“Alas!” said Prudence, weeping profusely, though even the prisoner at the bar wore an incredulous grin, “she has gone away to Paris. She was on the point of leaving London when my sister called on her.”
The counsel for the prosecution looked triumphantly at the magistrate. The woman was an absolute Bedlamite. No mere liar would invent so lame, so preposterous a story.
“You may stand down,” he said abruptly.
“Please may I say one word?” asked the distressed witness. She looked full at the magistrate. He was a soft-hearted man, and something in her pathetic, tear-stained face touched him.
“Well,” he said, “what is it? You must be brief.”
“Would you mind having my sister—the child—brought forward?”
The woman in charge of Augusta stood up, and exhibited the quaint, weird-eyed infant.
At sight of her an extraordinary change came over the face of good Mrs. Brown. She whispered eagerly and excitedly to the barrister engaged for the defence, pointing at Augusta, and accenting her remarks by beating her closed fist on the edge of the dock.
In a moment he was on his feet.
“Your worship! On behalf of my client, I beg to say she disclaims all responsibility for the child now produced in court. She knows nothing about it, and has never seen it in her life before. She desires me to say that the baby committed to her care by this lady was evidently under a month old. I appeal to every mother in court if that child is not between two and three years of age at the least.”