“I’ve had such a win, Topsy!”
“Have you been bettin’? Am I on?” were the rapid questions of this child of art.
“You little silly! I mean at the Old Bailey. I’ve got my man convicted. He’s to be hanged by the neck until death by strangulation ensues.”
“La!” exclaimed Topsy. She would have been much more interested if the win had been on the turf. She, however, thought it well to add, “What did he do?”
“Shot a bobby—desperate character—think he’d have shot me if he’d had a chance. Funny defence that,” he said, turning to me.
The defence had been that his brain had been turned—that he had been a respectable working man until a dearly beloved sister of his had left him and “gone wrong.” He had been “queer” ever since, said some of the witnesses. But that was surely no reason why he should go about the streets shooting policemen. So the jury did its duty and the judge did his—with a black cap on his head.
As this explanation of the defence was given, I noticed that Topsy’s expressionless face grew pale, and her bosom rose and fell quickly above her dress. Her voice was thick as she asked,—
“And—who—was—he? What—was—his—name?”
My friend replied briefly,—
“Jabez Omrod.”