And then suddenly, a bare fortnight before the reopening of the Central Criminal Courts, Ronnie's dreams came true. John Cartwright himself brought round the brief, the long taped document marked on the outside:

"Standon jibbed a bit at that fifty," chuckled John. "He said you ought to take the case for nothing, considering the publicity he's going to give you."

"Oh, did he?" Ronnie laughed; but his nerves were quivering. "My whole career," he thought. "Riches--success--fame. It's all in my own hands now. Standon thinks he's overpaid me, does he? Perhaps he has. But I'll give him a run for his money. Fight! By Jove, I'll fight every foot, every inch of the way."

"I shall want an order to see the prisoner," he went on. "And, look here, if Standon's people can find out----" The cautious voice dropped; so that Benjamin Bunce, in the outer office, heard only a vague drone of talk.

"That'll be all right," answered the solicitor; and two days later a very different Ronnie caught the Saturday afternoon train to West Water.

"I'll get her off," he told Julia and Aliette, seated at tea under the cedar. "I'll get her off--or die in the attempt. This is my chance, I tell you. My big chance at last!"

"Optimist!" Julia laughed, a little wearily. "How can you 'get her off'? As far as I can see there's nothing in the woman's favor except that she's a little like our Aliette."

"A little like her! Mater, it's amazing. When I saw her yesterday, in that wretched place at Brixton, I could have sworn it was Alie." And he went on talking, talking, talking of "his chance" till the sun sank behind the cedar-tree; till--Julia, utterly tired out, having been carried into the house--Aliette interrupted him with, "I've been rather worried about her this week. Don't you think we might have Sir Heron down again?"

"We might see what she's got to say about it in the morning," answered Ronnie; but next morning, Sunday, the "Democratic News" drove all thoughts save one from his mind.

At long last, Bertram Standon had launched his journalistic thunderbolt. "Shall Lucy Towers hang?" howled Bertram Standon. "Never--if she be innocent--while we can prevent it. Never--if she be innocent--while there's a dollar in our purse or a sense of pity in our hearts. Let the state pour out the taxpayers' money like water--let the bureaucrats brief their 'hanging prosecutor' if they will. We, so far failing in our efforts to secure the appointment of a public defender, have briefed--out of our own pocket--a defender for Lucy Towers, a young man, an untried man, but a man in whom both we and the unfortunate woman in whose defense he will rise at the Old Bailey have the most unbounded confidence. And who is this young man? He is Ronald Cavendish--son of a woman who is known wherever the English language is spoken, of Julia Cavendish, our greatest woman novelist."

And squeezed away in the "stop press," so inconspicuous that Julia, who did not see the papers till tea-time, was the first of the three to notice it, stood the news: "Brixton Murder. Saturday night. The Crown has briefed Mr. Hector Brunton, K.C., for the prosecution of Lucy Towers."