[CHAPTER XII.]
TURNING THE SCALE.
Late in the afternoon at Westminster. The court occupied, as it had been these months past, with the great Farrington trial. It had already lasted so long that the counsel’s opening address was almost forgotten; yet nothing definite had come out. The case for the claimant was approaching conclusion. Mr. Netherpoint, Q.C., held on bravely to the last. Like a true man he was prepared to die game; but it was quite clear that Mr. Quantlet, the leader on the opposite side, was only biding his time to smash Mr. Netherpoint and his case into little bits.
Interest had flagged since the commencement of the trial. It was felt that the whole thing was rather a hollow affair, which must presently collapse utterly. Only the parties to the suit retained their anxiety. Lady Farrington, like the old lady in Jarndice v. Jarndice, sat near Herbert, and still strove, but in vain, to be calm. Sir Rupert Farrington was also in court, his dark face wearing an implacable frown, which deepened as his eyes rested upon the unscrupulous aggressors who sought to rob him of his rights and all he possessed. Herbert Larkins met his glance without quailing, but without any particular buoyancy of expression. He was, in truth, growing a little hopeless, and almost wished the case at an end. Everybody else seemed heartily sick of the thing. Even the presiding judge had yawned distinctly three times in as many minutes; after which he asked his brother Netherpoint when he hoped to conclude.
‘Very shortly, m’lud; there are but two or three additional witnesses—’
‘Material witnesses, I trust? persons prepared to give evidence relative to the issue?’
‘Most decidedly, m’lud, most decidedly. There is Reuben Bosher, and—hey? what d’ye mean? I cannot hear what you say.’
This was to Mr. Bellhouse; who had come behind him, and was whispering rather excitedly, for him, in the counsel’s ear.
‘Delay? impossible. They wouldn’t give us an hour. Out of the question.’