As the afternoon wore on, on that day when the bank lost its $50,000, Geoffrey Hampstead was back at his work as usual. He did not change his waistcoat while at his rooms, because he thought this might be remarked. He merely left the money there, and went back to his work as if nothing had happened. The excitement among the clerks in the bank was feverish. Geoffrey let them know what he and Dearborn had seen in Jack's room, and that the confusion there clearly showed that he had gone off somewhere. Most faces looked black at this, but there were several who, in spite of the worst appearances, refused to believe in Jack's guilt. Geoffrey was one of them. Geoffrey was quite broken down. Everybody felt sorry for him. He had made a great friend of Jack, and every one could see that the blow had almost prostrated him.

Toward the end of the afternoon he said to a couple of his friends: "I wish you fellows would dine with me to-night. I feel as if I had to have somebody with me."

These two did so. In the evening they picked up some more of the bank men, and all repaired to Geoffrey's quarters. They saw he was drinking heavily, and perhaps out of fellow-feeling for a man who had had a blow, they also drank a good deal themselves, and lapsed into hilarity, partly in order to draw Geoffrey out of his gloom.

At one o'clock the night was still young so far as they were concerned, and the liquor in the rooms had run short. Geoffrey did not wish to be left alone. The noise and foolishness of his friends diverted his thoughts from more unpleasant subjects. When the wine ran out, he said they must have some more. They said it would be impossible to get it; but Geoffrey said Patsey Priest could procure it, and he rang on Mrs. Priest's bell until Patsey appeared, looking like a disheveled monkey. He was received with an ovation. Geoffrey gave him the money, and sent him to a neighboring large hotel to get a case of champagne. When he returned, having accomplished his errand, the young gentlemen were enthusiastic over him. He was made to stand on a table and take an affidavit on an album that he had brought the right change back. Then some jackass said a collection must be taken up for Patsey, and he headed the list with a dollar. Of course, everybody else gave a dollar also, because this was such a fine idea. Mr. St. George Le Mesurier Hector Northcote was delighted with Patsey. "Mr. Priest," he said, "you are a gentleman and a man of finish; but it grieves me to notice that your garments, although compatible with genius, do not, of themselves, suggest that luxury which genius should command. Wait here for a moment; you must be clad in costly raiment."

Mr. St. G. Le M. H. Northcote darted unsteadily, not to say lurched, into Geoffrey's room, looking for that "very dreadful waistcoat" which he had been pained to see Geoffrey wearing during the day. He found it at once in a closet, and, wrapping it in among several trousers and coats which he had selected at random, he came out again with the bundle in his hand.

"What are you doing there with my clothes?" asked Geoffrey, rising good-humoredly, but inwardly nervous, and going toward the bedroom as Northcote came out.

"I am going to give them to a gentleman whose station in life is not properly typified in his garb."

Geoffrey did not see the waistcoat lying inside one of the coats in the bundle, and so he thought it better to humor the idea than run any chances. He had taken off this objectionable article before going to dinner, intending to come back and burn it when he had more time.

He took the bundle from Northcote and handed it to Patsey as he dragged that individual to the door. "Here," he said. "Don't come down in rags to my room again. Now, get out."

Patsey disappeared hurriedly through the door. He had his own opinion of these young men who were so ready to pay for the pleasure of knocking him about, and if he had been required to classify mammalia he would not have applied the old name of homo sapiens to any species to which they belonged.

The next day, to kill time during the anxious hours, Geoffrey went out yachting with Dusenall and several others. As the wind fell off, they did not reach the moorings again until late in the evening, when they dined at the club-house on the island, and slept on the Ideal instead of going home. After an early breakfast the next morning they were rowed across the bay, and Geoffrey reached the bank at the usual time.

In this way, having been away from town all night, he knew nothing of the news that had spread like wildfire through certain circles on the previous night, that Jack Cresswell had been arrested and brought to Toronto. The first person whom he met at the door of the bank was the omnipresent Detective Dearborn, who smiled and asked him what he thought of the news.

"What news?" asked Geoffrey, his eyes growing small.

"Why, this," he replied, handing Geoffrey one of the morning papers, which he had not yet seen. Geoffrey read the following, printed in very large type, on the first page:

CLEVER CAPTURE!

JACK CRESSWELL, THE VICTORIA BANK ROBBER ARRESTED!
THE STOLEN $50,000 SUPPOSED TO BE NOW RECOVERED!
EXCITING CHASE AND EXTRAORDINARY DETECTIVE WORK!
A BULL'S-EYE FOR DETECTIVE DEARBORN!
PRISONER CAPTURED DURING A COLLISION BETWEEN TWO VESSELS!
WRECK OF THE STEAMER ELEUSINIAN!!
ALL ON BOARD LOST!!
EXCEPT THE WILY DETECTIVE.
GREAT EXCITEMENT!!
FURTHER DISCLOSURES ABOUT THE BANK!!!
THE BLOATED ARISTOCRACY SHAKEN TO ITS FOUNDATIONS!!!!

Detective Dearborn, on his arrival in Toronto, was so certain of convicting his prisoner that he threw the hungry newspaper reporters some choice and tempting morceaux. And, from the little that he gave them, they built up such an interesting and imaginative article that one was forced to think of the scientific society described by Bret Harte, when Mr. Brown—

Indeed, from the glowing colors in which the detective's chase was painted, from the many allusions to Jack's high standing in society and his terrible downfall, from a full description of Jack as being the petted darling of all the unwise virgins of the upper ten, and from the way that the name of Jack was familiarly bandied about, one necessarily ended the article with a disbelief in any form of respectability, especially in the upper classes, and with a profound conviction that society generally was rotten to the core. The name "Jack" seemed now to have a criminal sound about it, and reminded the reader of "Thimble-rig Jack" and "Jack Sheppard," and other notorieties who have done much to show that people called "Jack" should be regarded with suspicion.

Mr. Dearborn watched Geoffrey's face as he glanced over the newspaper. Dearborn had a sort of an idea from all he could learn, that Jack had had a longer head than his own to back him up, and, for reasons which need not be mentioned now, he suspected that there was more than one in this business.

However, Geoffrey knew that he was being watched, and his nerve was still equal to the occasion. He turned white, as a matter of course—so did everybody in the bank—and Dearborn got no points from his face.

Geoffrey handed him back the paper, and said commiseratingly: "Poor Jack, he has dished himself, sure enough, this time."

Dearborn served him then with a subpoena to attend the hearing before the police magistrate at an hour which was then striking, and Geoffrey walked over to the police court with him.

Standing-room in the court that day was difficult to get. In the morning well-worn habituÉs of that interesting place easily sold the width of their bodies on the floor for fifty cents.

Maurice Rankin had rushed off to see Jack in the morning. He knew nothing about the evidence, but he felt that Jack was innocent. He found his friend apparently in a sort of stupor, and was hardly recognized by him.

"You must have the best lawyer I can get to defend you, Jack," he said.

No answer.

"Don't you intend to make any defense or have any assistance? I can get you a splendid man in two minutes."

Jack shook his head slowly, and said, with an evident effort:

"No. I don't care."

Rankin did not know what to make of him; but, finally, he said:

"Well, if you won't have any person better, I will sit there, and if I see my way to anything I'll perhaps say a word. You do not object to my doing this, do you?" Jack's answer, or rather the motion of his head, might have meant anything, but Rankin took it to mean assent.

At half-past nine, Jack was led from the cell outside to the court-room by two policemen who seemed partly to support him.

A thrill ran through his old friends when they saw him. His face was ghastly, and his jaw had dropped in an enervated way that gave him the appearance of a man who had been fairly cornered and had "thrown up the sponge" in despair. He had not been brushed or combed for two nights and a day. He still wore his old, dirty sailing clothes. The sailor's sheath-knife attached to his leather belt had been removed by the police. His partial stupor was construed to be dogged sullenness, and it assisted in giving every one a thoroughly bad impression as to his innocence.

After he was placed in the dock he sat down and absently picked at some blisters on his hands, until the magistrate spoke to him, and then the policemen ordered him to stand up. When he stood thus, partly raised above the spectators, his eyes were lusterless and stolid and he looked vacantly in the direction of the magistrate.

"John Cresswell, it is charged against you that you did, on the 25th day of August last, at the city of Toronto, in the county of York, feloniously steal, take, and carry away fifty thousand dollars, the property of the Victoria Bank of Canada," etc.

Rankin saw that Jack did not comprehend what was going on. He got up, and was going to say something when the magistrate continued:

"Do you wish that the charge against you shall be tried by me or with a jury at the next assizes, or by some other court of competent jurisdiction?"

No answer.

The magistrate looked at Jack keenly. It struck him that the prisoner had been imbibing and was not yet sober, and so he spoke louder, and in a more explanatory and informal tone.

"You may be tried, if you like, on some other day, before the county judge without a jury, or you may wait till the coming assizes and be tried with a jury, or, if you consent to it, you may be tried here, now, before me. Which do you wish to do?"

Still no answer.

Rankin considered. He knew nothing of the evidence, and thought it impossible for Jack to be guilty. He did not wish to relinquish any chances his friend might have with a jury, and he felt that Jack himself ought to answer if he could. He went to him and said simply, for it was so difficult to make him understand:

"Do you want to be tried now or afterward?"

Jack nodded his head, while he seemed to be trying to collect himself.

"You mean to be tried now?"

Jack looked a little brighter here, and said weakly:

"Certainly—why not?"

Detective Dearborn, had not been idle since his return; and all the witnesses that the prosecution required were present.

His first witness was Geoffrey Hampstead. His evidence was looked upon by the spectators as uninteresting, and merely for the sake of form. Everybody knew what he had to say. He merely explained how the packet of fifty bills belonging to the Victoria Bank had been put in a certain place on the desk in his box at the bank, and that, he said, was all he knew about it.

At this point, Jack leaned over the bar and said; with a stupid pleasure in his face:

"Morry, there's old Geoffrey. I can see him. What's he talking about? Say, if you get a chance, tell him I am awfully glad to see him again."

Rankin now became convinced that there was something the matter with Jack's head, and he resolved to speak to the court to obtain a postponement of the case when the present witness had given his evidence.

It was also drawn from Geoffrey, by the county attorney, that the prisoner alone had had access to the place where the money lay, that it could not have been reached from the public hall-way, and that the prisoner had gone out very soon after he had spoken to the witness—when the money lay within his reach.

The crown prosecutor said he would ask the witness nothing more at present, but would require him again.

Rankin then represented to the police magistrate that his client was too ill to give him any instructions in the matter. The defendant was a personal friend of his, and although willing to act for him, he was, as yet, completely in the dark as to any of the facts, and in view of this he deemed it only proper to request that the whole matter should be postponed until he should be properly able to judge for himself.

The magistrate then asked, with something of a twinkle in his eye.

"What do you think is the matter with your client, Mr. Rankin?"

"It is hard for me, not being a doctor, to say," answered Rankin, looking back thoughtfully toward Jack. "I think, however, that he is suffering from some affection of the brain."

A horse-laugh was heard from some one among the "unwashed," and the police strained their heads to see who made the noise. The old plea of insanity seemed to be coming up once again, and one man in the crowd was certainly amused.

The magistrate said: "I do not think there is any reason why I should not go on hearing the evidence, now. I will note your objection, Mr. Rankin, and I perceive that you may be in a rather awkward position, perhaps, if you are in total ignorance of the facts."

Rankin was in a quandary. If he sat down and declined to cross-examine the witnesses or act for the defendant in any way, Jack might be convicted, and all chances for technical loopholes of escape might be lost forever. There might, however, in this case, if the trial were forced on, be a ground for some after proceedings on the claim that he did not get fair play. On the other hand, cross-examination might possibly break up the prosecution, if the evidence was weak or unsatisfactory. He came to the conclusion that he would go on and examine the witness and try to have it understood that he did so under protest.

After partly explaining to the magistrate what he wished to do, he asked Geoffrey a few questions—not seeing his way at all clearly, but just for the general purpose of fishing until he elicited something that he might use.

"You say that after the defendant spoke to you in the bank you heard him go out through the side door. Where does that side door lead?"

"It leads into an empty hall, and then you go out of an outer side door into the street."

"Is not this outer side door sometimes left open in hot weather?"

"Yes, I think it was open all that day."

"How are the partitions between the stalls or boxes of the different clerks in the Victoria Bank constructed?"

"They are made rather high (about five feet six high) and they are built of wood—black walnut, I think."

"Then, if the door of your box was closed you could not see who came in or out of Mr. Cresswell's stall?"

"Only through the wicket between our boxes."

"How long after Mr. Cresswell went out did you notice that the money was gone?"

"I can't quite remember. I was going on with my work with my back to the money. It might have been from an hour to an hour and a half. I went out to the side door myself for an instant, to see what the weather was going to be in the afternoon. It was some time after I came back that I found that the money was gone."

"Then, as far as you are able to tell, somebody might have come into Mr. Cresswell's stall after he went out, and taken the money without your knowing it?"

"Certainly. There was perhaps an hour and a half in which this could have been done."

"This package of money, as it lay, could have been seen from the public hall-way of the bank through your front wicket, could it not?"

"Yes."

"And it was perfectly possible for a person, after seeing the money in this way, to go around and come in the side door, enter Mr. Cresswell's box and take the money?"

"Yes, I have heard of as daring robberies as that."

"Or it would have been easy for any of the other bank officials to have taken the money?"

"If they had wished to do so—yes."

"And it would have been possible for you, when you went to the side door, to have handed the money to some one there ready to receive it?"

"Oh, yes," said Geoffrey, laughing; "I might have had a confederate outside. I could have given a confederate about two hundred thousand dollars that morning, I think."

"Thank you," said Rankin to Geoffrey, as he sat down.

Geoffrey saw what Rankin wanted, and he assisted him as far as he could to open up any other possibilities to account for the disappearance of the money.

The cabman who removed Jack's valises early in the morning was then called. He identified Jack as the person who had engaged him. Had been often engaged before by Mr. Cresswell. He also identified Jack's valises, which were produced.

Rankin did not cross-examine this man. His evidence was brought in to show that Jack's absconding was a carefully planned one—partly put into action before the stealing of the money—and not the result of any hasty impulse.

The caretaker of the yacht-club house was also called, for the same object. He told what he knew, and was restrained with difficulty from continually saying that he did not see anything suspicious about what he saw. The caretaker was evidently partial to the prisoner.

Detective Dearborn then took the stand, and as he proceeded in his story the interest grew intense. But when he mentioned meeting a young lady on the steamboat, and getting into a conversation with her, Rankin arose and said he had no doubt there were few ladies who could resist his friend Detective Dearborn, but that he did not see what she had to do with the case.

Then the county attorney jumped to his feet and contended that this evidence was admissible to show that this woman was going to the same place as the prisoner and had conspired with the prisoner to rob the bank.

Rankin replied that there was no charge against the prisoner for conspiracy, that the woman was not mentioned in the charge, and unless it were shown that she was in some way connected with the prisoner in the larceny evidence as to her conversations could not be received if not spoken in the prisoner's presence.

Rankin had no idea who this woman was or what she had said. He only choked off everything he could on general principles.

The magistrate refused to receive as evidence the conversation between her and the detective. So Rankin made his point, not knowing how valuable it was to his client.

Detective Dearborn was much chagrined at this. He thought that his story, as an interesting narrative of detective life, was quite spoiled by the omission, and he blurted out as a sort of "aside" to the spectators:

"Well, any way, she said she was Cresswell's wife."

This remark created a sensation in court, as he anticipated. But the magistrate rebuked him very sharply for it, saying: "I would have you remember that the evidence of very zealous police officers is always sufficiently open to suspicion. Showing more zeal than the law allows to obtain a conviction does not improve your condition as a witness."

Although merited, this was a sore snub for the able detective, and it seemed quite to take the heart out of him; but he afterward recovered himself as he fell to describing what had occurred in the collision and how he had got on board the North Star—the sole survivor from the Eleusinian. In speaking of the arrest he did not say that he had prevented Jack from saving the life dearest on earth to him. He gave the truth a very unpleasant turn against the prisoner by saying that Jack struggled violently to escape from the arrest and tried to throw himself overboard. This, of course, gave all the impression that he was ready to seek death rather than be captured. It gave a desperate aspect to his conduct, and accorded well with his sullen appearance in the court-room. Dearborn suppressed the fact that Jack had been delirious and raving for twelve hours afterward, as this might explain his present condition and cause delay. He had lost no opportunity of circulating the suggestion that he was shamming insanity.

After he had briefly described his return to Toronto with his prisoner, the crown attorney asked him:

"Did you find any articles upon his person?"

"Yes; I took this knife away from him."

"Ah, indeed!" said the crown attorney, taking the knife and examining it. "Quite a murderous-looking weapon."

"Which will be found strapped to the back of every sailor that breathes," interrupted Rankin indignantly. "I hope my learned friend won't arrest his barber for using razors in his daily work."

"And what else did you find upon him?" asked the attorney, returning to the case for want of good retort.

Detective Dearborn thought a sensation agreeable to himself would certainly be made by his answer:

"Well," he said, with the sang froid with which detectives delight to make their best points, "I found on him two of the stolen one-thousand-dollar bills—"

"Now, now, now!" cried Rankin, jumping to his feet in an instant. "You can not possibly know that of your own knowledge. You are getting too zealous again, Mr. Dearborn."

"Don't alarm yourself, my acute friend," said the crown attorney, conscious that all the evidence he required was coming on afterward. "We will prove the identity of the recovered bills to your most complete satisfaction." Then, turning to the witness, he said: "Go on."

Dearborn, who had made the little stir he expected went on to explain what the other moneys were that he had found on Jack, and described how he found the bills pinned securely inside a watch-pocket of a waistcoat that he wore underneath his outer shirt.

Rankin asked Dearborn only one question. There did not seem to be any use in resisting the matter except on the one point which remained to be proved.

"You do not pretend to identify these bills yourself?"

"No, sir, I don't. But we'll fix that all right for you," he said, triumphantly, as he descended from the box.

The clerk in the Montreal Telegraph Company's office who compared the numbers of the bills with the list of numbers sent from New York, then identified the two recovered bills beyond any doubt. He also swore that he personally deposited the package of bills with the receiving teller of the Victoria Bank.

The receiving teller swore to having received such a package and having handed it to Mr. Hampstead to be used in his department.

Geoffrey Hampstead was recalled, and acknowledged receiving such a package from the other clerk. But what surprised everybody was that he took up the recovered bills and swore positively that the stolen bills were of a light-brown color, and not dark-green, like the ones found on the prisoner.

Geoffrey had seen that the whole case depended on the identification of these bills. If he could break the evidence of the other witnesses sufficiently on this point, there might, he thought, be a chance of having Jack liberated.

A peculiar thing happened here, which startled the dense mass of people looking on.

The prisoner arose to his feet, and, taking hold of the railing to steady himself, said in a rolling, hollow voice, while Geoffrey was swearing that the stolen bills were of a light-brown color:

"Geoffrey, old man, don't tell any lies on my account. The bills were all dark-green." Then he sat down again wearily.

If there was a man in the room who until now had still hoped that Jack was innocent, his last clinging hope was dissipated by this speech.

A deep silence prevailed for an instant, as the conviction of his guilt sank into every heart.

Some said it was just like Geoffrey to go up and try to swear his friend off. They thought it was like him, inasmuch as it was a daring stroke which was aimed at the root of the whole prosecution. Probably he lost few friends among those who thought he had perjured himself for this object. Those who did not think this, supposed he was mistaken in his recollection as to the color of the bills. A small special edition of a vulgar newspaper, issued an hour afterward, said:

"In this case of Regina vs. Cresswell, if Hampstead had been able to shake the identification of these bills no doubt Regina would have 'got left.'"

When Jack had returned to consciousness, at Port Dalhousie, it was only partially. He looked at the detective dreamily when informed that he had to go to Toronto. He felt desperately ill and weak, and thought of one thing only—Nina's death. Even that he only realized faintly. Mentally and bodily he was like a water-logged wreck that could be towed about from place to place but was capable in itself of doing little more than barely floating. When Rankin had spoken to him, before the trial, about getting a lawyer, he was merely conscious of a slight annoyance that disturbed the one weak current of his thought. When the magistrate had addressed him in the court-room, the change from the dark cell to the light room and the crowd of faces had nearly banished again the few rays of intelligence which he possessed. He did not know what the magistrate was saying. Vaguely conscious that there was some charge against him, he was paralyzed by a death-like weakness which prevented his caring in the slightest degree what happened. When Rankin spoke incisively to him, the voice was familiar, and he was able to make an answer, and in the course of the trial gleams of intelligence came to him. The vibrations of Geoffrey's well-known voice aroused him with a half-thrill of pleasure, and during the re-examination he had partly comprehended that there was some charge against him about these bills, and he came to the conclusion that as Geoffrey must have known the true color of the bills, he was only telling an untruth for the purpose of getting him off. This was as far as his intelligence climbed, and when he sat down again the exertion proved too much for him, and his mind wandered.

Of course, after this terribly damaging remark, there was nothing left for Rankin to cling to. Clearly, Jack knew all about the bills, and had given up all hope of acquittal. The two other clerks were called to contradict Geoffrey as to the color of the bills, and with that the case for the prosecution closed.

Rankin said he was as yet unprepared with any evidence for the defense. Evidence of previous good character could certainly be obtained in any quantity from any person who had ever known the prisoner, and, in any case, he should be allowed time to produce this evidence. He easily showed a number of reasons why a postponement for a week should be granted.

The magistrate shook his head, and then told John Cresswell to stand up.

Jack was partly hoisted up by a policeman. He stood holding on to the bar in front of him with his head down, perhaps the most guilty looking individual that had been in that dock for a month.

"John Cresswell, the evidence against you in this case leaves no shadow of doubt in my mind that you are guilty of the offense charged. Your counsel has requested a delay in order that your defense may be more thoroughly gone into. I have watched your demeanor throughout the trial, and, although a little doubtful at first, I have come to the conclusion that you are shamming insanity. I saw you on several occasions look perfectly intelligent, and your remarks show that you fully understand the bearing of the case. I will therefore refuse to postpone the trial further than three o'clock this afternoon. This will give your counsel an opportunity to produce evidence of previous good character or any other evidence that he may wish to bring forward. Forty-eight thousand dollars of the stolen money are still missing, and, so far, I certainly presume that you know where that large sum of money is secreted. Unless the aspect of the case be changed by further evidence sentence will be passed on you this afternoon, and I wish to tell you now that if, in the mean time, you make restitution of the money, such action on your part may materially affect the sentence I shall pass upon you."

The magistrate was going on to say: "I will adjourn the court now until three o'clock," when he perceived that Jack, who was still standing, was speaking to him and looking at him vacantly. What Jack said while his head swayed about drunkenly was this:

"If you'll let me off this watch now I'll do double time to-morrow, governor. I never was sea-sick before, but I must turn in for a while, for I can't stand without holding on to something."

Nobody knew what to make of this except Detective Dearborn, who had possessed all along the clew to his distressing condition. But what did the detective care for his condition? John Cresswell was black with guilt. The fact of his being "cut up" because, a woman got drowned did not change his guilt. He and that deuced fine woman were partners in this business, and forty-eight thousand had gone to the bottom of the lake in her pocket The detective could not forgive himself for not allowing Jack to try and save the girl. The girl herself was no object, but it would have fetched things out beautifully as a culmination of detective work to bring her back also—along with the money. Forty-eight and two would make fifty, and if the bank could not afford to give away one in consideration of getting back the forty-nine—Bah! he knew his mad thirst to hold his prey had made him a fool.

Was it the formation of his jaw? They say a bull-dog is not the best fighter, because he will not let go his first grip in order to take a better one.

The court-room was empty in five minutes after the adjournment, and a couple of the "Vics" followed Jack down-stairs. Rankin went down also and was going to get Jack some stimulant, but he found the bank fellows ahead of him. One of them had got a pint of "fizz," another had procured from the neighboring restaurant some oysters and a small flask of brandy.

These young men were beautiful in the matter of stand-up collars, their linen was chaste, and extensive, and-their clothes ornamental, but they could stick to a friend. The language of these young men, who showed such a laxity in moral tone as to attempt to refresh an undoubted criminal, was ordinarily almost too correct, but now they were profane. Every one of them had been fond of Jack, and their sympathy was greater than their self-control. For once they forgot to be respectable, and were cursing to keep themselves from showing too much feeling—a phase not uncommon.

Rankin saw Jack take some brandy and that afterward he was able to peck at the oysters. Then he walked off to No. 173 Tremaine Buildings to think out what had best be done and to have a solitary piece of bread and butter, and perhaps a cup of tea, if Mrs. Priest's stove happened to have a fire in it.