Ralph was haggard and pulled down by confinement and by want of sleep; if he were a criminal, he was, at any rate, no actor, and his obvious nervousness was interpreted by many as symptomatic of a guilty conscience. He listened attentively to the entire proceedings with visibly increasing consternation and dismay, and it was not until Melville took up his position in the witness-box that any gleam of hope appeared upon his face.
Melville once more engrossed the sympathy of a court; he was so distressed upon his brother's account, so anxious to testify to his integrity of character, so ready, and yet so concise, in his replies, that he made an ideal witness.
"Ralph was always my uncle's favourite," he said again, with a rather pathetic smile; "they were just like father and son." No, he had never heard of any difference of opinion between them, and was convinced they had never had any quarrel. It was impossible, he protested, that Ralph could or would have committed such a crime. His generous indignation warmed Ralph's heart, and was subsequently commented on with approbation by counsel for the Crown in his concluding address to the jury, although, as that great lawyer pointed out, it did not affect the issue. What was more important was the admission he was rather skilfully beguiled into making that on one occasion he had known his brother to be embarrassed by want of money. An apparently trivial question had been put as to his knowledge of Ralph's financial position, and Melville answered it candidly; both of them were absolutely dependent on Sir Geoffrey's bounty, both received a liberal allowance, and on one occasion Sir Geoffrey had paid a considerable sum in which Melville himself was indebted. Presumably, therefore, he would have done the same for Ralph, to whom he was, by common consent, more attached.
"In short, you are not aware that your brother has ever been in want of ready money?"
Melville hesitated, coloured, and was lost. Reluctantly, and only as the result of a long series of skilfully worded questions, he let out the fact that Ralph had once applied to him for an immediate loan of a hundred pounds. He was at Monte Carlo at the time, and Ralph wrote from Fairbridge. Yes, he supposed that Ralph might have applied to Sir Geoffrey, but it did not follow that he had done so and been refused. The inference was unwarrantable, he declared warmly, but his protest failed to have effect, and the harm was done. In reply to a few further questions, he accounted moodily for his own time on the day of the murder. He had gone out for a walk after a late breakfast, and in the afternoon had remained at home, owing to the storm. The telegram announcing his uncle's death was not brought to him at once, as his valet was off duty. The manager of the chambers brought it up with some letters when, on waking up from a doze, Melville rang for tea. He was obviously downcast by the information previously extracted from him, and when he finally left the box, it was felt that he had slipped the noose around his brother's neck.
Of the rest of the proceedings Melville had no knowledge at first hand. His nerves, strong and finely tempered as they were, could not stand the tension, and he hurried to the hotel, where he had engaged a private room. There he paced up and down like a caged beast, unable to think coherently, and only waiting with horrible anxiety for the verdict. In the still silence of the court, Gwendolen sat motionless, her whole attitude a prayer, and downstairs Ralph waited, glad to escape the observation of the hundreds of curious eyes. But to neither of them, to whom the verdict meant so much, did the time seem so appallingly long as it seemed to Melville, nor was their anguish any thing like his.
Three hours dragged by, each one composed of sixty minutes of agony, and then the waiter brought a note to him. He tore it open, afraid to read its contents, yet unable to endure another second of suspense. The jury had been unable to agree, and the case was sent back to be tried again.
Melville groaned. So it all had to be gone through again, all the examination and cross-examination and re-examination, all the hypocrisy and ingenuity and deceit, and at the end perhaps another murder, or perhaps suicide; for Ralph's conviction would be equivalent to the one, and his acquittal might be procurable only by the revelation of the truth, which would involve the other. Melville had honestly expected his brother's acquittal, had been quite sincere in his words of encouragement to Gwendolen; and now there was this miserable, ineffectual conclusion to the solemn farce.
White lipped, wide eyed, with furrows scored across his brow, he turned to the waiter and forced a smile.
"Well, that's the end of it to-day. Order a fly to take me to the station. I'll go up by the next train," and writing a note to Mr. Tracy to say he could be got at at once in Jermyn Street if required, he presently returned to town.