But I doubt if any one but myself witnessed this evidence of good-humour on his part. Arthur’s attitude and Arthur’s manner had drawn all eyes to himself. As the last words I have recorded left his lips, he had raised his head and confronted the jury with a straightforward gaze. The sturdiness and immobility of his aspect were impressive, in spite of his plain features and the still unmistakable signs of long cherished discontent and habitual dissipation. He had struck bottom with his feet, and there he would stand,—or so I thought as I levelled my own glances at him.
But I had not fully sounded all of Alonzo Moffat’s resources. That inscrutable lawyer and not-easily-to-be-understood man seemed determined to mar every good impression his unfortunate client managed to make.
Ignoring the new facts just given, undoubtedly thinking that they would be amply sifted in the coming cross-examination, he drew the attention of the prisoner to himself by the following question:
“Will you tell us again how many bottles of wine you took from the club-house?”
“One. No—I’m not sure about that—I’m not sure of anything. I had only one when at the inn in Cuthbert Road.”
“You remember but one?”
“I had but one. One was enough. I had trouble in carrying that.”
“Was the ground slippery?”
“It was snowy and it was uneven. I stumbled more than once in crossing the links.”
“Mr. Cumberland, is there anything you would like to say in your own defence before I close this examination?”