Thus I passed that weary and anxious imprisonment. The way of getting through the day was always the same. Soon after daylight, I went out and walked in the yards for half an hour. The early morning, indeed, was the only time of the day when a man of decent manners could venture abroad even on the State side. At that time the visitors had not yet begun to arrive; the men were still sleeping off their carouse of the evening before; only a few wretches to whom a dismal foreboding of the future, a guilty conscience, an aching heart, would not allow sleep, crept dolefully about the empty yards; restlessly sitting or standing: if they spoke to each other, it was with distracted words showing that they knew not what they said. Alas! The drunken orgies of the others caused them at least some relief from the terrible sufferings of remorse and looking forward. It is not often that one can find an excuse for drunkenness.
After this melancholy walk I returned to my cell where I played for an hour or two, afterwards reading or meditating. But always my thoughts turned to the impending trial. I represented myself called upon to make my own defence: I read it aloud: I failed to impress the Jury: the Judge summed up: the Jury retired: cold beads stood upon my forehead: I trembled: I shook: the verdict was Guilty: the Judge assumed the black cap—Verily I suffered, every day, despite the assurance of Jenny and Mr. Dewberry, all the tortures of one convicted and condemned to death. If my heart were examined after my death sure I am that a black cap would be found engraven upon it, to show the agonies which I endured.
About one o'clock Alice arrived, sometimes with Tom, sometimes alone. As for Tom he had quickly rallied and had now completely accepted the assurance that an acquittal was certain: his confidence would have been wonderful but for the consideration that it was not his own neck that was in danger but that of his brother-in-law. The child was not allowed to be brought into the prison for fear of the fever which always lurks about the wards and cells and corridors. In the afternoon, while we were talking, Jenny herself, when she was not on her mysterious journeys, came wearing a domino. About four o'clock, Tom departed and, a little after, Alice. Then I was left alone to sleep and reflection for twelve hours.
This was the daily routine. On Sunday there was service, in the chapel, made horrid by the condemned prisoners in their pew sitting round the empty coffin: and by the ribaldry and blasphemous jests of the prisoners themselves. Not even in the chapel could they refrain.
One afternoon there was a surprise. We were sitting in conversation together, Alice and Jenny with my brother-in-law Tom, and myself, when we received a visit from no less a person than Mr. Probus himself. That Prince of villains had the audacity to call in person upon me. He stood in the doorway, his long, lean body bent, wearing a smile that had evidently been borrowed for the occasion. I sprang to my feet with indignation. My arm was gently touched. Jenny sat beside me, but a little behind.
'Hush!' she whispered. 'Let him say what he has to say. Sit down. Do not answer by a single word.'
Mr. Probus looked disconcerted to see me resume my chair and make as if I neither saw nor heard.
'You did not expect, Mr. Halliday, to see me here?'
I made no reply.
'I am astonished, I confess, to find myself here, after all that has passed. Respect for the memory of my late employer and client, Sir Peter Halliday, must be my excuse—my only excuse. Respect, and, if I may be permitted to add, compassion—compassion, Madam'—he bowed to Alice.
'Compassion, Sir, is a Christian virtue,' she said, with such emphasis on the adjective as to imply astonishment at finding that quality in Mr. Probus.
'Assuredly, Madam—assuredly, which is the reason why I cultivate it—sometimes to my own loss—my own loss.'
'Sir,' Alice went on, 'you cannot but be aware that your presence here is distasteful. Will you be so good as to tell us what you have to say?'
'Certainly, Madam. I think I have seen you before. You are Mr. William Halliday's wife. This gentleman I have not seen before.'
'He is my brother.'
'Your brother—And the lady who prefers to wear a domino?' For Jenny had made haste to replace that disguise. 'No doubt it is proper in Newgate—but is it necessary among friends?'
'This lady is my cousin,' said Alice. 'She will please herself as to what she wears.'
'Your cousin. We are therefore, as one may say, a family party. The defendant; his wife: his brother-in-law: his cousin. This is very good. This is what I should have desired above all things had I prayed upon my way hither. A family party.'
'Mr. Probus,' said Alice, 'if this discourse is to continue beware how you speak of prayers.' Never had I seen her face so set, so full of righteous wrath, with so much repression. The man quaked under her eyes.
'I come to business,' he said. 'I fear there is a spirit of suspicion, even of hostility, abroad. Let that pass. I hope, indeed, to remove it. Now, if you please, give me your attention.'
He was now the lawyer alert and watchful. 'Your trial, Mr. Halliday, takes place in a short time—a few days. I do not know what defence you will attempt—I hope you may be successful—I have thought upon the subject, and, I confess—well—I can only say that I do not know what kind of defence will be possible in a case so clear and so well attested.'
'Hush!' Jenny laid her hand again on my arm. 'Hush!' she whispered.
I restrained myself and still sat in silence.
'Let me point out to you—in a moment you will understand why—how you stand. You know, of course, yet it is always well to be clear in one's mind—the principal evidence is that given by those two gentlemen from the country, the young squire of Cumberland—or is it Westmoreland?—and the clergyman of the Sister Kingdom. I have naturally been in frequent communication with those two gentlemen. I find that they are both kept in London to the detriment of their own affairs: that they would willingly get the business despatched quickly so that they would be free to go home again: that they bear no malice—none whatever: one because he is a clergyman, and therefore practises forgiveness as a Christian duty: the other because he is a gentleman who scorns revenge, and, besides, was not the attacked, but the attacking party. "So far," says the noble-hearted gentleman, "from desiring to hang the poor wretch, I would willingly suffer him to go at large." This is a disposition of mind which promises a great deal. I have never found a more happy disposition in any witness before. No resentment: no revenge: no desire for a fatal termination to the trial. It is wonderful and rare. So I came over to tell you what they say and to entreat you to make use of this friendly temper while it lasts. They might—I do not say they will—but they might be induced to withdraw altogether from the trial, in which case the prosecution would fall to the ground. For the case depends wholly upon their evidence. For myself, as you know, I arrived by accident upon the scene, and was too late to see anything. Mr. Merridew tells me that what he saw might have been a fight rather than a robbery; I ought not to have revealed this weak point in the evidence, but I am all for mercy—all for mercy. So I say, that if their evidence is not forthcoming, the prosecution must fall through, and then, dear Sir, liberty would be once more your happy lot.' He stopped and folded his arms.
I had not offered him a chair partly because he was Mr. Probus and I would not suffer him to sit in my presence: partly because there was no chair to offer him.
'These gentlemen, Sir,' said Tom, 'are willing, we understand, to retire from the case.'
'I would not say willing. I would rather say, not unwilling.'
'Do they,' Tom asked, 'demand money as a bribe as a price for retiring?'
'No, Sir. These gentlemen are far above any such consideration. I believe they would be simply contented with such a sum of money as would meet their personal expenses and their losses by this prolonged stay.'
'And to how much may these losses and expenses, taken together, amount?'
'I hear that his Reverence has lost a valuable Lectureship which has been given to another in his absence: and that the Squire has sustained losses among his cattle and his horses also owing to his absence.'
'And the combined figures, Sir, which would cover these losses?'
'I cannot say positively. Probably the clergyman's losses would be represented by £400 and the Squire's by £600. There would be my own costs in the case as well—but they are—as usual—a trifle.'
'And suppose we were to pay this money,' Tom continued, 'what should we have to prove that they would not give their evidence?'
'Sir—There you touch me on the tenderest point—the "pundonor," as the Spaniards say. You should lodge the money with any person in whom we could agree as a person of honour—and after the case for the prosecution had broken down—not before—he should give me that money. Observe that on the part of these two simple gentlemen there is trust, even in an attorney—in myself.'
I said nothing, for as the man knew that I could not find a tenth part of the sum, I knew there was something behind. What it was I guessed very well. And, in fact, Mr. Probus immediately showed what it was.
'Mr. Halliday,' he said, 'I believe that I know your circumstances. I have on one or two occasions had to make myself acquainted with them. I shall not give offence if I suppose that you cannot immediately raise the sum of £1,000 even to save your life.'
He spoke to me, but he looked at Alice.
'He cannot, certainly,' said Alice, 'either immediately or in any time proposed.'
'Quite so. Now, this is a case of life or death—life or death, Sir: life or death, Madam: an honourable life—a long life for your husband: or a shameful death—a shameful death: shameful to him: shameful to you: shameful to your child or children.'
'Hush!' whispered Jenny, laying a repressive hand again upon my shoulder, for again I was boiling over with indignation. What! The author and contriver of this shameful death was to come and call attention to the disgrace of which he was the sole cause! Had I been left to myself without Alice or Jenny, I would have brained the old villain. But I obeyed and sat in silence, answering nothing.
'Consider, Madam'—he continued to address Alice—'this is not a time for false pride or for obstinacy, or even for standing out for better terms. Once more I make the same offer which I made before. Let him sell his chance of a certain succession of which he knows. Let him do that, and all his difficulties and troubles will vanish like the smoke of a bonfire. I tell you plainly, Madam, that I can control the appearance of this evidence without which the prosecution can do nothing. I will control it. If he agrees to sell, your husband shall walk out, on the day of the trial, a free man.' He drew out of his pocket a pocket-book and from that a document which I remembered well—the deed of sale or transfer.
Nobody replied. Alice looked at me anxiously. I remained silent and dogged.
'Two years ago—or somewhere about that time—I made the same proposal to him. I offered him £3,000 down for his share of an estate which might never be his—or only after long years—I offered him £3,000 down. It was a large sum of money. He refused. A day or two afterwards he found himself in the King's Bench Prison. I would recall that coincidence to you. Four or five weeks ago I made a similar offer. This time I proposed £4,000 down. He refused again, blind to his own interest. A few days afterwards he found himself within these walls on a capital charge. A third time, and the last time, I make him another offer. This time I raise the sum to £5,000 in order to cover the losses of those two witnesses, and in addition to the money, which is a large sum, enough to carry you on in comfort and in credit, I offer your husband the crowning gift of life. Life—do you hear, woman! Life: and honour: and credit—life—life—life—I say.'
His face was troubled: his accents were eager: he was not acting: he felt that he was offering me far more than anything he had ever offered me before.
'Hush,' whispered Jenny, keeping me quiet again—for all the time I was longing to spring to my feet and to let loose a tongue of fiery eloquence. But to sit quite quiet and to say nothing was galling.
'Take it, Will, take it,' said Tom. 'If the gentleman can do what he promises, take it. Life and liberty—I say—before all.'
'Sir,' said Alice—her voice was gentle, but it was strong: her face was sweet, but it was firm. The man saw and listened—and misunderstood. I know the mind of my husband in this matter. For reasons which you understand, he will not speak to you. The money that was devised by his father to the survivor of the two—his cousin or himself—has always been accepted by him as a proof that at the end his father desired him to understand that he was not wholly unforgiven: that there was a loophole of forgiveness, but he did not explain what that was: that should my husband, who has no desire to see the death of his cousin, survive Mr. Matthew, he will receive the fortune as a proof that a life of hard and honest work has been accepted by his father in full forgiveness. Sir, my husband considers his father's wishes as sacred. Nothing—no pressure of poverty—no danger such as the present will ever make him consent to sign the document you have so often submitted to him.'
'Then'—Mr. Probus put back his paper—'if this is your last word—remember—you have but a few days left. Nothing can save you—nothing—nothing—nothing. You have but a few days before you are condemned—a week or two more of life. Is this your last word?'
'It is our last word, Sir,' said Alice.
'She is right—Will is right,' cried Tom. 'Hark ye—Mr. Attorney. There is foul play here. We may find it out yet, with the help of God. Shall I put him out of the door, Alice?'
'He will go of his own accord, Tom. Will you leave us, Sir?'
'Yes, I will leave you.' He shook his long forefinger in my face. 'Ha! I leave you to be hanged: you shall have your miserable neck twisted like a chicken, and your last thought shall be that you threw your life away—no—that by dying you give your cousin all.'
So he flung out of the room and left us looking blankly at each other.
Then Jenny spoke.
'You did well, Will, to preserve silence in the presence of the wretch. We all do well to preserve silence about your defence. You dear people. I have counted up the cost. It will be more than at first I thought, because the case must be made complete, so complete that there can be no doubt I promise you.' She took off her domino: her face was very pale: I remember now that there was on it an unaccustomed look of nobility such as belongs to one who takes a resolution certain to involve her in great trouble and at the expense of self-sacrifice or martyrdom. 'I promise you,' she said, 'that, cost what it may, theCASE SHALL BE COMPLETE.'
The time—the awful time—the day of Fate—drew nearer. Despite the assurances both of Jenny and of her attorney there were moments when anticipation and doubt caused agonies unspeakable. Sometimes I have thought that these agonies were cowardly: I should be ashamed of them: but no one knows, who has not suffered in the same way, the torture of feeling one's self in the absolute power of a crafty conspiracy directed by a man as relentless as a weasel after a rabbit, or an eagle after a heron, not out of hatred or revenge, but after money, the only object of his life, the real spring of his wickedness. After my experience, I can briefly say, as David in his old age said, 'Let me fall into the hands of the Lord, for His mercies are great: but let me not fall into the hands of man.'
Presently it wanted but a week: then six days, then five.
'You should now,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'prepare and write out your defence: that is to say, your own speech after the trial is over. Take no thought about the evidence; your counsel will cross-examine the witnesses against you; he will also examine those for you. Trust your counsel for doing the best with both. Heaven help two or three of them when Mr. Caterham has done with them.' Mr. Caterham, K. C., our senior counsel, was reported to be the best man at the Old Bailey Bar; with him was Mr. Stanton, a young man still, quite young, but with a brain of fire and a front of brass. 'You must not leave your defence to the eloquence of the moment, which may fail you. Write it down; write it plainly, fully and without passion. State who you are; what your occupation; what your salary; what your rent; what your daily habits; we shall have called witnesses to establish all these points. Then tell the Court exactly what you have told me. Do not try to be eloquent or rhetorical. The plain facts, plainly told, will impress the Jury and will affect the Judge's charge, far more than any flights of eloquence on your part. What the Judge wants is to get at the truth. Remember that. Behind his habitual severity of manner Mr. Justice Parker, who will try your case, is bent always upon discovering, if possible, the truth. Sit down, therefore, and relate the facts, exactly as they were. Take care to marshal them in their best and most convincing manner. Many a good cause has been wasted by a careless and ignorant manner of presenting them. In your case first relate the facts as to the alleged assault. Next inform the Court who and what you are. Thirdly relate the circumstances of your relations with Mr. Probus. Fourthly state the reasons why he would profit by your death. Next, call attention to the conversation overheard by Mr. Ramage. Then show that he has on more than one occasion threatened you, and that he has actually imprisoned you in the King's Bench in the hope of moving you. I think that you will have a very moving story to tell, supported, as it will be, by the evidence which has gone before. But you have no time to lose. Such a statement must not be put together in a hurry. When it is finished I will read it over and advise you.'
What was important to me in this advice was the necessity of ordering, or marshalling the facts. To one not accustomed to English Composition such a necessity never occurred, and without such advice I might have presented a confused jumble, a muddled array, of facts not dependent one upon the other, the importance of which would have been lost. However, armed with this advice, I sat down, and after drawing up a schedule or list of divisions, or headings, or chapters, I set to work, trying to keep out everything but the facts. No one will believe how difficult a thing it is to stick to the mere facts and to put in nothing more. Indignation carried me beyond control from time to time. I went out of my way to point to the villainy of Probus: I called the vengeance of Heaven upon him and his colleagues: I appealed to the unmerited sufferings of my innocent wife; to the shameful future of my innocent offspring—and to other matters of a personal kind all of which were ruthlessly struck out by the attorney; with the result that I had with me when I went into court as plain and clear a statement of a case as ever was presented by any prisoner. This statement I read and re-read until I knew it by heart: yet I was advised not to trust to memory but to take the papers into court and to seem to read. All this shows the care which was taken by our ever-watchful attorney, lest anything should happen to hinder the development of the case, as he intended and hoped.
Among other things he called upon Mr. Probus, nominally on account of another matter.
'I believe,' he said, 'that you are the attorney of Mr. Matthew Halliday?'
'I have that honour.'
'Yes. I observed the fact in reading an affidavit of yours in connection with a case in which I am engaged for the defence, the case of Mr. William Halliday, now in Newgate on a charge of highway robbery.'
'Defence? He has, then, a defence?'
'A defence? Certainly he has a defence. And Counsel. We have engaged Mr. Caterham, K. C., and Mr. Stanton, both of whom you probably know, as counsel for the defence. My dear Sir, we have a very good defence indeed. Let me see. You arrived on the spot, I observe, after the alleged attack was committed.'
'Certainly. My affidavit and my evidence before Sir John, were only as to the identity of the robber.'
'Quite so. But we need not concern ourselves, here, with the defence of Mr. William Halliday. I come to speak about the affairs of Mr. Matthew.'
'Well, sir? What about his affairs?'
'I hear that they are in a very bad way. Oh! Sir, indeed I do not wish to ask any questions. I only repeat what I hear in the City. It is there freely stated that the Firm is ruined: that their ships are sold: and that their business is gone.'
'They are injurious and false reports.'
'It is possible. I hope so. Meantime, however, I have come to communicate to you a matter which perhaps you do not know; but which it is important that you should know. The person chiefly concerned gives me permission to speak of it. Perhaps you do know it already. Perhaps your client has not concealed it from you. Do you, for instance, know that Mr. Matthew Halliday is a married man?'
Mr. Probus started. 'Married?' he cried. 'Married? No, certainly not.'
'It is evident that you do not know your client's private history. He has been married two years and more. He does not, however, cohabit with his wife. They are separated—by consent.'
'Matthew married?'
'They are separated, I say. Such separation, however, does not release the husband from the liability of his wife's debts.'
'Has his wife—has Mrs. Matthew—contracted debts?' He looked very uneasy.
'His wife—she is a client of mine—has contracted very large debts. She may possibly make an arrangement with her creditors. But she may not. In the latter case, she will send them to your client who will hand them over to you. They will demand payment without delay. Failing payment they will take all the steps that the law permits—also without delay. That is why I thought it best to communicate the facts to you. My client authorized me to do so.'
Mr. Probus made no answer. He could not understand what this meant.
'If it is your interest to postpone bankruptcy, Mr. Probus, it may be wiser, for some reason or other, to force it on. I only came to tell you of this danger which threatens your client—not you, of course. But your client whose wife is mine.'
Mr. Probus made at first no reply. He was thinking what this might mean. He was, of course, too wary not to perceive that the threat of forcing on bankruptcy was part of the defence, though in an indirect manner.
'Have you,' he asked presently, 'any knowledge of the amount of these debts?'
'I believe they amount to over £40,000.'
Mr. Probus groaned aloud.
'I thought I would prepare your mind for the blow which may happen any day. Let me see. The trial takes place next Wednesday—next Wednesday. I dare say the creditors will wait till after that event. Good-morning, Mr. Probus.'
He was going away when Mr. Probus called him back.
'You are aware, sir, that I made the prisoner a handsome offer?'
'I have been told that you made a certain offer.'
'I offered him the very large sum of £5,000 if he would sell his succession. If he consents the principal witnesses in the case shall not appear.'
'Mr. Probus, as the case stands now I would not take £50,000 for the price of his chance.'
Again he was going away, and again Mr. Probus called him back.
'We were speaking,' he said, 'of the defence of that unhappy young man, Mr. William Halliday. Of course I am concerned in the matter only as an accidental bystander—and, of course, an old friend of the family. There is to be a defence, you say.'
'Assuredly.'
'I have always understood that the young man was quite poor, and that his wife's friends were also quite poor.'
'That is true. But a man may be quite poor, yet may have friends who will fight every point rather than see the man condemned to death—and on a false charge.'
'False?'
'Quite false, I assure you.'
'Sir, you surprise me. To be sure I did not see the assault. Yet the evidence was most clear. Two gentlemen, unknown to each other—another unknown to both who witnessed the affair—how can such evidence as that be got over?'
'Well, Mr. Probus, it is not for me to say how it will be got over. You are, I believe, giving evidence on what may be called a minor point; you will therefore be in the Court on the occasion of the Trial. I can say nothing, of course; but I should advise all persons engaged in the case to abstain from appearing if possible. I am assured that things quite unexpected will take place. Meantime, to return to the point for which I came here—advise your client to prepare himself to meet claims rising out of his wife's debts to the sum of many thousands.'
'How many thousands, did you say?'
'Forty thousand, I believe.'
'Good Heavens, sir, what can a woman be doing to get through such an enormous sum?'
'Indeed, I cannot inform you. It is an age in which women call themselves the equals of men. Your client, Mr. Probus, has got through a great deal more than that in the same time, including, I believe, the £25,000 which you lent him and which he cannot repay——'
'What do you know about these affairs, Sir?'
'Nothing—nothing. I shall see you in Court on the day of the Trial, Mr. Probus.'
He went away leaving, as he intended, his brother in the law in an anxious condition, and having said nothing that would lead him to suspect that the conspiracy was entirely discovered, and would be laid open in court.
Then came the last day before the Trial.
In the afternoon all my friends were gathered together in my cell. The attorney had read for the last time my statement of defence.
He looked through it once more. 'I do not believe,' he said, 'that the case will get so far. Whatever happens, Mr. Halliday, you will do well to remember that you have to thank Madame here, and I do not believe it will be possible for you to thank her enough, until you find out for yourself the sacrifices she has made for you and the risks she is running on your behalf. I can but hope, Madame, that the sacrifices may be made up to you, and that the risks may prove illusory.'
She smiled, but it was a wan smile. 'Whatever the result,' she said, 'believe me, Sir, I shall never regret either the sacrifices, if you call them such, or the risks, if by either we can defeat this most abominable conspiracy.'
'I was in hopes,' said the attorney, 'that Mr. Probus might be terrified, and so might withdraw at the last moment. It is easy to withdraw. He has only to order the two principal witnesses not to attend, when the case falls to the ground. As we are now free from all anxiety,' I sighed, 'well, from all but the very natural anxiety that belongs to a prison and to the uncertainty of the law, it is better for us that he should put in all the witnesses when we can establish our charge of conspiracy. I marvel, indeed, greatly that a man so astute should not perceive that defence, where a King's Counsel and a Junior of great repute are engaged must mean a serious case, and that a serious case only means denial of the main charge. Else there would be no defence at all. Well,' he rose—'I drink your health, Mr. Halliday, in this excellent Madeira, and a speedy release to you.'
'And I, Will,' said Tom, pouring out another glass, 'I, too, drink a speedy release to you.'
So they went away.
Then Jenny got up. 'Cousin Will,' she said sadly, 'I have done all I could for you. If the Black Jack knew to-night what would be said in Court to-morrow, there would be murder. They will all be in Court—every one—to hear the splendid perjuries of the Bishop and the Captain. Those two worthies expect a brave day: indeed, it will be a great day for them, yet not quite in the manner they anticipate. Well 'tis the last night in prison, Will. To-morrow thou wilt be back again in the Cottage beside the river. Happy Will! Happy Alice! As for me——' she sighed wearily.
'Why, Jenny, as for you—what can happen to you?'
'Nothing can happen to me,' she replied, dolorously.
'Then, why so sad?'
'Because, from the outset I have foreseen something dark and dreadful, but I knew not what. I see myself in a strange place—but I know not where. I look around at the places which I know—and I cannot see myself. I am neither at Drury Lane nor the Garden: nor am I at Soho Square. I look in the grave, but I am not there. I am to live—but I know not where or how. All is to be changed——'
'Jenny,' Alice caught her hand. 'This reading of the future. It is wicked since the Lord hath not thought fit to reveal what is to happen.'
She repeated stupidly, as one who understands not, 'Since the Lord—what Lord?—what do you mean? Alice, how can I help it? I can read the future. Sometimes it is like a printed book to me. Well—no matter. Farewell, Will. Sleep sound to-night. To-morrow we shall meet in the Court. Good-night, dear woman.' She threw her arms round Alice, kissed her and went away.
And as for what passed between husband and wife—what tender things were said—what prayers for faith—on the eve of the day of Life or Death: of Honour or of Shame; shall they, too, be written on a page which is open to every curious eye and to every mocking eye?
It is a most terrible thing for a man of sensibility to stand in the dock of the Old Bailey before the awful array of Judges, Lord Mayor, Sheriffs and Aldermen. I know very well that most of the hardened wretches that stand there have no sense of terror and little of anxiety. For them the Judge is like that fabled Sister who cuts the thread of life: they have come to the end of their rope: their time is up: they are fatalists in a stupid way: the sentence is passed: they bear no malice against the informer: the game has been played according to the rules—what more can a man desire? Tyburn awaits them. And afterwards? They neither know nor do they care.
Early on the morning of the trial, Mr. Dewberry came to see me. He was cheerful, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction. 'The case,' he said, 'is complete. Never was a case more complete or more astonishing as you shall see.' He would not explain further: he said that walls, even in Newgate, have ears: that I must rely upon his word. 'Sir,' he said, 'so much I will explain because it may give you ease. Never has a man gone forth to be tried for his life, with a greater confidence in the result than you ought to have. And, with that assurance enter the Court with a light heart.'
They knocked off my irons before going into Court. Thus relieved, I was marched along a dismal passage, leading from the prison to the Old Bailey. The Court was crowded, not so much out of compliment to me, but because it was bruited abroad among the rogues of St. Giles's that two of their body were that day about to achieve greatness. They were, truly: but not in the way that was expected. The crowd, in fact, consisted chiefly of pickpockets and thieves, with their ladies. And the heroes of the day were the Bishop and the Captain.
At first, a prisoner entering the court, sees nothing. When the mist before his eyes clears away he observes the jury being sworn in—one after the other, they lift the great chained Bible and kiss its leathern cover, black with ten thousand kisses, and take their seats: he observes the counsel arranging their papers: the officers of the court standing about and the crowd in the gallery and about the doors: the box for the witnesses—my heart sank when I saw sitting together my four enemies, looking calm and assured, as if there was no doubt possible as to the results. Nay, the Captain seemed unable to repress or to conceal the pride he felt in imagination, at thinking of the figure he should cut. Mr. Ramage, my own witness, I saw modestly sitting in a corner. Tom Shirley, another witness for me, if he would prove of any use, was also there. As I entered the dock Mr. Probus turned and his lips moved as if he was speaking to Tom. I could not hear what he said, but I knew it, without the necessity of ears. He said, 'Sir, I saw you in Newgate three weeks ago. Your friend might have saved his life, had he accepted my offer. It is now too late.' Then he turned his hatchet face to me and grinned. Well—he grins no longer. Under the Dock stood Alice, and with her, closely veiled, Jenny herself. They took my hands: Alice held the right and Jenny the left. 'Courage, my dear,' said Alice. 'It will soon be over now.' 'It is all over already,' whispered Jenny. 'There is such evidence as will astonish you—and the whole world.' She kissed my hand and dropped a tear upon it. I was to learn afterwards what she meant, and what were her own sacrifices and perils in bringing forward this evidence.
Then Mr. Dewberry came bustling up. 'That is your lawyer, Mr. Caterham, King's Counsel, now arranging his papers. I was with him yesterday. He will make a great case—a very great case—out of this. The attorney arranges it all and the higher branch gets the credit of it all. Never mind. That is your Junior, behind, Mr. Stanton. There's a head for you: there's an eye. I can always tell what they think of the case by the way they arrange their papers. The Counsel in front of him is Serjeant Cosins, King's Counsel, an able man—oh, yes—an able man: he conducts the prosecution. We shall open his eyes presently. He thinks he has got an ordinary case to conduct. He will see. He will see.'
Then the Judges came in: the Lord Mayor, Mr. Justice Parker, the Aldermen, the Recorder, and the Sheriffs. The Lord Mayor sat in the middle under the great sword of Justice: but the case was conducted by Mr. Justice Parker, who sat on his right hand. I looked along the row of faces on the Bench. They all seemed white, cold, stern, hard and unforgiving. Despite assurances, my heart sank low.
I pass over the reading of the indictment, my pleading and the opening of the case. The Prosecutor said that although it was a most simple case, which would not occupy the attention of the court very long, it was at the same time one of the most flagrant and audacious robberies that had ever been brought before the court of the Old Bailey: that the facts were few: that he was not aware of any possible line of defence: 'Oh yes,' observed my Counsel, smiling, 'a very possible line of defence': that he, for one, should be prepared to receive any line of defence that could be set up. But he thought his learned brother would not waste the time of the Court.
He then rehearsed the history of the facts and proceeded to call the witnesses. First he called Samuel Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity (I do not intend to set down the whole of the evidence given by him or by the others because you already know it).
The Doctor, with alacrity, stepped into the witness-box: he was clean shaven, in a new wig, a silken cassock; snow white bands; and a flowing gown. But that his face was red and his neck swollen and his appearance fleshy and sensual—things which may sometimes be observed even among the City Clergy—he presented the appearance of a prosperous ecclesiastic. For my own part I can never satisfy myself whether he was in Holy Orders at all. One hopes, for the sake of the Church that he was not. After kissing the Testament with fervour, he turned an unblushing front to the Prosecutor. He said that he was a Clergyman, a Doctor of Divinity, formerly of Trinity College, Dublin, and some time the holder of certain benefices in the neighbourhood of that city. He deposed that on the night in question he was making his way through Leicester Fields to Charing Cross at the time of nine in the evening or thereabouts: that suddenly a young man rushed out of some dark recess and flourished a cudgel over him, crying, 'Your money or your life!' That being a man of peace, as becomes his profession, he instantly complied with the demand and handed over his purse: that he also cried out either on account of the extremity of his fear, or for help: that help came in the shape of a stranger, who felled the ruffian: that they called the watch: carried the senseless robber to the guard-house, and that the witness's purse was found in his pocket.
My counsel deferred cross-examining this witness for the present.
Next came the Captain. He, too, stood unabashed while he poured out his tale of perjury. He assumed the style and title of a Gentleman from the North, Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick: and he entirely bore out the previous witness's evidence. My counsel also deferred his cross-examination of this witness.
Mr. Merridew was the third witness. He followed suit. He deposed that he was a Sheriff's officer. He had seen the assault and the rescue: he had also helped to carry the robber to the round house. This witness's cross-examination was also deferred.
Mr. Probus, attired in black velvet with fine lace ruffles and neckerchief, so that his respectable appearance could not but impress the jury, said that he was passing the watch-house, by accident, about midnight, having been summoned by a client, when he saw an unconscious figure carried in: that he followed from motives of humanity hoping to be of use to some fellow Christian: that he then perceived, to his amazement, that the robber was none other than the son of his old friend and employer the late Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman and ex-Lord Mayor: that he saw the worthy clergyman's purse taken from his pocket so that there could be no doubt of his guilt. He also added that it was four years and more since Sir Peter had turned his son out of doors, since when he believed that the young man had earned a precarious living by playing the fiddle to sailors and such low company.
Then the cross-examination began.
My counsel asked him first, whether he knew any of the three preceding witnesses. He did not: they were strangers to him. Had he never seen the man Merridew? He never had. Did not Merridew owe him money? He did not. He was now attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday? Had he ever taken the man Merridew to Mr. Halliday's counting-house? He had not. 'In fact, Mr. Probus, you know nothing at all about Mr. Merridew?' 'Nothing.' 'And nothing about the other two men?' 'Nothing.'
'I come now, Mr. Probus, to a question which will astonish the Court. Will you tell me in what way the prisoner's death will benefit you?'
'In no way.'
'Oh! In no way. Come, Sir, think a little. Collect yourself, I pray you. You are attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday. You have lent him money?' No answer. 'Please answer my question.' No answer. 'Never mind, I shall find an answer from you before long. Meantime I inform the Jury that you have lent him £25,000 on the condition that he pays 15 per cent. interest on £40,000, the sum to be repaid. That is the exact description of the transaction, I believe?'
He replied unwillingly, 'If you please to say so.'
'Very well. Now your client has spent, or lost, the whole of his money and yours—do not deny the fact because I am going to prove it presently. He cannot pay you one farthing. In fact, before long the firm of Halliday Brothers will become bankrupt.' (There was a movement and a whisper among the Aldermen and Sheriffs on the Bench.) 'Is this true or not?' No answer.
'My Lud, I press for an answer. This is a most important question. I can find an answer from another witness, but I must have an answer from the witness now in the box.'
'Answer the question immediately, Sir,' said the Judge.
'I do not know.'
'You do not know? Come, Sir, have you been informed, or have you not, by Mr. Matthew Halliday himself, of his position?'
'I have not.'
'You have not. Mark his answer, gentlemen of the Jury. Do not forget his statement. He says that he knows nothing and has been told nothing of his client's present unfortunate condition. Let us go on. The late Sir Peter Halliday left a large sum of money—£100,000, I believe—to the survivor of two—either his son or his nephew?'
'That is true.'
If Halliday Brothers becomes bankrupt, your claim would rank with those of the other creditors?'
'I suppose so.'
'In which case you would get little or nothing of the £40,000. But if the prisoner could be persuaded to sell his chance of succession before the declaration of bankruptcy, your client could raise money on that succession out of which you could be paid in full, if he consented?'
'Yes, if he consented.'
'You have already made three several attempts to make him sell, have you not?'
'Acting by my client's instructions.'
'The first time, when he refused, you threatened revenge, did you not?'
'I did not.'
'You then clapped him in a debtors' prison on a trumped-up charge of debt?'
'It was a debt due to an estate placed in my hands.'
'The prisoner denied the debt: said that the instrument was given to him by the owner, did he not?'
'Perhaps.'
'But you put him in prison and kept him there?'
'I did, acting for my clients, the executors.'
'The next time you called upon him and offered to buy his share was about six weeks ago?'
'It was, acting on instructions from my client.'
'He refused. You then threatened him again?'
'I did not.'
'Two days afterwards the alleged robbery took place at which you were an accidental observer?'
'Accidental.'
'I said so—accidental. Now, if this case should prove fatal to the prisoner, on his death your client, not a bankrupt, would take the whole of the £100,000?'
'He would.'
'You would then expect to be paid?' No answer. 'I say, you would then expect to be paid?'
'I should hope to be.'
'In full?'
'I should hope so.'
'Then you would be the better by £40,000 by the execution of the prisoner?'
'If you put it so, I should.'
'You made a third and last attempt, a few days ago, to obtain his consent?'
'I did, acting on my client's instructions.'
'When he was in Newgate. There were present two other friends of the prisoner. You then offered, if he would sign the document, to withdraw the principal witnesses?'
'I did not.'
'I put it in another way. You promised, if he would sign, that the principal witnesses should not appear?'
'I did not.'
'You swear that you did not?'
'I swear that I did not.'
'You say that you have no power to withdraw witnesses?'
'I have no power to withdraw witnesses.'
'You have no power over the case at all?'
'None.'
Mr. Caterham sat down. Serjeant Cosins stood up.
'You might be the better by the prisoner's death. You are not however in any way concerned with the case except as an accidental observer?'
'Not in any way.'
'And you are not in any way acquainted with the witnesses who are chiefly concerned?'
'Not at all.'
Mr. Probus sat down.
Mr. Caterham called again, the Rev. Dr. Samuel Carstairs.
'My Lud,' he began, 'I must ask that none of the witnesses in this case be allowed to leave the court without your Ludship's permission.'
The Bishop entered the box, but with much less assurance than he had previously assumed. And the cross-examination began.
I then understood what Jenny meant when she talked of making the case complete. He swore again that his name was Carstairs: that he had held preferment in the county of Dublin: he named, in fact, three places: he had never used any other name: he was not once called Onslow, at another time Osborne: at another Oxborough: he knew nothing about these names: he had never been tried at York for fraud: or at Winchester for embezzlement: he had never been whipped at the cart-tail at Portsmouth. As these lies ran out glibly I began to take heart. I looked at Probus: he was sitting on the bench, his fingers interlaced, cold drops of dew rising upon his forehead and nose. But the Bishop held out bravely, that is, with a brazen impudence.
'You know, Doctor, I believe, the Black Jack?'
'A tavern, is it? No, sir, I do not. One of my profession should not be seen in taverns.'
'Yet surely you know the Black Jack, close to St. Giles's Church?'
'No, sir, I am a stranger in London.'
'Do you know the nickname of the "Bishop"?'
'No.'
'Oh! you never were called the "Bishop"?'
'No.'
'Do you know the gallant gentleman who rescued you?'
'No, I do not.'
'You do not know him? Never met him, I suppose, at the Black Jack?'
'Never.'
'Never? Do you know the other witness, Mr. Merridew?'
'No, I do not.'
'Where were you staying for the night when this romantic incident happened?'
For the first time the Bishop hesitated. 'I—I—forget,' he said.
'Come, come, you cannot forget so simple a thing, you know. Where were you staying?'
'It was in a street off the Strand—I forget its name—I am a stranger to this city.'
'Well—where did you stay last night?'
'In the same street—I forget its name.'
'Not at the Black Jack, St. Giles's?'
He was pressed upon this point, but nothing could be got out of him. He stuck to the point—he had forgotten the name of the street, and he knew nothing of the Black Jack.
So he stood down. The Captain was called by the name he gave himself—Ferdinando Fenwick. He said he had never been known by any other name, that he had no knowledge of the name of Tom Kestever. He had never heard that name. Nor did he know of any occasion on which the said Tom Kestever had been ducked for a pickpocket: flogged for a rogue: imprisoned and tried on a capital charge for cattle lifting. Oh! Jenny, the case was well got up, truly. He, too, had never heard of the Black Jack, and stoutly stood it out that he was a gentleman of Cumberland. Asked what village or town of Cumberland, he named Whitehaven as the place in which he was born and had his property—to wit, five farms contiguous to the town and two or three messuages in the town.
When this evidence was concluded a juryman rose and asked permission of the Court to put a question to the witness, which was granted him.
'Those farms,' he said, 'are contiguous to Whitehaven? Yes, and you were born in that town? What was your father by occupation?'
'He was a draper.'
'My lord,' said the Juryman, 'I am myself a native of Whitehaven. I am the son of the only draper in the town. I am apparently about the same age as the witness. I have never seen him in the town. There is no reputable tradesman of that name in the town, or anywhere near it. There are gentlefolk of the name, but in Northumberland.'
'I wish, Sir,' said the Counsel, 'that I had you in the box.'
'The statement of a Juryman is not evidence,' the Prosecuting Counsel interposed.
'I fear, my learned brother,' said the Judge, 'that when the Jury retire, it will become a strong piece of evidence, whatever direction I may give them.'
The Serjeant declined to re-examine this evidence.
Then my counsel called Mr. Merridew, who very reluctantly got into the box again.
He denied solemnly that he knew either of the preceding witnesses. He denied that he knew the Black Jack. He owned, with a pretence at pride, that he had frequently served his country by informing against rogues and had taken the reward to which he was entitled. He denied that he encouraged young fellows to become highwaymen in hopes of securing the higher reward. He denied that he knew Mr. Probus. He swore that he should not benefit by the conviction of the prisoner.
You observe that the object of the Counsel was to make everyone plunge deeper into the mire of perjury. His case was strong indeed, or he would not have followed this method.
The Counsel then called half a dozen witnesses in succession. They were turnkeys from York, Winchester, Reading and Portsmouth and other places. They identified the Rev. Dr. Samuel Carstairs, D.D., as a person notoriously engaged in frauds for which an educated person was necessary. He had been imprisoned for two years at Winchester for embezzlement: for a twelvemonth with a flogging at York for fraud: he was whipped through the High Street of Portsmouth and down to Point and back again for similar practices. They also identified the Captain as a rogue from tender years: hardly a whipping-post anywhere but knew the sound of his voice: hardly a prison in which he had not passed some of his time.
And now the case looked brighter. Everyone was interested, from the Aldermen to the Jury: it was a case of surprises: only Serjeant Cosins stood with his papers in his hand looking perplexed and annoyed. So far there was no doubt about the two fellows, the authors of the charge, being notorious and arrant rogues. A very pitiful figure they cut, as they sat side by side on the witnesses' bench. Even their own friends in the gallery were laughing at them, for the admiration of the rogue is for successful roguery, while for detected roguery he has nothing but contempt.
Then the Counsel called John Ramage. He said that he was an accountant in the counting-house of Messrs. Halliday Brothers: that in that capacity he knew the position of the House: that in two years the managing partner, Mr. Matthew Halliday, had reduced the business to a state of insolvency: that they might become bankrupts at any moment: that creditors were pressing, and the end could not be far off. He went on to state that he revealed the secrets of his office because he was informed that the knowledge was necessary for the defence of Mr. William Halliday, and that the safety and innocence of his late master's only son were of far more importance to him than the credit of the House. And here the tears came into his eyes. This, however, was the least important part of the case. For he went on to depose that the position of his desk near the door of Mr. Matthew's office enabled him to hear all that went on: that Mr. Probus was constantly engaged with Mr. Matthew: that every day there were complaints and quarrels between them: that Mr. Probus wanted his money back, and that Mr. Matthew could not pay him: that every day they ended with the regret that they could not touch this sum of money waiting for the survivor: that every day they sighed to think what a happy event it would be for them both if Mr. William Halliday were dead. That, one day, Mr. Probus said that there were many ways for even a young man to die: he might, for instance, fall into the hands of the law: to this Mr. Matthew gave no reply, but when he was alone began to drink. That Mr. Probus returned the next day with Mr. Merridew, who said that the job was easy and should be done, but he should expect to stand in: he said that the thing would cost a good deal, but that, for a thousand pounds, he thought that Mr. Will Halliday's case might be considered certain. 'When I heard this,' the witness said, 'I hastened to Lambeth, where Mr. Will was living with his wife. I could not see him because he was playing for Madame Vallance's Assembly. I therefore went again to Lambeth the next day, which was Sunday, and I told him all. While I was telling him, Mr. Probus himself came. So they put me in the kitchen where I could hear what was said. Mr. Probus made another effort to persuade Mr. Will to sell his chance of succession. Then he went away in a rage, threatening things. So I implored Mr. Will to get out of the way of the villains. He promised: but it was too late. The next thing I hear is that he has been charged with highway robbery. Mr. Will—the best of men!'
I now thought my case was going pretty well.
There were, however, other witnesses.
To my amazement Jenny's mother appeared. She was dressed up as a most respectable widow with a white cap, a black dress, and a white apron. She curtseyed to the Court and kissed the book with a smack, as if she enjoyed it.
She said that she was a widow, and respectable: that she kept the Black Jack, which was much frequented by the residents of St. Giles's. The Counsel did not press this point but asked her if she knew the Rev. Dr. Carstairs. She replied that she knew him, under other names, as a frequenter of her house off and on for many years: that he was familiarly known as the 'Bishop': that she did not inquire into the trades of her customers, but that it was understood that the Bishop was one of those who use their skill in writing for various purposes: for threatening persons who have been robbed: for offering stolen property for sale: for demanding money: for forging documents: and other branches of roguery demanding a knowledge of writing. She showed her own knowledge of the business by her enumeration of the branches. She said, further, that the gentleman had slept at the Black Jack every night for the last two months: that he had a bed there, took his meals there, and carried on his business there. As regards Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick, she knew him as the 'Captain,' or as Tom Kestever, and she identified him in the same way and beyond any power of doubt. As for Merridew, she knew him very well: he was a thief-taker by profession: he gave his man a good run and then laid information against him: he encouraged young rogues and showed them how to advance in their profession: and she deposed that on a certain day Merridew came to the house where the Bishop and the Captain were drinking together and sat with them: that all their talk was about getting a man out of the way: that the Bishop did not like it, but was told by Mr. Merridew very plainly that he must, and that he then assented.
Jenny's sister, Doll, next appeared. She was transformed into a young and pleasing woman with a silver ring for greater respectability. Her evidence corroborated that of her mother. But she added an important particular, that one morning when there was no one in the place but the Bishop and the Captain, Mr. Probus came with Mr. Merridew and sat conversing with those two gentlemen for a long time.
Then the young fellow called Jack went into the box. By this time the interest of everyone in the court was intense, because here was the unrolling of a plot which for audacity and wickedness was perhaps unequalled. And the wretched man Probus, still writhing in his seat, cast his eyes to the door in hopes of a chance at flight: in his agony his wig was pushed back, and the whole of his head exposed to view. I confess that horror rather than revenge possessed me.
The young fellow called Jack gave his evidence in a straightforward way. He confessed that he had run away from his native village in consequence of an unfortunate love affair; that he had come up to town, hoping to get employment: that he had been taken to the Black Jack by someone who met him in the street: that he had there been introduced to Mr. Merridew, who promised to find him work: that in fact he had been employed by him in shop-lifting and in small street robberies: his employer, he explained, would go along the street first and make a sign where he could carry off something: that he was promised promotion to be a highwayman by Mr. Merridew if he should deserve it: that he had been told to keep himself in readiness to help in knocking a gentleman on the head: that the thing was talked over with him by the Bishop and the Captain: that at the last moment they told him they should want none of his help. Asked what he should do after giving this evidence, replied that if Mr. Merridew got off, he should have to enlist in order to save his neck, which would be as good as gone. More he said, but this was the most important.
Then Mr. Caterham called Mr. Halliday.
My unfortunate cousin entered the witness-box pale and trembling. In answer to questions he acknowledged that he had lost the whole of his fortune and ruined a once noble business in the space of three or four years. He confessed that his bankruptcy was inevitable: that Probus had been urgent with him to get his cousin to sell his chance of succession in order to raise money by which he himself might recover his money: that he was willing to do so if his cousin would sell: but his cousin would not. He said that Mr. Probus had come to him stating that a man's life might be lost in many ways: that, for instance, he might fall into the hands of the law: that he had brought Mr. Merridew, who offered to arrange so that his cousin might lose his life in some such way if he were paid a thousand pounds down; that he would not listen to such detestable overtures; that he heard of his cousin's arrest: that he had informed his cousin's attorney of the offer made him by Probus and Merridew: but he had neither paid nor promised a thousand pounds, or anything at all: and that he had never been a consenting party to the plot.
He was allowed to stand down: he remained in the court, trembling and shivering, as pitiable an object as the wretched conspirators themselves.
If there had been interest in the case before, judge what it was now in the appearance of the next witness, for there entered the box none other than Jenny herself, the bewitching Jenny. She was all lace and ribbons, as beautiful a creature as one could expect to see anywhere. She smiled upon the Judge and upon the Lord Mayor: she smiled upon the Jury: she smiled upon me, the prisoner in the Dock. In answer to the questions put to her, she answered, in substance: 'My name is Jenny Halliday. I am the wife of the last witness, Matthew Halliday. I am an actress. I am known by my maiden name, Jenny Wilmot. As an entertainer, I am known as Madame Vallance.' There was now the most breathless attention in Court. 'By birth, I am the daughter of the landlady of the Black Jack. It is a place of resort of the residents of St. Giles's. Most of them, to my certain knowledge, probably all, are thieves. I sometimes go there to see my mother and sister, not to see the frequenters of the place. Whenever I do go there, I always find the two witnesses who just now called themselves Carstairs and Fenwick: at the Black Jack they were always called the Bishop and the Captain. I have always heard, and I understand, that they are rogues of the deepest dye. The Bishop is not a clergyman at all: he is so called because he dresses like a clergyman and can write well: the Captain is a highwayman: most of his fraternity call themselves Captains: he is the son of a butcher in Clare market. His name is Tom Kestever. Both are Mr. Merridew's men: that is, they have to carry out whatever he orders, and they live in perpetual terror that their time is up. The last time I was in the Black Jack, Merridew came in, drank a glass or two of punch in a friendly way, and so left them. When he said that he did not know the men, it was flat perjury. He was continually in the Black Jack looking up his people; admonishing the young and threatening the elders. Not a rogue in London but knows Mr. Merridew, and trembles at the thought of him.'
Asked about Mr. Probus, she said she did not know him at all, save by repute. That he constantly threatened the prisoner with consequences if he did not consent to sell his chance of succession: and that she had been present on a certain occasion in Newgate when Mr. Probus visited the prisoner and offered him there and then, if he would sign the document offered, that the principal witnesses should not appear at the Trial, which would thus fall through.
Asked as to her knowledge of the prisoner, she deposed that she found him in the King's Bench Prison, sent there through the arts of Mr. Probus: that she took him out, paying the detainers: that she then gave him employment in her orchestra: that he was a young gentleman of the highest principle, married to a wife of saintly conduct and character: that he was incapable of crime—that he lived quietly, was not in debt, and received for his work in the orchestra the sum of thirty shillings a week, which was enough for their modest household.
Asked again about her husband, she said that she could not live with him, partly because he was an inveterate gambler: and that to gratify this passion there was nothing he would not sell. That he had gamed away a noble fortune and ruined a noble business: that steps had already been taken to make him bankrupt: and that it was to save his own money that the man Probus had designed this villainy.
'Call Thomas Shirley.' It was the Junior Counsel who rose.
Tom went into the box and answered the preliminary questions. 'Do you remember meeting Mr. Probus in Newgate about a month ago?'
'I do.'
'What offer did he make?'
'He offered my brother-in-law £5,000 down if he would sell his chance of the succession, and further promised that the principal witnesses should not appear.'
'You swear that this was his offer?'
'I swear it.'
The counsel looked at Serjeant Cosins who shook his head.
'You may sit down, Sir.'
'My Lud,' said Mr. Caterham, 'my case is completed. I have no other evidence unless you direct me to sweep the streets of St. Giles's and compel them to come in.'
When all the evidence was completed there was a dead silence in the Court. Everybody was silent for a space: the faces of the rogues in the gallery were white with consternation: here were the very secrets of their citadel, their home, the Black Jack, disclosed, and by the very people of the Black Jack, the landlady and her daughters. The Jury looked at each other in amazement. Here was the complete revelation of a plot which for wickedness and audacity went beyond everything ever invented or imagined. What would happen next?
'Brother Cosins,' said the Judge.
He threw his papers on the desk. 'My Lud,' he said, 'I throw down my brief.'
Then the Judge charged the Jury. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'it has been clearly established—more clearly than I ever before experienced, that a wicked—nay a most horrible—crime, designed by one man, carried out by three others, has been perpetrated against the prisoner, William Halliday. It is a case in which everything has been most carefully prepared: the perjury of the witnesses has been established beyond a doubt even though the witnesses have been in part taken from the regions of St. Giles's, and from actual criminals. Gentlemen, there is but one verdict possible.'
They did not leave the box: they conferred for a moment: rose and through their foreman pronounced their verdict—'Not Guilty.' They added a hope that the conspirators would not escape.
'They shall not,' said the Judge. 'William Halliday, the verdict of the jury sets you free. I am happy to say that you leave this court with an unblemished character: and that you have the most heartfelt commiseration of the court for your wholly undeserved sufferings and anxiety.' Then the Judge turned to the four. 'I commit Eliezer Probus: Samuel Carstairs alias what he pleases: the man who calls himself Ferdinando Fenwick: and John Merridew for trial on the charge of conspiracy and perjury.'