“Ogledon is dead,” said Madge. “He died to-night, and can do neither good nor harm any more. But we”—she looked round quickly at both men—“we can save him; we can prove to all the world that this man is innocent, and is suffering for another. The trial is to-morrow—the first on the day’s list. We must reach Chelmsford to-morrow morning; we must save this man!”
The Captain looked at her, in an excess of admiration. “My lass,” he said slowly—“I ain’t surprised that my pal Phil should ’ave gorn through wot ’e ’as, for sich a gel! I’d ’ave disowned ’im, if ’e’d done less!”
The sun is shining brightly outside the crowded court-house; and men and women, densely packed within the walls, glance up at the grimy windows, and from them to the prisoner, and wonder, perhaps, what he is thinking about. The prisoner, for his part, scarcely makes a movement—scarcely turns his weary eyes round when any one speaks. For hope has gone out of him; the battle has been fought and lost; the murderer of the real Dandy Chater is dead and has carried his secret into another Place where all secrets are known. The crowd of faces about him bears but one stamp upon it all—hard, unrelenting, vengeful, every face there looks upon him with certainty as a dead man and is glad to think that he gets what he deserves.
There has been—as there always is in such cases—much eloquence on both sides—and some dramatic moments. At the present the jury are a little tired of it, and the Judge palpably nods; for the whole thing is such a foregone conclusion. The great man who has come down specially instructed by the Treasury, has pointed out that this, gentlemen, is a case in which no considerations of social standing, birth or position must be allowed to weigh. Indeed, gentlemen of the most intelligent jury, in the most intelligent country of the world, if it be possible to make it a little hotter for the prisoner than is made already, then, gentlemen, clearly it is your duty to make it hotter. For this man—(a most desperate character you must understand, gentlemen—as witness the cloud of police about the dock and even in the dock with him)—this man had the advantages of a great name—a fine position—much property. Yet, gentlemen, what have you heard of him? He stands before you a convicted forger, bank robber—burglar—and as you will have thrust down your throats a little more, gentlemen, a murderer! You have had a most honest gentleman here to-day on whom stolen notes were passed to cover the amount of a forgery committed by the prisoner on his greatest friend. You have heard of transactions whereby the estate handed down to the prisoner has been gradually sapped away by riotous living until not one stick of it remains that is not encumbered or bartered away. And to-day, gentlemen, in effect, behold the prisoner brought before you to receive his just doom!
All this and much more from the learned gentleman instructed by the Treasury. A movement in Court as the learned gentleman sits down and the prisoner turns his eyes in the direction of a new voice.
The new voice belongs to Mr. Andrew Banks, rising young barrister; and Mr. Andrew Banks is disposed to be flippant. For it must not be understood, gentlemen of the jury, that because a man of the station of life of the prisoner has run through a fortune—or half-a-dozen fortunes for the matter of that—and has made a mistake in the exuberance of his heart in signing some one else’s name instead of his own—it must really not be imagined, gentlemen, that that man for that reason is capable of the atrocious crime with which he stands charged. In fact, this rising young barrister would have the gentlemen of the jury believe that the fact of his having done these things and done them in an open-handed devil-may-care gentlemanly fashion, rather redounds to his credit than otherwise—and goes indeed far to prove him incapable of such a crime as this. The rising young barrister would beg to call the attention of this most intelligent jury to the witnesses relied upon for the prosecution. One—the witness in regard to the forgery and the stolen notes—is a sixty per-cent. money-lender who has doubtless bled the prisoner pretty freely for years; the other—and a most unwilling witness it must be remembered, gentlemen—is a former servant of the prisoner and now on his own confession out of a situation. In a word, gentlemen of the jury, this rising young barrister absolutely flouts the testimony of the witnesses for the prosecution; has a little to say about hearths and homes and British liberties; and sits down amid a little murmur of applause.
But the rising young barrister is not so sanguine as he appears, for he leans across towards his learned brother from the Treasury and whispers before that gentleman rises again—“Devilish uphill work! Can’t get a word out of him—won’t suggest any course of defence at all.”
A few more words from the prosecution—wholly unnecessary words, for the jury are whispering and have obviously made up their minds. Then amid a silence the Judge sums up; would evidently be merciful if he could; but is compelled to point out all the most damning facts against the prisoner—his desperate attempts to regain his liberty—the absence of any evidence to rebut the weight of testimony brought forward by the prosecution. In a word, gentlemen of the jury, your course is clear before you, and you are called upon to do your duty.
A whispering—a rustling—and a nodding of heads among the jurymen; for it is not even necessary for them to retire. Then amid a silence greater even than before the usual questions are put and the verdict—known long ago to every man and every woman in the Court—is spoken in one word. Guilty!