The time—the awful time—the day of Fate—drew nearer. Despite the assurances both of Jenny and of her attorney there were moments when anticipation and doubt caused agonies unspeakable. Sometimes I have thought that these agonies were cowardly: I should be ashamed of them: but no one knows, who has not suffered in the same way, the torture of feeling one's self in the absolute power of a crafty conspiracy directed by a man as relentless as a weasel after a rabbit, or an eagle after a heron, not out of hatred or revenge, but after money, the only object of his life, the real spring of his wickedness. After my experience, I can briefly say, as David in his old age said, 'Let me fall into the hands of the Lord, for His mercies are great: but let me not fall into the hands of man.'

Presently it wanted but a week: then six days, then five.

'You should now,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'prepare and write out your defence: that is to say, your own speech after the trial is over. Take no thought about the evidence; your counsel will cross-examine the witnesses against you; he will also examine those for you. Trust your counsel for doing the best with both. Heaven help two or three of them when Mr. Caterham has done with them.' Mr. Caterham, K. C., our senior counsel, was reported to be the best man at the Old Bailey Bar; with him was Mr. Stanton, a young man still, quite young, but with a brain of fire and a front of brass. 'You must not leave your defence to the eloquence of the moment, which may fail you. Write it down; write it plainly, fully and without passion. State who you are; what your occupation; what your salary; what your rent; what your daily habits; we shall have called witnesses to establish all these points. Then tell the Court exactly what you have told me. Do not try to be eloquent or rhetorical. The plain facts, plainly told, will impress the Jury and will affect the Judge's charge, far more than any flights of eloquence on your part. What the Judge wants is to get at the truth. Remember that. Behind his habitual severity of manner Mr. Justice Parker, who will try your case, is bent always upon discovering, if possible, the truth. Sit down, therefore, and relate the facts, exactly as they were. Take care to marshal them in their best and most convincing manner. Many a good cause has been wasted by a careless and ignorant manner of presenting them. In your case first relate the facts as to the alleged assault. Next inform the Court who and what you are. Thirdly relate the circumstances of your relations with Mr. Probus. Fourthly state the reasons why he would profit by your death. Next, call attention to the conversation overheard by Mr. Ramage. Then show that he has on more than one occasion threatened you, and that he has actually imprisoned you in the King's Bench in the hope of moving you. I think that you will have a very moving story to tell, supported, as it will be, by the evidence which has gone before. But you have no time to lose. Such a statement must not be put together in a hurry. When it is finished I will read it over and advise you.'

What was important to me in this advice was the necessity of ordering, or marshalling the facts. To one not accustomed to English Composition such a necessity never occurred, and without such advice I might have presented a confused jumble, a muddled array, of facts not dependent one upon the other, the importance of which would have been lost. However, armed with this advice, I sat down, and after drawing up a schedule or list of divisions, or headings, or chapters, I set to work, trying to keep out everything but the facts. No one will believe how difficult a thing it is to stick to the mere facts and to put in nothing more. Indignation carried me beyond control from time to time. I went out of my way to point to the villainy of Probus: I called the vengeance of Heaven upon him and his colleagues: I appealed to the unmerited sufferings of my innocent wife; to the shameful future of my innocent offspring—and to other matters of a personal kind all of which were ruthlessly struck out by the attorney; with the result that I had with me when I went into court as plain and clear a statement of a case as ever was presented by any prisoner. This statement I read and re-read until I knew it by heart: yet I was advised not to trust to memory but to take the papers into court and to seem to read. All this shows the care which was taken by our ever-watchful attorney, lest anything should happen to hinder the development of the case, as he intended and hoped.

Among other things he called upon Mr. Probus, nominally on account of another matter.

'I believe,' he said, 'that you are the attorney of Mr. Matthew Halliday?'

'I have that honour.'

'Yes. I observed the fact in reading an affidavit of yours in connection with a case in which I am engaged for the defence, the case of Mr. William Halliday, now in Newgate on a charge of highway robbery.'

'Defence? He has, then, a defence?'

'A defence? Certainly he has a defence. And Counsel. We have engaged Mr. Caterham, K. C., and Mr. Stanton, both of whom you probably know, as counsel for the defence. My dear Sir, we have a very good defence indeed. Let me see. You arrived on the spot, I observe, after the alleged attack was committed.'

'Certainly. My affidavit and my evidence before Sir John, were only as to the identity of the robber.'

'Quite so. But we need not concern ourselves, here, with the defence of Mr. William Halliday. I come to speak about the affairs of Mr. Matthew.'

'Well, sir? What about his affairs?'

'I hear that they are in a very bad way. Oh! Sir, indeed I do not wish to ask any questions. I only repeat what I hear in the City. It is there freely stated that the Firm is ruined: that their ships are sold: and that their business is gone.'

'They are injurious and false reports.'

'It is possible. I hope so. Meantime, however, I have come to communicate to you a matter which perhaps you do not know; but which it is important that you should know. The person chiefly concerned gives me permission to speak of it. Perhaps you do know it already. Perhaps your client has not concealed it from you. Do you, for instance, know that Mr. Matthew Halliday is a married man?'

Mr. Probus started. 'Married?' he cried. 'Married? No, certainly not.'

'It is evident that you do not know your client's private history. He has been married two years and more. He does not, however, cohabit with his wife. They are separated—by consent.'

'Matthew married?'

'They are separated, I say. Such separation, however, does not release the husband from the liability of his wife's debts.'

'Has his wife—has Mrs. Matthew—contracted debts?' He looked very uneasy.

'His wife—she is a client of mine—has contracted very large debts. She may possibly make an arrangement with her creditors. But she may not. In the latter case, she will send them to your client who will hand them over to you. They will demand payment without delay. Failing payment they will take all the steps that the law permits—also without delay. That is why I thought it best to communicate the facts to you. My client authorized me to do so.'

Mr. Probus made no answer. He could not understand what this meant.

'If it is your interest to postpone bankruptcy, Mr. Probus, it may be wiser, for some reason or other, to force it on. I only came to tell you of this danger which threatens your client—not you, of course. But your client whose wife is mine.'

Mr. Probus made at first no reply. He was thinking what this might mean. He was, of course, too wary not to perceive that the threat of forcing on bankruptcy was part of the defence, though in an indirect manner.

'Have you,' he asked presently, 'any knowledge of the amount of these debts?'

'I believe they amount to over £40,000.'

Mr. Probus groaned aloud.

'I thought I would prepare your mind for the blow which may happen any day. Let me see. The trial takes place next Wednesday—next Wednesday. I dare say the creditors will wait till after that event. Good-morning, Mr. Probus.'

He was going away when Mr. Probus called him back.

'You are aware, sir, that I made the prisoner a handsome offer?'

'I have been told that you made a certain offer.'

'I offered him the very large sum of £5,000 if he would sell his succession. If he consents the principal witnesses in the case shall not appear.'

'Mr. Probus, as the case stands now I would not take £50,000 for the price of his chance.'

Again he was going away, and again Mr. Probus called him back.

'We were speaking,' he said, 'of the defence of that unhappy young man, Mr. William Halliday. Of course I am concerned in the matter only as an accidental bystander—and, of course, an old friend of the family. There is to be a defence, you say.'

'Assuredly.'

'I have always understood that the young man was quite poor, and that his wife's friends were also quite poor.'

'That is true. But a man may be quite poor, yet may have friends who will fight every point rather than see the man condemned to death—and on a false charge.'

'False?'

'Quite false, I assure you.'

'Sir, you surprise me. To be sure I did not see the assault. Yet the evidence was most clear. Two gentlemen, unknown to each other—another unknown to both who witnessed the affair—how can such evidence as that be got over?'

'Well, Mr. Probus, it is not for me to say how it will be got over. You are, I believe, giving evidence on what may be called a minor point; you will therefore be in the Court on the occasion of the Trial. I can say nothing, of course; but I should advise all persons engaged in the case to abstain from appearing if possible. I am assured that things quite unexpected will take place. Meantime, to return to the point for which I came here—advise your client to prepare himself to meet claims rising out of his wife's debts to the sum of many thousands.'

'How many thousands, did you say?'

'Forty thousand, I believe.'

'Good Heavens, sir, what can a woman be doing to get through such an enormous sum?'

'Indeed, I cannot inform you. It is an age in which women call themselves the equals of men. Your client, Mr. Probus, has got through a great deal more than that in the same time, including, I believe, the £25,000 which you lent him and which he cannot repay——'

'What do you know about these affairs, Sir?'

'Nothing—nothing. I shall see you in Court on the day of the Trial, Mr. Probus.'

He went away leaving, as he intended, his brother in the law in an anxious condition, and having said nothing that would lead him to suspect that the conspiracy was entirely discovered, and would be laid open in court.

Then came the last day before the Trial.

In the afternoon all my friends were gathered together in my cell. The attorney had read for the last time my statement of defence.

He looked through it once more. 'I do not believe,' he said, 'that the case will get so far. Whatever happens, Mr. Halliday, you will do well to remember that you have to thank Madame here, and I do not believe it will be possible for you to thank her enough, until you find out for yourself the sacrifices she has made for you and the risks she is running on your behalf. I can but hope, Madame, that the sacrifices may be made up to you, and that the risks may prove illusory.'

She smiled, but it was a wan smile. 'Whatever the result,' she said, 'believe me, Sir, I shall never regret either the sacrifices, if you call them such, or the risks, if by either we can defeat this most abominable conspiracy.'

'I was in hopes,' said the attorney, 'that Mr. Probus might be terrified, and so might withdraw at the last moment. It is easy to withdraw. He has only to order the two principal witnesses not to attend, when the case falls to the ground. As we are now free from all anxiety,' I sighed, 'well, from all but the very natural anxiety that belongs to a prison and to the uncertainty of the law, it is better for us that he should put in all the witnesses when we can establish our charge of conspiracy. I marvel, indeed, greatly that a man so astute should not perceive that defence, where a King's Counsel and a Junior of great repute are engaged must mean a serious case, and that a serious case only means denial of the main charge. Else there would be no defence at all. Well,' he rose—'I drink your health, Mr. Halliday, in this excellent Madeira, and a speedy release to you.'

'And I, Will,' said Tom, pouring out another glass, 'I, too, drink a speedy release to you.'

So they went away.

Then Jenny got up. 'Cousin Will,' she said sadly, 'I have done all I could for you. If the Black Jack knew to-night what would be said in Court to-morrow, there would be murder. They will all be in Court—every one—to hear the splendid perjuries of the Bishop and the Captain. Those two worthies expect a brave day: indeed, it will be a great day for them, yet not quite in the manner they anticipate. Well 'tis the last night in prison, Will. To-morrow thou wilt be back again in the Cottage beside the river. Happy Will! Happy Alice! As for me——' she sighed wearily.

'Why, Jenny, as for you—what can happen to you?'

'Nothing can happen to me,' she replied, dolorously.

'Then, why so sad?'

'Because, from the outset I have foreseen something dark and dreadful, but I knew not what. I see myself in a strange place—but I know not where. I look around at the places which I know—and I cannot see myself. I am neither at Drury Lane nor the Garden: nor am I at Soho Square. I look in the grave, but I am not there. I am to live—but I know not where or how. All is to be changed——'

'Jenny,' Alice caught her hand. 'This reading of the future. It is wicked since the Lord hath not thought fit to reveal what is to happen.'

She repeated stupidly, as one who understands not, 'Since the Lord—what Lord?—what do you mean? Alice, how can I help it? I can read the future. Sometimes it is like a printed book to me. Well—no matter. Farewell, Will. Sleep sound to-night. To-morrow we shall meet in the Court. Good-night, dear woman.' She threw her arms round Alice, kissed her and went away.

And as for what passed between husband and wife—what tender things were said—what prayers for faith—on the eve of the day of Life or Death: of Honour or of Shame; shall they, too, be written on a page which is open to every curious eye and to every mocking eye?