But in all that crowd, no one went near Cotherstone. There were many of his fellow-members of the Corporation in it—councillors, aldermen—but none of them approached him or even nodded to him; all they did was to stare. The news of what had happened had quickly leaked out: it was known before he came into view that Cotherstone had been discharged—his appearance in that bold, self-assured fashion only led to covert whispers and furtive looks. But suddenly, from somewhere in the crowd, a sneering voice flung a contemptuous taunt across the staring faces.
"Well done, Cotherstone!—saved your own neck, anyway!"
There was a ripple of jeering laughter at that, and as Cotherstone turned angrily in the direction from whence the voice came, another, equally contemptuous, lifted itself from another corner of the crowd.
"King's evidence! Yah!—who'd believe Cotherstone? Liar!"
Cotherstone's face flushed angrily—the flush died as quickly away and gave place to a sickly pallor. And at that a man who had stood near him beneath the portico, watching him inquisitively, stepped nearer and whispered—
"Go home, Mr. Cotherstone!—take my advice, and get quietly away, at once!"
Cotherstone rejected this offer of good counsel with a sudden spasm of furious anger.
"You be hanged!" he snarled. "Who's asking you for your tongue? D'ye think I'm afraid of a pack like yon? Who's going to interfere with me, I'd like to know? Go home yourself!"
He turned towards the door from which he had just emerged—turned to see his solicitor and his counsel coming out together. And his sudden anger died down, and his face relaxed to a smile of triumph.
"Now then!" he exclaimed. "Didn't I tell you how it would be, a week since! Come on across to the Arms and I'll stand a bottle—aye, two, three, if you like!—of the very best. Come on, both of you."