"Could a woman's feeble hand inflict such injuries?" debated the solicitor.
"'Feeble' be hanged!" politely rejoined the sergeant. "Some women have the fists of men; and the strength of 'em, too. You don't know 'em as we do. A desperate woman will do anything. And Anthony Dare, remember, had not his strength in him that night."
Mr. Winthorne shook his head. "That girl has no look of ferocity about her. I should question it being her. Let's see—what is her name?"
"Listen!" returned the sergeant. "When you have had half as much to do with people as I have, you'll have learnt not to go by looks. Her name is Caroline Mason."
At that moment the cathedral bells rang out, announcing the return of the procession, the advent of the judges. As if the sound reminded the lawyer of the speed of time, he hastily went on his way; leaving the sergeant to use his eyes and ears at the expense of the crowd.
"I wonder how the prisoners in the gaol feels?" remarked a woman whom the sergeant recognised as being no other than Mrs. Cross. She had just come out of a warehouse with her supply of work for the ensuing week.
"Ah, poor creatures!" responded another of the group, and that was Mrs. Brumm. "I wonder how young Dare likes it!"
"Or how old Dare likes it—if he can hear 'em all the way up at his office. They'll know their fate soon, them two."
In close vicinity to this colloquy was a young woman, drawn against the wall, under shelter of a projecting doorway. Her once good-looking face was haggard, and her clothes were scanty. It was for this reason, perhaps, that she appeared to shun observation. Sergeant Delves, apparently without any other design than that of working his way leisurely through the throng, edged himself up to her.
"Looking out for the show, Miss Mason?"