A look of grave and painful earnestness sat upon the old earl’s face, and he leaned his head upon his hand, and bent his eyes upon his desk. He, like the squire, had taken a great liking to the man accused of this terrible crime, and, but that it was a principle of his life never to shirk a duty, however painful, he too would have been absent from the bench. In the well of the court, near the clerk, sat the commonplace-looking London detective, keenly noting every face and every voice around him, though to all appearance wrapped in stolid reflection.
Presently, in the midst of the hum and buzz, the clerk called “Harold Faradeane,” and a policeman opened the door of the dock, and the prisoner entered.
He was very pale, and those who knew him felt a thrill of pity as they saw how haggard and drawn his face had grown during the days of his imprisonment. But with the feeling of pity was mingled one of puzzled surprise. It seemed impossible to connect a vulgar crime with the grave, patrician face and bearing, which remained calm and dignified under the battery of eyes, and seemed to give a direct denial to the charge which the clerk read out. As he would not be required to plead guilty or not guilty until the trial—if the magistrates should decide to send him for trial—Harold Faradeane remained silent.
“I propose to produce sufficient evidence to warrant my demanding that the prisoner should be sent for trial, my lord,” said the superintendent of police, and he called the constable and Browne, the keeper.
They told the now-familiar story of the finding of the body, and Faradeane in close proximity, waiting, as it almost seemed, for detection, and the picking up of the revolver near to his feet.
The spectators listened breathlessly; some of them had heard the story in the Grange hall on Olivia’s wedding day; but they listened as intently now as if it were all new to them.
Faradeane stood with one hand resting on the rail in front of the dock, his eyes fixed on the ground, his whole bearing that of a man completely resigned to whatever might happen; not indifferent, but simply resigned.
The earl looked up and at him as the evidence was concluded.
“Have you any questions to ask, Mr. Faradeane?” he said in a grave voice, and the crowded court remarked that he addressed the accused by his name instead of as “prisoner.”
“No, my lord,” came the quiet reply.