"Don't ask me for opinions. I've been open with you for old times' sake, but my opinions, for the present, I keep to myself." He looked at his watch. "What time are you due at the station, Robson."
"I must be there within the hour. I wish I'd resigned, or asked to be suspended."
"The worst move you could have made. Duty's duty. There was a Roman father once--I don't remember his name--that sent his own son to execution, and looked on while it was done."
"What do you mean?" asked Uncle Rob. His voice trembled, his fingers twined convulsively.
"It's plain enough," said Lambert, half roughly. "You're on night duty at Bishop Street Station."
"And the charge will be laid there!" cried Uncle Rob, a cold perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
"It's in the district; it's the nearest station. There's no help for it; I wish there was."
"They'll never forgive me, never!" said Uncle Rob. "My own child, Lambert, my own child! To strike a death blow at my own child!"
"Who's talking of death blows? Pull yourself together. It's better so; you can make things easier for him. As for forgiveness, they're not the women I take them for if they harbour a thought against you. They're true grit, that's what they are." "There's something going on in Court."
They hurried in together, and were present at another altercation between Coroner and jury, the leading actors in it being, as before, the Coroner and the recalcitrant juror. From the flushed faces of the jurymen it was evident that there had been a heated discussion. Finally the Coroner proposed to take the verdict of the majority, and another difficulty presented itself.