‘No one to appear for him?’
‘No one. Young Elkin holds a watching brief on behalf of the prisoner’s master, and that is all. He said Harden had been in Mr Slocum’s—that’s his master—service for over seven years, behaving extremely well all the time. He was invaluable to his old master, who is something of an invalid. He had turned religious, and was disgusted at his former wicked life.’
‘But I suppose he has money—or, at anyrate, if Slocum is so fond of him, why doesn’t he pay for the defence?’
‘Why, it seems that his notion of religion forbids Harden to avail himself of worldly arts. Slocum is only too anxious to retain some one; but Harden won’t have it, and no one can persuade him. Says he is in the hands of a Higher Power, and it shall be given him what he shall speak, and all the rest of it. He wanted to make a speech to the magistrate; but Slocum, by Elkin’s advice, did manage to induce him to hold his tongue for the present, and say he would reserve his defence. Of course they hope he will come to his senses before the trial. But I don’t know how that will be. I never saw such an obstinate pig. Only gave in to his master about not speaking because the poor man began to whimper in court!’
The main part of my work had been done for me, and it only remained to bespeak copies of the depositions, see the witnesses, and make sure that they intended to say at the Old Bailey substantially the same things as they had said at the police court—a most necessary precaution, the imagination being so vivid in people of this class that they are very likely to amplify their tale if possible—and prepare the brief for the prosecuting counsel. This done, I had but to let things take their course.
When the day of the trial came, I was betimes in my place at the Central Criminal Court, having various other cases in hand there. The prisoners, as is customary, were first put up and arraigned—that is, had the substance of their several indictments read over to them—and were called on to plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ These disposed of, the case for John Harden was called, and I looked at him with some curiosity. No sooner had I done so than I knew that his was a face upon which at some time or other I had looked before, and of which I had taken note. It is a useful peculiarity of mine that I never forget a face to which I have once paid any attention, and I can generally recollect the place and circumstances under which I last saw it. But here the latter part of my powers failed me. I knew the face well, but could not imagine when and where I had beheld it. I even knew that I had seen the man bare-headed, and that he was not then, as now, bald on the crown. The thing worried me not a little. In the meanwhile, John Harden was being put up to take his trial for the murder of Agatha Harden.
‘I, m’lud, appear to prosecute in this case,’ said my counsel, starting up and down again like the blade of a knife.
‘Does nobody appear for the prisoner?’ asked the judge.
‘I understand, m’lud, that the prisoner is not represented,’ said counsel, appearing and disappearing as before.
‘My lord,’ said an agitated voice from the body of the court, ‘I have used all possible efforts’——