtedly turns on this evidence as to footsteps. You may, I think, take it as admitted on all hands, by the prisoner’s counsel as well as by the prosecution, that the witness is correct in saying that she heard the prisoner leave the house. That she recognised her walk correctly that time there can be no manner of doubt. Then we come to the second time, when she heard footsteps ascending the stairs. And I may pause here to remark that I think a quite exaggerated importance has been attached to the discrepancy between the witness’s ideas of time and the correct idea. Gentlemen, we should all of us fail if we strove to indicate with accuracy the length of a given interval of time. We use the expressions “five minutes” and “ten minutes” in ordinary conversation, without attaching any very definite meaning to them, and, therefore, I cannot see that the witness is in any way discredited if she mistook a period of three minutes for one of ten, or vice versâ.’

The jury nodded approval. Now they were on firm ground.

‘But it is her answer to Mr. Pollard, when he asked her as to the second set of footsteps, that I wish to draw your attention to. She said, as I took it, “I did not notice them”—that is, the footsteps—“but I think they must have been Miss Owen’s, or else I should have noticed the difference.” Now, I think you will see the importance of that.’ (The jury try to see it, and, failing in that, try to look as if they saw it, and fail a second time.) ‘Remember the state of things is this: the witness is wide awake; she has just been down to the front-door and up again, and ten minutes after, or three minutes only according to Mr. Tressamer, she hears someone come in and walk upstairs. Now, gentlemen, under those circumstances, one would naturally expect the witness to be on the alert to distinguish any difference, if difference there were, between the footsteps. And if the person entering the second time were not the prisoner, to whose tread she was accustomed, and which she was expecting to hear, but if it were someone else—a man, let us say, with an entirely different tread, and a tread to which she was wholly unaccustomed—I say one would naturally expect the witness to note the difference instantly, to wonder who it was that had entered, to feel alarm when she heard the unknown stranger proceeding upstairs and into the bedroom; and, in short, one would expect her to get up and rouse the whole household to discover the robber, as she would naturally assume him to be.’

The jury were much impressed. A feeling of gravity spread all over the court. In the prisoner’s mind there was a sensation as if the sun had retired behind a cloud, leaving a leaden atmosphere all round her.

‘Leaving you to attach much or little importance, as you please, to that observation’ (jury puzzled again), ‘I will pass on to the point about which so much has been said—namely, the latch.’ (Jury bend forward with straining ears. They have felt this to be the difficulty all along, and are anxiously desiring to be told what it all means, and what bearing it has on the case.) ‘This latch, or rather lock, appears to have been of peculiar, though not unusual, construction. As you doubtless know, gentlemen, locks do differ very much from one another, and it is essential to their usefulness that they should do so. If all the locks on our doors were of the same pattern, one key would open them all, and consequently the locks would be rendered useless for the purpose for which they were designed. In ancient times, before such articles had come into common use, it was no doubt the custom to have a rude species of door-fastening, calculated rather to keep the door fixed in its place as against the violence of the weather, than to furnish any obstacle against the ingress of undesired visitors. But, gentlemen, we are not living in those times, but in our own; and we are here to administer justice, not with regard to the ideas prevalent among our remote ancestors, but with regard to the ordinary and reasonable practices of everyday life around us.’

This last part appeals to the jury. They nod their heads in approval, and wait for further enlightenment.

‘Law, gentlemen, it has often been said, is common-sense; and though there may be a sense in which that maxim is not strictly verifiable, yet in a broad and general way its applicability has never been and cannot be disputed. And, therefore, gentlemen, your common-sense will agree with me when I say that it is a lawful presumption—a presumption which the law warrants you in drawing and in holding till you have some satisfactory evidence to rebut it—that the person who obtains access to a house or any other building secured by a lock of this description must have in his or her possession a key which is capable of opening that lock.’

Continued approval of the jury. They find his lordship a little tedious perhaps, but sound. At last there seems a fair prospect of light being thrown upon the case.

‘Now, that there were in existence keys which fitted this particular lock cannot, I think, be seriously doubted by anyone who has listened carefully to the evidence which has been put forward both by the prosecution and by the defence in this case.’ (Gratification of jury. How simple it all seems when a master-mind is at work upon the apparent mystery!) ‘The only question left for you to decide, so far as I can discover, and if I am wrong it is not for want of careful consideration, is this: whether on that night into which we are inquiring the prisoner had or had not a latchkey, and, if so, whether she used it, and in either case, whether any other person had a similar key, which he also employed in opening the door of this house.’ (Jury getting slightly fogged again. But they no longer sorrow as one who hath no hope. They rely on his lordship to pull them through.)

‘It is perhaps a circumstance worth noting, though the explanation may be very simple, that neither side has produced a latchkey purporting to be one of those belonging to the latch in question.’ (The explanation was simple. Neither side had thought of it.) ‘But in the absence of any ocular demonstration one way or the other, we are, I think, justified in assuming that the keys in question were small, portable articles, such as could conveniently be carried in the pocket. In saying this I merely appeal to your own experience as men of business and householders, who are most of you probably in the constant habit of carrying articles of this kind yourselves.’ (Jury in smooth water again. How could they ever have thought this matter presented difficulties?) ‘There, gentlemen, I must leave you. I can throw no farther light upon the hidden circumstances of that night, and must leave you to decide for yourselves on a calm and deliberate review of the evidence whether, in your opinion, such a key as I have indicated was, or was not, in the possession of the prisoner at the bar, or of any other individual whose name has or has not transpired in the course of this trial, and if so, whether the prisoner, or that other person, or both of them, did or did not obtain access to the house by means of that nature.’

Collapse of jury. Dashed in a moment from their height of fancied security, they lie helpless at the bottom of the abyss.

The summing-up was nearly over. Tressamer had begun to hope the judge had forgotten him. But Sir Daniel had reserved his melodramatic effects to the last, as all orators know they ought to do.

‘And now a few words as to the unusual, I may say, I hope, the extraordinary, though unhappily not quite unprecedented, line of defence which has been adopted in this case. The prisoner’s counsel has not contented himself with merely defending the prisoner; he has gone far beyond that, far beyond the necessities, so far as they present themselves to my mind, of his position, and has distinctly and deliberately brought an accusation against one who is not on trial before you, and has, therefore, no means of rebutting the attack. For such a course there is, in my opinion, not a shadow of excuse. I have listened with great patience to the evidence in this case from the beginning to the end, and I have not detected anywhere anything that casts one particle of suspicion upon Mr. Lewis.

‘He was attacked for having come so promptly to visit his relative on his return. But his explanation was straightforward, and such as to commend itself to everyone who heard him. I shall not trouble you with any defence of Mr. Lewis, however’—(gratitude of the whole court)—‘but I must condemn in the gravest and strongest manner the way in which Mr. Tressamer has abused his privilege as an advocate to spring a charge of this deadly character upon one who is, so far as we can see, a perfectly innocent man. If this sort of thing is to be indulged in, the honour of the Bar—that noble profession to which it is my glory to have belonged—will be dragged in the dust, and its formidable immunities will have to be sharply and summarily curtailed. It has been well said that no assassin is so terrible to the community as the assassin of reputations, and in my opinion the man who is capable of taking advantage of a technical immunity from punishment to lie in wait for and destroy in cold blood the whole character and career of another, reveals a blackness of disposition which fits him for the commission of any crime, aye, though it were as heinous as that of which he has accused his victim.’

It was a crushing rebuke. The crowded bar turned and looked at their comrade as though they expected him to sink through the floor. But he sat pale and rigid, tearing off the feather of a quill with his teeth, but showing no other sign that he had heard the judge.

‘It is the prisoner who must suffer most by such a line of defence.’ (Here Eleanor looked up suddenly, as if she had only just begun to pay attention to what was going on.) ‘Its natural effect on your minds must be to induce you to ask yourselves not the real question before you, namely, is Eleanor Owen guilty or not? But this other question: which is guilty, Eleanor Owen or John Lewis? And to that you could, as conscientious men, give only one answer.

‘But that is what I want, if possible, to avoid. My principal reason for making the remarks I have made about Mr. Tressamer’s speech is that I do not want you to confuse the issues, as he has confused them, but to return your verdict freely and impartially, having regard solely to the bearing of the evidence which has been given upon the guilt or innocence of the prisoner.’

Here his lordship abruptly came to an end, just when the long-suffering jury were expecting that he was at last going to give them a hint as to his own leaning in the case.

It was now the part of the clerk of arraigns to rise and request the jury to consider their verdict. But that functionary had taken advantage of the charge to fall into a light and pleasant slumber, from which it became necessary to rouse him. One of the Bar, therefore, put out his hand and pulled the clerk of arraigns by the sleeve. He started awake, and, hastily stumbling on to his feet, looked wildly round for information.

The day before this incident would have provoked mirth. To-day it caused nothing but impatient annoyance, except to a few junior barristers, who thought it professional to show callous indifference to what was going on. At last, however, the clerk of arraigns was made to realise what stage had been reached, and he called the bailiff of the court and gave the jury over to his charge, with the following form of words:

‘You shall take this jury to some convenient place, where you shall lock them up without meat, fire, or light; you shall suffer no man to speak to them, neither shall you speak to them yourself, except to ask them if they have agreed upon their verdict; so help you God.’

The oath was taken, and the twelve men filed slowly out.

CHAPTER X.

‘Well, I don’t know what you think, sir, but I couldn’t make out whether he was for her or against her.’

The person addressed was the foreman, a rich building contractor from a large seaport at the end of the county. He was a man of judicial mind, a model foreman, and wisely abstained from committing himself at this early stage. He turned round and asked his next neighbour, who happened to be the farmer from near Porthstone, whose remarks to Mr. Jenkins were given in the fourth chapter:

‘How did it strike you, sir?’

‘I thought he was against her,’ was the answer. ‘Didn’t you hear him say, “The prisoner must suffer by that line of defence”? And then he didn’t say nothing about reasonable doubts.’

‘No; but the young barrister did—the one that prosecuted,’ observed a tall, thin man, a tailor by trade.

‘He’s got nothing to do with it,’ said the farmer. ‘I thought him a fool all along. I know his whole family, and they’re all alike.’

‘What a terrible speech Mr. Tressamer made!’ ventured a fifth juryman, a short, stumpy watchmaker from Porthstone itself. ‘I believe he’s her lover.’

‘What!’ cried the foreman, losing his calm demeanour in the presence of this interesting revelation. ‘How d’ye know that?’

‘Oh, it was common talk in Porthstone,’ was the answer. ‘They knew each other ever since they was children, and he used to come down every summer and go about with her. That’s what made him so fierce against Mr. Lewis, you may depend.’

‘And did you know her?’ ‘What was she like, really?’ ‘What do you think of her?’ broke from several voices as the whole jury clustered round the little man.

But he drew in his horns at once.

‘Don’t ask me anything,’ he said. ‘I’ve mended her watch, and I always thought she was all right up to this, but the Lord only knows whether she did it.’ He paused, and then, as if there were some vague connection in his mind between this charge and a general disposition towards acts of dishonesty, he added: ‘She always paid me regular.’

Perhaps the jury scented an underlying distrust in this. At any rate, one of them said:

‘I watched the judge carefully all through, and I saw him frown at her several times. To my mind he meant us to say guilty.’

The word came with a little shock to the men. They instinctively realized its terrible gravity as falling from their lips. The tall, thin tailor put in his word again:

‘Anyhow, he said there was no evidence of motive.’

‘Except they jewels,’ corrected the farmer.

‘Ah, but there was nothing came out about them.’

‘Phoo! that there was. Didn’t you see how her counsel was fighting to keep it back? You may depend she knew all about them, and could tell us where they are now if she liked.’

‘You seem to have made up your mind,’ said another man, who had been talking aside to a little knot of three; ‘but for the life of me I couldn’t make it out one way or the other. What did you think he meant about that latchkey?’

This was offensive. It was reminding them of their weak point. It threw the whole room into confusion. Eight or nine of the jury all began to speak at once, and four or five could find no listeners.

When the hubbub had a little subsided, the foreman said:

‘Gentlemen, it’s no use talking it over in this way. We must argue it out one at a time. I propose that we all sit round the table, and the one that has anything to say stands up and says it properly.’

This suggestion was well received, but it had a fatal effect on three of the jury, who were wholly unable to attempt anything so much like a set speech as this course involved.

As soon as all were seated the foreman commenced:

‘Gentlemen this is a doubtful case, a very doubtful case. Talk of reasonable doubts, there’s nothing but reasonable doubts, so far as I can see, from beginning to end. Now, it would have been a great help to us if the judge had showed us which way he thought we ought to go, but I must confess I couldn’t tell which side he meant to lean. If any other gentleman thinks otherwise, we shall be glad to hear him.’

But no other gentleman thought otherwise. The man who had thrown out the suggestion about the latchkey, and who was a fishing-boat proprietor from a seaside suburb of Abertaff, murmured from his seat:

‘I call it a shame. I should like to know what a judge is for. We might as well try the case ourselves as this.’

‘So we are trying it, aren’t we?’ rebuked the man who had been the first to blurt out the fatal word, and who was a farmer from near the same place.

‘You may be, Mr. Rees,’ returned the boat proprietor, with what was intended for biting sarcasm.

‘Come, gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said the foreman impressively, ‘let us remember that we are engaged on a case of life and death. We have got to come at the truth somehow, and we must do what we can by ourselves.’

‘They should have give us more evidence,’ objected Mr. Jenkins. ‘What did they want to make so much fuss about those jewels for?’

‘Aye, and there was another thing,’ said the Porthstone farmer; ‘did you notice that when Mr. Lewis wanted to say why he suspected her, the judge wouldn’t let un?’

‘Well, she’s an orphan,’ said the tailor, ‘and her father was Rector of Porthstone for thirty years, and I say we ought to let her off.’

‘For shame, John,’ said the watchmaker, who happened to be his next-door neighbour; ‘don’t you know we’ve got to decide according to the evidence?’

The tailor hung his head.

Then the foreman interposed again.

‘Really, gentlemen, I think it will save time if we go round the table, and let each man express his opinion in turn. Of course, I don’t say his final opinion, but just any remarks that strike him on the evidence. Will you begin, sir?’

Mr. Jenkins rose from his seat on the foreman’s right and cleared his throat.

‘Mr. Foreman and gentlemen, I think this is, as our foreman has told us, a case of very great doubt. At the same time, it is our duty to punish the guilty, and not let the prisoner off simply because she is a woman and good-looking, and that sort of thing.’ (Subdued applause. The foreman raises his hand for silence.) ‘Now, what I look at in this case is the motive, and that is, I take it, the jewels. I don’t believe she would have done it simply on the chance of getting something under the will. I don’t know whether you remember, but the judge said Miss Lewis might have parted with the jewels, because they weren’t found after her death. Now, it seems to me that that points just the other way. I mean, it looks as if she had been murdered for the sake of them. It seems to me the only question is, Who murdered her? Was it Mr. Lewis or was it Miss Owen? That’s my difficulty.’

He sat down. The farmer, who sat next him, stood up in turn.

‘I say what the judge said; let us decide according to the evidence. Now, what evidence is there against Mr. Lewis? Why, you say the judge didn’t speak out clearly, but he did say there wasn’t any evidence against him. All the evidence is against her, and we ought to act upon it.’

The next speaker was a rather young man, who occupied a position of superintendence in a large millinery establishment, exclusively patronised by ladies. With such associations he was naturally disposed to be chivalrous. He said:

‘I know a lady when I see her. Miss Owen’s a lady; anyone can see that with half an eye. As for Lewis, I didn’t like the looks of him at all. You know they’re a wild lot out in Australia. I heard that he came back for good reasons, if the truth was known. Then look how he lost his temper in the witness-box! And then, as Mr. Tressamer said, the very night he got there the murder happened. That looks as if he did it. He said she didn’t give him a latchkey, but I believe she very likely did, else why did the barrister ask him? And then look at the hand being cut off. No young lady would go and do such a thing as that, surely!’

The jury were impressed. The next man was of a shy and gentle disposition. He did not venture to get on his feet, but threw out a suggestion as he sat: ‘I suppose it must have been one of the two. There couldn’t have been somebody else, could there?’

A withering look from eleven faces rewarded this disconcerting query. The foreman expressed the general feeling:

‘Really, sir, I can’t think what ground you have for suggesting such a thing. The case is difficult enough as it is, without having fresh doubts raised.’

‘Ah, there should ought to have been a London detective brought down,’ muttered another juryman, who had taken little part hitherto. ‘One of them would have puzzled it out, you may depend.’

‘Well, I don’t see what more you would have,’ said the other farmer, Rees, rising in his turn. ‘Here is this young woman, sleeping in the next room, going out at night secretly, under some pretence of headaches—why didn’t she tell other people about them beside that chemist?—and here you have her mistress murdered, and the blood found on the door of her own room the next morning. What more do you want?’

He sat down. It was now the tailor’s turn.

‘And how do you know Lewis didn’t put the blood there?’ he asked. ‘I believe it’s Lewis myself. Anyway, one of them must have done it, that’s clear.’

But this was felt to be a weak defence, and the next two jurymen shook their heads, and professed themselves unable to throw any light upon the question. Then it was the turn of the boat proprietor.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what’s the good of our trying to come to a verdict when we’re none of us sure which of them did it? Better give it up, and tell the judge we can’t agree.’

But the foreman would not hear of this.

‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘we are here sworn to do justice between man and man and mete out punishment to the guilty, and we must not shrink from our task. We have heard the case through, and if we are not competent to give a verdict on it, who is?’

This was felt to be unanswerable. Not only were the foreman’s words worthy of attention in themselves, but he was a great man, the reputed possessor of twelve thousand a year; he wore a frock coat and a white waistcoat as well, and his word was, therefore, practically equivalent to law.

There remained only the watchmaker. He felt a friendly feeling towards the prisoner, but he was troubled by real misgivings as to her innocence.

‘The judge said we oughtn’t to go against Mr. Lewis,’ he said, ‘and I stand by what the judge says. Besides, I look at what he said when he gave her in charge.’

‘What was that?’ said the foreman eagerly.

‘I’ll tell you, sir. It was in the paper at the time, and I happened to keep it by me, and so when I was summoned as a juror, thinks I to myself, “This may come in useful if I should happen to be on the jury that’s to try her,” so I just cuts it out and brings it in my pocket.’

The other men looked on keenly, as he slowly drew out his pocket-book and extracted a newspaper cutting, embracing some two and a half columns of the Southern Daily News. Everyone hoped that something of a decisive character would now be forthcoming.

The watchmaker ran his finger down the columns.

‘Here it is!’ he exclaimed, and read it aloud.

‘“On reaching the police-station, of which Constable Smithies was then in charge, Mr. Lewis said: ‘I charge Eleanor Owen with the murder of my aunt, Ann Elizabeth Lewis. I have made some money, and, please God, I’ll spend every penny of it rather than my poor aunt shall remain unavenged.’

‘“Constable Smithies at once summoned Sergeant—” that’s it,’ concluded the watchmaker, looking up from his extract.

A murmur and shaking of heads followed, and the foreman again felicitously voiced the general feeling:

‘That doesn’t sound like guilt,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘May I see that paper? Perhaps it has some other things which we have forgotten.’

‘Certainly, sir. But I don’t know whether we ought to be reading this,’ hazarded its owner, handing the slip across.

‘Why not? We’re only doing it to refresh our memory.’

This reply was again felt to be worthy of its author. It had a fine flavour of legality about it too, which gave confidence to the other jurymen. They realized that they were fortunate in their foreman.

That gentleman meanwhile proceeded to glance down the document before him. Presently he stopped, frowned, pursed up his lips, and breathed a stern sigh. The others watched with anxiety. He proceeded to enlighten them.

‘Gentlemen, listen to this, and tell me what effect it has on your minds. Sergeant Evans said, “I arrested the prisoner on the morning of the second. I told her she was charged with the wilful murder of Ann Elizabeth Lewis. She turned pale and said, ‘It is impossible.’ I cautioned her. She said nothing more, and shed no tears.” Gentlemen, is that like innocence?’

He laid down the paper. The prisoner’s doom was sealed. The waverers among the jury went over at once, and even the friends of the prisoner no longer dared to hold out. The tailor would have resisted if he had dared, but his sense of social inferiority was too much for him. What was he, a humble little tradesman, to set himself against eleven men, headed by a wealthy contractor who wore three spade guineas on his watch-chain?

Then a solemn awe settled down over the faces of the twelve men. They did not hesitate in doing what they believed was their duty, but they felt some natural horror of the result. At last the foreman said:

‘Gentlemen, are we all agreed?’

And, as there was no reply, he led them back into court.

They had not been out quite an hour, but the interval seemed terribly long to those they left behind.

When they came in one by one, with drooping heads and set faces, the verdict was read before it was heard. Only the prisoner still held out, with that obstinate unbelief in the worst which is a part of strong natures. Only the prisoner and the prisoner’s counsel. He manifested no sorrow and no surprise. Prescott put his stoical calmness down to over-exhaustion, others of the Bar attributed it to his confidence in the point reserved. The public hardly noticed him. Their eyes were fixed upon the dock.

The clerk of arraigns stood up, and went as best he could through the tedious process of calling each juryman by name. Then followed the routine question, followed by the awful word, heavy with issues of death, pealing forth through the hushed, agitated hall:

‘Guilty!’

The prisoner neither moved nor answered, as the clerk formally summoned her to declare if there were any reasons why sentence should not be passed upon her. Some of the women whispered that she had gone mad, or that she was going to faint. The judge covered his wig with the sombre square of silk.

Suddenly she looked up, cast her eyes rapidly round the court, and fixing them full on Prescott, who was attentively watching her, she exclaimed:

‘I am not guilty.’

‘Eleanor Margaret Owen, the jury, after a long and patient hearing, and after taking time for careful deliberation, have found you guilty of the crime of wilful murder. What motive inspired you to commit such a crime I cannot say, and it may, perhaps, never be known. It only remains for me to discharge my very painful duty, which I do by declaring that the sentence of the court upon you is——’

The details followed. The words are too familiar to need setting forth. They sounded in unconscious ears. Eleanor Owen had fainted at last, and was carried helpless and lifeless away from the scene of her long martyrdom.

CHAPTER XI.

In his dismay he bethought himself of Prescott, and hurried to the court-house to find him and get his advice. He was there, but he was busy in a case then before the Nisi Prius Court, and it was not till late in the afternoon that Tressamer could get a word with him.

The case had been decided in favour of Prescott’s client, and he strode into the robing-room with a little natural elation. But no sooner did he catch sight of his friend, who was waiting for him there, than his whole manner changed, and a stern expression settled round the corners of his mouth.

It was their first meeting since the result of Eleanor’s trial. They were alone in the room, and Prescott at once addressed the other:

‘Tressamer, what have you to say for yourself? I told you yesterday that I should hold you responsible. You disobeyed my advice, and that of everybody else. You set the judge and jury against you, and the result is what you were told it would be. I gave you fair warning, and I tell you now that, unless you have some reason for your conduct of which I know nothing, I cannot look upon you as a friend.’

Tressamer pinched in his lips hard as he listened to this.

‘I might have expected it,’ he said. ‘We all know that love is stronger than friendship. The first woman that likes can break up the strongest attachments of some men.’

‘Silence!’ cried Prescott. ‘I am not going to bandy retorts with you. Ever since we were boys I have liked you and befriended you, and borne with your waywardness. You have outraged all your other friends long ago, but I bore with everything till now. But this is too much. Where a life is at stake, to indulge in your freaks of eccentricity! It is murder morally. What are you better than the man who killed that wretched woman?’

Tressamer shook with anger.

‘Be careful, Prescott! I will stand a great deal from you, but you are going too far now. You know as well as I do that her life is in no danger. What is old Buller’s opinion worth on a criminal case? Wiseman is worth ten of him, and he is in our favour. The C.C.R. will save her.’

‘Wretched man! Have you no heart, no moral sense, that you talk like that? As if a mere escape on a technical point could give any comfort to a woman like her! One would think you were wanting in some ingredient of human nature. What does Eleanor herself say?’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ was the muttered reply.

‘Haven’t seen her! Then go at once, and get her authority to appear.’

‘I have been to the prison, but she won’t see me. I suppose she is ill.’

A look of positive pleasure crossed the face of the elder man.

‘Ill—no, but innocent!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can understand her refusing to see you. You have played with her life for the prize of infamy, and you deserve that she should discard you. This is the best thing I have heard yet. Why, I could almost forgive you now for telling me. I will go this instant and offer my services: they will be those of a plain, honest man.’

And, flinging off his wig and gown, he rushed out of the place in a very unwonted state of excitement.

Tressamer was left, bewildered and enraged, to curse his own folly in betraying his defeat to a rival.

When Eleanor was summoned by the gaoler to see Mr. Prescott, she at first thought there must be some mistake.

‘Are you sure you don’t mean Mr. Tressamer?’ she asked.

‘No; he said Prescott.’

A faint smile rose in her face. She eagerly assented to the interview, and in a couple of minutes the two were closeted together.

At first there was a brief, awkward silence. Then Prescott broke it by speaking in calm, precise words:

‘It is nearly five years since we met, Miss Owen, but I hope you have not quite forgotten me.’

‘No, indeed,’ she answered; ‘but you should have forgotten me. I know I ought to thank you for this visit, and for dealing so leniently with the case yesterday, but I cannot find the right words. It is all so strange—so terrible and so strange.’

Prescott was afraid to look at her, lest the tears should come into his eyes.

‘Don’t thank me, please. I wish I could forgive myself for taking that wretched brief at all. I can only say I did so for fear it might fall into the hands of some abler and bitterer prosecutor. The solicitors were your enemies.’

‘Yes; I refused their services. I have wondered since if I was wise. It was Mr. Tressamer who advised me.’

‘And why? Why did you trust yourself so entirely to that man? But I forgot. I believe you are or were engaged.’

Eleanor raised her eyes, and looked long and searchingly at her questioner. Suddenly she said:

‘Before I tell you, why did you come here—for any special object, I mean?’

‘Yes. I came, hearing you had refused—and in my opinion rightly refused—to see Mr. Tressamer. I came, taking the privilege of an old friend of your father’s and your own, to ask if I might appear for you in the court to which your case is being taken.’

‘Ah, then there is a Providence. I am not quite deserted!’

She spoke in half irony, and then all at once broke down, and began sobbing as if her heart would break.

‘Miss Owen!—don’t, Eleanor!’ cried her friend in alarm and distress. ‘Do try and be calm. All will end happily yet, believe me. I swear to you I will never rest till your innocence is established by the discovery of the real criminal!’

For some time she wept on without replying. At last the sobs grew feebler, and she lifted her head.

‘Oh, if you knew,’ she said, ‘what I have gone through these last two months—no, I ought to say these last two years, since my father died, and that you are the first to speak to me in tones that I can trust, you would not wonder that I weep. Sometimes I have felt it too much to bear, and I have actually thought before now of writing to you to tell you all my troubles.’

‘To me! Why, do you—are you——’

She checked him gently.

‘To you, as to my oldest friend, whose memory I could recall with trust and confidence. I am speaking now of a time that has passed. Now I shall never consent to claim anyone as my friend—if I live—until this horrible stain has been wiped off my name.’

‘I will wipe it off. Only trust me fully meanwhile, and if you won’t claim my friendship, at least so far rely on it as to unburden yourself to me freely. Tell me all, because I feel that you may hold in some way the clue to this mystery. I cannot think that all the circumstances piled up against you were purely accidental, and I must know everything before I can see my way clearly.’

She shook her head doubtfully.

‘I am afraid that my story will not throw much light on the murder. Indeed, I fear I am abusing your kindness in troubling you with my affairs. It is a father-confessor I want, not a lawyer.’ And she smiled faintly.

But Prescott was in earnest, and at length he persuaded her to speak. Making allowance for some repetitions and some slips of memory, her story was something like this:

‘When my father died I was only seventeen. In spite of his being rector, we had lived a very retired life and seen few visitors. The only people I knew at all intimately were Miss Lewis and the Tressamers.

‘Miss Lewis had been in the habit of inviting me to her house ever since I can remember. She used to give me valuable presents, too. In fact, she treated me more like a niece or some near relation than a mere acquaintance. I can never forget her kindness—never, never!’

She had to stop a moment or two to overcome her emotion.

‘I dare say you remember as much about the Tressamers as I could tell you. You know that I was constantly at their house. George Tressamer and I were always friends, and he showed me great kindness when I was a mere child. I remember I used to look forward to his coming home for the holidays. Neither of us had any brothers or sisters, and so we were more ready to seek each other’s company, I suppose.