“How could ye?” cried Meekins, in a hoarse voice. “How could ye? I sailed for America the day after I was set at liberty.”
“Be silent, sir,” said the prisoner's counsel, who, suffering greatly from the injury of these interruptions, now assumed a look of angry impatience; while, with the craft of his calling, he began already to suspect that a mine was about to be sprung beneath him.
“You have told us,” said Hipsley,—and, as he spoke, his words came with an impressive slowness that made them fall deep into every heart around,—“You have told us that the coat worn habitually by the prisoner, up to the day of Mr. Godfrey's murder, you never saw on him after that day. Is that true?”
“It is, sir.”
“You have also said that this coat——part of a piece from which your son had a coat——was of a peculiar color?”
“It was, sir; and more than that, they had both the same cut, only Sam's had horn buttons, and my son's was metal.”
“Do you think, then, from the circumstances you have just mentioned, that you could know that coat if you were to see it again?”
A pause followed, and the witness, instead of answering, sat with his eyes fixed upon the dock, where the prisoner, with both hands grasping the iron spikes, stood, his glaring eyeballs riveted upon the old man's face, with an expression of earnestness and terror actually horrible to witness.
“Look at me, Morris,” said Hipsley, “and answer my question. Would you know this coat again?”
“That is, would you swear to it?” interposed the opposite counsel.