"There is a man now in prison, charged with the murder of one William Leicester—you know the case, perhaps—and I have called on you to make it impossible for the prisoner to escape unless he is really innocent." She uttered these last words slowly, with her eye fixed on the advocate as she spoke.
"There is such a thing, I believe, as the friends of a guilty man securing legal assistance when the commonwealth proves lax or indifferent."
"Oh! yes, madam," said the lawyer. "The thing is of common occurrence."
"Very well," said Ada, slowly, taking a note of large value from her porte-monnaie. "I wish you to see the district-attorney, and assist him in this trial."
"You would retain me—I understand your wish," said the lawyer, too polite to touch the note which she laid before him, yet unable to prevent a glance at its denomination; and bowing again profoundly, as his visitor rose to go, he continued, "the guilty man shall not escape, madam."
Ada Leicester drove home with a lighter heart, feeling as if a great duty had been discharged.
CHAPTER XXX. THE PRISON WOMAN IN ADA'S DRESSING-ROOM.
Look not so haughtily, imperious dame;
Chance digs the gulf that lies between us two: