Mr. Edgar sprang to his feet.
“But I submit, my lord, that my learned friend has not sufficiently proved my client’s”—he did not use the word “prisoner,” it was noticed—“identity. The motive—the motive for this crime is all-important. One witness is not sufficient!”
The judge nodded.
Mr. Sewell bent down and whispered to the solicitor; he shrugged his shoulders. There was a pause. Then a strange coincidence happened. There was a movement in the crowd. It parted, and a young man forced his way to the dock, and with a cry of “Clydesfold!” seized the prisoner’s hand!
The spectators shouted, the usher yelled “Order!” the judge leaned forward and first looked amazed, then frowned.
“Bertie!” sprang from Olivia’s white lips.
He turned, still holding Faradeane’s hand, and looked at her. Ah, such a look! No pen can describe it; no poet, no painter could convey it.
“Order!” cried the usher, sternly.
McAndrew tugged Sewell’s arm, and “I call Viscount Granville,” he said, instantly.
Faradeane smiled down at him sadly, and drew his hand away; and, with a wild, angry look on his handsome face, Bertie was led by the arm to the box.