Teddy Martin occupied chambers in Lime Court, Temple. His rooms were situated on the first floor, and from his front window the visitor could command an uninterrupted view of the sun-dial over the way, upon which was inscribed one of those useful moral legends which in earlier times our rude forefathers were accustomed to carve upon such slabs as marked the flight of time. Those who trod the well-worn flags of Lime Court would sometimes hear the tinkling of a piano welling out over the geraniums in those front windows, and sometimes the piano would tinkle an accompaniment to snatches of opera-bouffe sung by a showy but somewhat unsympathetic female voice. Barristers’ clerks passing beneath and hearing this harmony would wink knowingly at each other, and interchange opinions regarding the Martin mÉnage.

All the world knows of Martin’s celebrated “Crystal Ale” at nine shillings the nine-gallon cask. Teddy Martin was the son of the maker of that famous brew. It will be, therefore, inferred that the young man was not quite so dependent on the support of solicitors as other members of his Inn. Indeed, his allowance was so large as to make him the envy of many brilliant but impecunious members of the Junior Bar, who hated him for his prosperity, and grudged him the briefs which at long intervals were confided to his care.

Like many other young gentlemen of taste and fortune, Teddy Martin was a persistent supporter of the British Drama. He was quite catholic in his tastes. Irving was not too dull for him; nor was the Gaiety too fast. If, indeed, the truth must be told, he preferred those theatres at which burlesque entertainment formed the staple fare; and even found amusement in the festive society of those vestals whose agreeable mission it is to keep burning the sacred lamp of burlesque. He formed acquaintance with the ladies of the chorus. A member of the Junior Bar, he cultivated the society of members of the Junior Stage.

It was the voice of one of these sirens which woke the echoes in Lime Court after the shadows had fallen and the lamp had been lit in the court below, and which scandalised Mr. Solon, Q.C., struggling with a brief of several hundred folios in the chambers beneath.

Martin has never inquired into my domestic secrets, and I have no wish to inquire into Martin’s. Topsy Varden, it is true, left the stage shortly after she had become acquainted with Mr. Martin; had appeared in his chambers, and had taken possession of his piano. I have met her there, but know no more than the porter whether she resided in Lime Court en permanence or whether she only visited Mr. Martin, for whom she seemed to have a great partiality. Perhaps she came early in the morning and returned late at night to her mother in Camden Town.

At that time I was writing dramatic notices for the Slough of Despond—a Society organ—and was, when I visited Teddy’s chambers, the subject of a vast amount of agreeable wheedling on the part of Miss Varden, who assured me that she never would be happy off the stage—that she wouldn’t; that she knew of my influence with Jones of the Royal Bandbox, and with Robinson of the Royal Potentates’ Theatres, and that if I didn’t get her a “shop” at one of the houses in question I was a wretch—that I was. In fact, she talked of nothing else; didn’t appear to know anything that was going on in the world, and never read any newspaper except the Mummers’ Mouthpiece.

One morning I called on Teddy Martin, and found him at breakfast. Topsy had arrived very early that morning, apparently, for she was at breakfast with her admirer, and had done him the compliment to come in a white morning gown, with wonderful arrangements in lace at the throat and wrists. I found the ingenuous Martin in high glee over a brief for the prosecution in a case in which he was to appear that day at the Old Bailey.

“Come with me, my boy,” he exclaimed; “it’s a great case. And if only my learned leader would absent himself, I’d give them a taste of my quality.”

I had nothing better to do, and consented.

“Take me too,” said Miss Topsy, with an admirable affectation of piteous imploring. It was bad enough for Topsy to visit at his chambers, but he was not likely to run the risk of flaunting her gay presence in the temple of justice herself. He put her off with a kind word, adding:

“But you’ll be here when we return; we’ll all go to dinner at Verrey’s, have a box at the theatre, and enjoy ourselves amazingly, eh? And you’ll come with us, old fellow, won’t you?”

Again I consented. We took leave of the fair young creature, and when we got to the bottom of the court, heard strains of “The Blue Alsatian Mountains” trilling over the flower-boxes on the window-sill.

“Capital girl that,” said Teddy, pressing my arm; “good as gold—all heart, and that sort of thing.”

“Of course,” I answered. The expression of one’s real sentiments under such circumstances is not only extremely ill-bred, but it will most assuredly serve to fan the flame in your friend’s heart, and gain for yourself his everlasting distrust. So I said “Of course,” and we tramped through Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, and turned into the Old Bailey, closely followed by Teddy’s little clerk bearing Teddy’s blue bag, with his initials beautifully worked in white silk on the outside.

The case in which Teddy was concerned lasted all day. But besides opening it in a somewhat abashed and hesitating way, and thereafter cross-examining an utterly unimportant witness, I could not see that Teddy had much more to do with the case than myself, who had been accommodated with a seat in the row of benches apportioned to the bar, situated just behind my friend. All the real work was performed by Mr. Rowland, Q.C., who prosecuted for the Treasury; and to his skill, resource, and mastery of details, it appeared to me, the conviction of the prisoner was entirely attributable. I merely mention this because I subsequently heard Teddy take to himself all the credit of having secured the verdict on that memorable occasion.After the unfortunate man in the dock had been sentenced and removed to the seclusion of his cell, Teddy packed up his papers, stuffed them into his bag, and leaving that receptacle to be removed by his clerk, accompanied me back to Lime Court. The piano was still going, and the voice of the siren gave forth the brisk chorus of a bouffe drinking-song.

Topsy Varden must have visited her home with her mother in Camden Town during our absence in Court, for she had abandoned the white breakfast gown of the morning, and was arrayed in a costly dinner dress, so arranged as to exhibit a great amount of her arms and chest. As Teddy saluted her it was evident that his admiration was sincere. Her reciprocal expression was that of an actress—hollow, insincere, worthless.

“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.”Topsy sprang towards him with flashing eyes, as though to clutch his throat; but before she could accomplish her object, she fell back, and in falling moaned almost inarticulately,—

“You have killed my brother!”

* * * * *

Since that day Teddy has never held a brief, nor does he appear anxious to hold one. His interest in the minor ornaments of the drama has considerably abated. I know not what has become of the ill-fated Topsy. Perhaps she has returned for good to her mother in Camden Town.