“Yo’r nevvy? Phew! this is an ugly business, an ugly business.”
“Awm feart so.”
“Well?”
“Aw want yo’ to defend him at th’ ’sizes.”
“Why my good man, what defence is possible? Allison tells me the case is as clear as crystal. Not a loop hole in it.”
My father’s face fell. Then he pulled out the bag of notes.
“There’s a hundred pound here, Mr. Blackburn. George shalln’t stand up i’ Court wi’out one soul to take his side. Guilty or not guilty, whatever th’ law can do for him shall be done. It’ll happen soothe him at the last, if th’ worst comes to th’ worst, to know at some hearts felt for him, an’ that what brass could do to get him off, wer’ done.”
“It’s a noble sentiment, Mr. Bamforth, and does you credit I’m sure. Well, well, no man’s guilty in this country, thank God, till he’s proved guilty. But I can’t make bricks without straw, you know. What’s the defence?”
“Nay, that’s for you to find out,” said my father, more cheerfully. “That’s’ what th’ hundred pound is for.”
“But we don’t make evidence, my dear sir. There can be only one defence—an alibi. The man was shot, that’s plain. It wasn’t an accident, that’s clear. Who ever did it, did it of malice prepense. There can only be an alibi. This young man now”—turning to me—“the prisoner was your cousin?”