Mr. Sauls took the doctor's hint, and risked no broken bones.
"I might have a remarkable piece of evidence as to the excellence of that charming family's temper," he remarked; "but it's not worth while being mobbed for that. I wonder Tom Thorpe is such a fool!"
"Mrs. Thorpe sent you the warning," said the doctor.
"Did she?" said George, rather surprised. "Ah! she saw if Mr. Tom broke my head afresh, he'd help to damn the preacher."
He opined justly enough. Love and hate had arrived for once at the same conclusion.
Mrs. Sauls had been in the court, as well as dozens of other ladies not so immediately concerned, who had stared through opera glasses at the preacher, and whispered to each other that the slight woman in black with the pale face and cropped hair was Mrs. Thorpe, "who was Margaret Deane, you know".
George Sauls made his exit in safety, and went to Hill Street to talk things over with his mother.
"You won't win, my dear," she said. "He can't prove that he didn't do it; but you can't prove that he did; and the jury always incline to the side of poor man versus gentleman. His ragged coat and his rough accent are decidedly in his favour; he'll get off."
"I've done my little best," said George, throwing himself on the sofa full length. "That's always a comfort. As you say, he'll possibly escape through the holes in his shirt. An English jury have a curiously sentimental leaning to poverty. May I smoke? Thanks! Well, it is some small satisfaction to reflect that I've given him three months in Newgate; and I don't think it has agreed with him."
The old lady nodded thoughtfully; she and George always thoroughly understood each other.