“You have probably heard more or less said concerning Mary Monson—I mean in a legal and proper way?”
A third nod of assent.
“Can you speak anything, in particular, that has been said in your presence?”
Trueman seemed to tax his memory; then he raised his head, and answered deliberately and with great clearness,
“I was going from the tavern to the court-house, when I met David Johnson—”[Johnson—”]
“Never mind those particulars, Mr. Trueman,” interrupted Timms, who saw that the juror had been talking with one of his own most confidential agents—“what the court wishes to know is, if any one has been reporting circumstances unfavourable to Mary Monson in your presence?”
“Or in her favour,” put in Williams, with a sneer.
“Juror,” interposed the judge—“tell us if any one has spoken to you on the merits of this case—for or against?”
“Merits”—repeated Trueman, seeming to reflect again—“No, your honour; I can’t say that there has.”
Now, this was as bold a falsehood as was ever uttered; but Trueman reconciled the answer to his conscience by choosing to consider that the conversation he had heard had been on the demerits of the accused.