"I wish Mary Barton would come," said Job, anxiously. "She and Will are a long time about it."
"Ay, that's our only chance, I believe," answered Mr. Bridgenorth, who was writing again. "I sent Johnson off before twelve to serve him with his sub-pœna, and to say I wanted to speak with him; he'll be here soon, I've no doubt."
There was a pause. Mr. Bridgenorth looked up again, and spoke.
"Mr. Duncombe promised to be here to speak to his character. I sent him a subpœna on Saturday night. Though after all, juries go very little by such general and vague testimony as that to character. It is very right that they should not often; but in this instance unfortunate for us, as we must rest our case on the alibi."
The pen went again, scratch, scratch over the paper.
Job grew very fidgetty. He sat on the edge of his chair, the more readily to start up when Will and Mary should appear. He listened intently to every noise and every step on the stair.
Once he heard a man's footstep, and his old heart gave a leap of delight. But it was only Mr. Bridgenorth's clerk, bringing him a list of those cases in which the grand jury had found true bills. He glanced it over and pushed it to Job, merely saying,
"Of course we expected this," and went on with his writing.
There was a true bill against James Wilson. Of course. And yet Job felt now doubly anxious and sad. It seemed the beginning of the end. He had got, by imperceptible degrees, to think Jem innocent. Little by little this persuasion had come upon him.
Mary (tossing about in the little boat on the broad river) did not come, nor did Will.