Compton wrote on a slip, “For Heaven's sake, bring him directly. In half an hour it will be too late.”
Green hurried out and nearly ran against Mr. Richard Hardie, who was moodily pacing Westminster Hall at the climax of his own anxiety. To him all turned on Skinner. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen, twenty: all the plaintiff's party had their eyes on the door; but Green did not return; and the judge did. Then to gain a few minutes more, Mr. Colt, instructed by Compton, rose and said with great solemnity, “We are about to call our last witness: the living have testified to my client's sanity, and now we shall read you the testimony of the dead.”
Saunders.—That I object to, of course.
Colt.—Does my learned friend mean to say he objects at random?
Saunders.—Nothing of the kind. I object on the law of evidence—a matter on which my learned friend seems to be under a hallucination as complete as his client's about that L. 14,000.
Colt.
—There's none ever feared
That the truth should be heard
But they whom the truth would indict.
Saunders.—A court of justice is not the place for old songs; and new law.
Colt.—Really, my learned friend is the objective case incarnate. (To Compton.—I can't keep this nonsense up for ever. Is Skinner come?) He has a Mania for objection, and with your lordship's permission I'll buy a couple of doctors and lock him up in an asylum as he leaves the court this afternoon. (Laughter.)
The judge.—A very good plan: then you'll no longer feel the weight of his abilities. I conclude, Mr. Colt, you intend to call a witness who will swear to the deceased person's hand-writing and that it was written in the knowledge Death was at hand.