defence!’ meditated Prescott. ‘It will surely run to something more than a docker!’

A docker, it should be explained, is the name for a retainer which is handed direct from a prisoner in the dock to a counsel, without the intervention of a solicitor. It is the resource of the poorer class of offenders, who can scrape together that single guinea, but no more.

‘I have it. I’ll go and see Tressamer about this. He goes there still, and ought to know all about it.’

Tressamer was the name of his old friend. His chambers were in an adjoining court of the Temple. Prescott put on his hat, told his clerk where he was to be found, and strolled forth.

CHAPTER III.

COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE.

‘Mr. Tressamer is inside, sir. Will you walk in?’

Thus said the clerk at Mr. Tressamer’s chambers as soon as he saw Mr. Prescott. Then, stepping to the door, he rapped and opened it, saying the visitor’s name.

‘Well, Tressamer, where have you been this age?’

The speaker stopped, startled at the sight that presented itself, for there, lying on his face on the hearthrug, with his hands clutching at his thick black curls, lay George Tressamer, the very picture of one in mortal despair.

He sprang to his feet as his friend entered, and made an awkward attempt to behave as if he had not been seen.

‘Why, Prescott, where do you come from, pray? More excursions to the County Court, with the solicitors on opposite sides racing to you to see which can get his brief into your hands first?’

Prescott thought it best to take the hint, and not remark on his friend’s trouble. He quietly answered:

‘No; I’ve not been anywhere. Been in town, preparing for the assizes. By-the-bye——’ He paused to look for a chair, and was surprised to find every one in the room littered with books. He proceeded to clear the nearest to him, lifting the books on to the floor. ‘I’ve just had a brief to prosecute—Hullo! “Hawkins’ Pleas of the Crown”! I had no idea you were such a student—in that Porthstone case—the murder——’

Again he stopped short. A look of anguish had come into his friend’s face.

‘What is it, old man? I can see something’s gone wrong.’

‘Charlie,’ was the reply, spoken in a tone hardly above a whisper, ‘are you prosecuting Eleanor Owen?’

Prescott nodded.

‘And have you read your brief?’

‘I’ve just come from it.’

‘Then you can understand how I feel. I am defending her—and I love her!’

He threw all the energy of his passionate nature into the last sentence, and then sank down upon the window seat and hid his face with his hands.

For several minutes neither spoke. Prescott hardly knew what course to take. To offer to resign his brief might be to let it pass into the hands of one who would share Mr. Pollard’s prejudice against the accused. On the other hand, to retain it, unless he were prepared to bring the case fully home to the prisoner, would be alike a breach of professional honour and an act of dishonesty. He resolved at last to leave the choice to his friend.

‘George,’ he said.

The other slowly lifted his head. Looking upon that face, his friend could see the marks of the terrible experience he was passing through. Tressamer had always been a youth of wild and stormy emotions; no man less calm and steadfast than Prescott could have maintained a friendship so long with such a nature. But now he was struggling with passions compared with which the emotions of schoolboys were as nothing.

‘George, what shall I do? I want you to decide. You know me too well to think I care about the little benefit to myself when it’s a case of life and death with a friend like you. Shall I chuck up the case?’

Tressamer gazed at him gratefully at first, and then with a hesitating, pondering look. Finally he said:

‘You have read your brief, and, of course, you know the worst. Tell me, what do you think, honestly?’

‘Honestly, George, I see no defence. There is no doubt the old woman has been murdered. I don’t see how it could have been done by anyone outside the house; and then there is the blood on the door-handle. I may tell you that, even before I knew how you stood, in reading the brief I felt a sort of hesitation—that is, I couldn’t get that feeling of confidence that one generally has in one’s case when the evidence is clear. I felt as if I shouldn’t put much heart into the prosecution. But, still, I don’t see what defence there is.’

Tressamer listened in silence, and let a moment or two go by before he gave his decision.

‘I would rather you kept your brief. I would rather you did it. After all, you have merely a mechanical part to perform; it is only routine. Suppose I were to have a limb amputated, I should like it to be done by a man I knew. And this is something of the same sort. The evidence is there, and you will not make it any worse—or better.’

The other was shocked at the gloomy, resigned way in which he spoke.

‘Good heavens! you don’t mean that you too believe——’

‘No, Charles. I believe she is innocent. But I do not expect her innocence will ever be proved in this world.’

‘Oh, come, you mustn’t give up now! All sorts of things may happen. The trial may go differently to what you expect. Half the time these witnesses don’t swear up to their proofs.’

‘They have given their evidence twice already—at the inquest and before the magistrates.’

‘Yes; but then they weren’t cross-examined. It is very different when they have a man like you to turn them inside out. You’re not nervous about it, are you?’

‘Nervous!’ He smiled grimly. ‘No; it was at my own request I received this brief. A breach of etiquette, you see’—with another heavy smile. ‘If she can be saved, I shall save her. Shall I tell you my defence?’

‘No, don’t; I would rather be taken by surprise. I don’t want to shine in this case, Heaven knows! Take every advantage I can fairly give you. I know you don’t expect more.’

‘Thank you,’ was the answer.

There was a little pause, during which neither spoke. At last, returning to the only topic in either mind, Tressamer observed:

‘I have been deep in this ever since it occurred. I have been running up and down to Porthstone. I was at the inquest and in the police-court, but I thought it best to do nothing, and let the public think she was undefended. It may soften their feeling towards her. All these little things have to be thought of.’

‘Yes; don’t you remember that famous Shepherdsbury case? The man who acted for the prisoner—the solicitor, I think it was—made such a brilliant fight in the police-court that the magistrates hesitated to commit; but the result was that the Crown knew all about the defence, and when the real trial came, the man hadn’t a chance. Always reserve your defence.’

‘Yes; but you forget, the solicitor has got a splendid practice through it,’ was the bitter answer. ‘Few men in the West of England are doing better in that class of business. Did you know—but of course you didn’t—that I was down at Porthstone only two days before the thing happened?’

‘No; were you?’

‘Yes; and I was staying in Abertaff that very night. I intended coming up to town