When the viscount was left alone he resumed his restless pacing up and down the narrow limits of his cell and continued it for a while. Then he sat down to his little table, drew a sheet of paper before him, and began to write a letter.
He was interrupted by the unlocking of his cell door. Hastily he turned the paper with the blank side up and looked around. It was Mr. Bruce, his counsel. The lawyer looked unusually grave.
"Well," he said, as soon as he was left alone with his client, "the poor devil Frisbie is gone."
"Yes," responded the viscount, in a low voice.
"That is an ugly business of the confession."
"Very; the man was mad," said the viscount.
"Not unlikely; but I wish we may be able to persuade the jury that he was so; or else to induce the judges to rule his evidence out altogether."
"Can that be done? I mean can the judges be induced to rule out the confession as evidence?" inquired the viscount, sudden hope lighting up his hitherto dejected countenance.
"I fear not; I fear that our chance is to persuade the jury that the man was insane or mendacious—in a word, to impeach his rationality or his truthfulness, one or the other; we must decide which stand we are to take, which call in question."
"You might doubt either his sanity or his truth with equally good cause. He was always a fool and always a liar. When is the trial to come on?"