The young fellow stopped short, blushed—he was a fair youth and his white wig made him fairer—realising the delicate ground.
“Yes—my evidence?” replied Irene, pausing. “I have been away from the court.”
“It knocked the prosecution all of a heap. Hanna threw up the case. The judge directed a formal verdict. Thank God!”
“Then he is free!”
She staggered under the realisation, leaned for a moment against the wall. From a little distance off came the noise of voices and footsteps of people leaving the court. Twos and threes of barristers passed by and eyed her curiously.
“Let me put you into a cab,” said the young man.
“Thank you—yes,” she faltered.
Taking his arm, faint and dizzy and half-closing her eyes, she allowed him to lead her by a staircase unused by the public, to the street. As she entered the cab a few persons recognised her, and set up a cheer and waved their hats. The cab drove off. The ceaseless, roaring traffic of Holborn seemed the phantasmagoria of a strange world.