She knew that he liked his cigar, and the warm room, and the soft sofa the better because Barnabas Thorpe was suffering bodily discomfort; and it was a very natural source of satisfaction, she considered.
"And there's a further consolation," he went on, after puffing away in silence for a few minutes. "You see I am resigning myself to the chance of his not being hung. There's another consolation. If I win, he'll be a martyr, as sure as I'm a sinner; he'll have such a glorification as will disguise the fact that he is being punished for a dastardly attempt at murder. They'll forget that. He'll be 'injured poverty'; and I, 'oppressing opulence'. But, if he gets off for want of sufficient evidence, then they won't forget. I fancy his preaching won't go down so well then—there'll always be whispers."
"That's true," said Mrs. Sauls. "It's odd that they have never traced those diamonds since your pockets were rifled."
"I believe some one must have seen me lying there, before Mr. Tom played good Samaritan, and must have helped himself. I don't believe the preacher would have stolen from me, do you?"
He had great faith in his mother's judgment; this time it took him by surprise.
"If you want my private opinion on the subject—but perhaps you don't?" she began.
"Oh yes, I do. I always like to hear your private opinions. They are refreshingly original. Go on."
"Well, my dear, my private opinion is this: A man who is capable of hitting behind in the dark, is capable of emptying his victim's pockets; but that man did neither the one nor the other."
George took his cigar from between his lips, and sat upright with a jerk. His mother was sitting by the fire, her rich silk dress tucked up, her feet on the fender, her light, cat-like eyes gazing into the red embers. She nodded again, as if in answer to his movement.
"That is strictly between ourselves, George," she said; "but I am convinced he didn't do it. He made a shocking poor defence! If he had been guilty, he might have found more to say. He wasn't attempting to exonerate himself. My dear, I watched him all the time, and he hardly took it in when a point was made for and when against him. He knew when his wife moved, and he was pleased when that fine old clergyman called him his friend; but he wasn't following the case. He is ill; any one could see that he could hardly stand. But, if he had been guilty, his nerves would have been on the rack all the time; and, if he had known nothing about it, he'd have shown more fight. He knows something, and has made up his mind that his tongue's tied, and that he will just leave it to Providence."