"More," said Mr Monypenny, regretfully—"more; just another dozen words would have been enough; but if there is no more to say——"
"I am not a man to make protestations of truth. There is no more to say, Mr Monypenny."
"Well-a-well," said the agent gloomily, shaking his head; "we must take just what is given—we must try to make the best of it. And you think there's nothing can be proved against you?" he said, with a slight emphasis. It required all John's self-command to keep his temper. He had to remind himself forcibly of the true and steady and long-tried kindness with which this doubter had stood by him, and cared for his interests all his life—a wise steward, a just guardian. These thoughts kept unseemly expressions from his lips, but he was not the less sore at heart. Even after the first blow of the criminal examination and his detention in prison, it had all seemed to him so simple. What could be necessary but to tell his story with sufficient distinctness (in which he thought he had failed before the sheriff)? Surely truth and falsehood were distinguishable at a glance, especially by those who are accustomed to discriminate between them. But the blank of unbelief and disappointment with which Mr Monypenny heard his story chilled him to the heart. If he did not believe him, who would? He was angry, but anger is but a temporary sentiment when the mind is fairly at bay and finds itself hemmed in by difficulties and danger. He began to realise his position, the place in which he was, the circumstances surrounding him, as he had not yet done. The sheriff himself had been very civil, and deeply concerned to be the means of inflicting such an affront upon a county family; and he had added encouragingly that, on his return to Dunearn, in less than a week, when all the witnesses were got together, there was little doubt that a different light might be thrown on the affair; but Mr Monypenny's question was not so consolatory. "You think there's nothing can be proved against you?" John had been gazing at his agent across the table while all these painful reflections went through his mind.
"I must be careful what I say. I am not speaking as a lawyer," he said, with an uncomfortable smile. "What I meant was, that nothing could be proved which was untrue."
The agent shook his head. "When it's circumstantial evidence, you can never build upon that," he said. "No man saw it, you may say; but if all the facts point that way, it goes far with a jury. There are some other things you will perhaps tell me. Had you any quarrel ever with poor Tinto? Was there ill blood between you? Can any man give evidence, for example, 'I heard the panel say that he would have it out with Pat Torrance'? or——"
"For heaven's sake, what is the panel? and what connection is there between poor Torrance and——"
"Sir," said Mr Monypenny, sternly, "this is no time for jests; the panel is a Scotch law term, meaning the defender; or what you call the defendant in England. It's a terrible loss to a young man to be unacquainted even with the phraseology of his own country."
"That is very true," John said, with a laugh; "but at least it is no fault of mine. Well, suppose I am the panel, as you say—that does not make me a vulgar brawler, does it, likely to display hostile intentions in that way? You may be sure no man can say of me that I threatened to have it out with Pat Torrance——"
"It was inadvertent—it was inadvertent," said Mr Monypenny, waving his hand, with a slight flush of confusion; "I daresay you never said Pat—but what has that to do with it?—you know my meaning. Is there any one that can be produced to say——"
"I have quarrelled with Torrance almost as often as I have met him," said John, with obstinate decision. "I thought him a bully and a cad. If I did not tell him so, it was out of regard for his wife, and he was at liberty to find out my sentiments from my looks if it pleased him. I have never made the least pretence of liking the man."