"You are all absolutely wrong." Julia Delyse was speaking. She had been sitting mumchance at a general meeting of the Pettigrew confraternity held half an hour before Bench in a sitting-room of the Rose Hotel.

Simon had vetoed the idea of a solicitor to defend him—it would only create more talk, and from what he could make out his case was defenceless. He would throw himself on the mercy of the court. The rest had concurred.

"Throw yourself on the mercy of the court! Have you ever lived in the country? Do you know what these old magistrates are like? Don't you know that the Wessex Chronicle will publish yards about it, to say nothing of the local rag? I've thought out the whole thing. I've wired for Dick Pugeot."

"You wired?" said Bobby.

"Last night. You remember I asked you for his address—and there he is."

The toot of a motor-horn came from outside.

Julia rose and left the room.

Bobby followed and stopped her in the passage.

"Julia," said he, "if you can get him out of this and save his name being in the papers, you'll be a brick. You are a brick, and I've been a—a——"

"I know," said Julia, "but you could not help yourself—nor can I. I'm not Cerise. Love is lunacy and the world's all wrong. Now go back and tell your uncle to say nothing in court and to pretend he's a fool. If Pugeot is the man you say he is, he'll save his name. Old Mr. Pettigrew has got to be camouflaged."

"Good heavens, Julia," cried Bobby, the vision of gnus emulating zebras rising before him, "you can't mean to paint him?"

"Never mind what I mean," said Julia.

The Upton Bench was an old Bench. It had been in existence since the time of Mr. Justice Shallow. It held its sittings in the court-room of the Upton Police Court, and there it dispensed justice, of a sort, of a Wednesday morning upon "drunks," petty pilferers, poachers, tramps, and any other unfortunates appearing before it.

Colonel Grouse was the chairman. With him this morning sat Major Partridge-Cooper, Colonel Salmon, Mr. Teal, and General Grampound. The reporters of the local rag and the Wessex Chronicle were in their places. The Clerk of the Court, old Mr. Quail, half-blind and fumbling with his papers, was at his table; a few village constables, including Constable Copper, were by the door, and there was no general public.

The general public was free to enter, but none of the villagers ever came. It was an understood thing that the Bench discouraged idlers and inquisitive people.

The inalienable right of the public to enter a Court of Justice and see Themis at work had never been pushed. The Bench was much more than the Bench—it was the Gentry and the Power of Upton,[1] against which no man could run counter. Horn alone, in pot-houses and public places, had fought against this shibboleth; he had found a few agreers, but no backers.

At eleven to the moment the Pettigrew contingent filed in and took their places, and after them a big yellow man, the Hon. Dick Pugeot. He was known to the magistrates, but Justice is blind and no mark of recognition was shown, whilst a constable, detaching himself from the others, went to the door and shouted:

"Richard Horn."

Horn, who had been caught and bailed, and who had evidently washed himself and put on his best clothes, entered, made for the dock, as a matter of long practice, and got into it.

"Simon Pettigrew," called the Clerk.

Simon rose and followed Horn. Instructed by Julia to say nothing, he said nothing.

Then Pugeot rose.

"I beg your pardon," said Pugeot; "you have got my friend's name wrong. Pattigraw, please; he's a Frenchman, though long resident in England; and it's not Simon—but Sigismond."

"Rectify the charge-sheet," said Colonel Grouse. "First witness."

Simon, dazed, and horrified as a solicitor by this line of action, tried to speak, but failed. The brilliant idea of Julia's, taken up with enthusiasm by Pugeot, was evidently designed to fool the newspaper men and save the name of Simon the Solicitor. Still, it was horrible, and he felt as though Pugeot were trying to carry him pick-a-back across an utterly impossible bridge.

He guessed now why this had been sprung on him. They knew that as a lawyer he would never have agreed to such a statement.

Then Copper, hoisting himself into the witness-stand, hitching his belt and kissing the Testament, began:

"I swear before A'mighty Gawd that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Gawd, Amen on the evening of the 16th pursuin' my beat by Porter's Meadows I see defendant in the company of Horn——"

"What were they doing?" asked old Mr. Teal, who was busily taking notes just like any real judge.

"Walkin' towards the river, sir."

"In which direction?"

"Up stream, sir."

"Go on."

Copper went on.

"Crossin' the meadows, they kept to the river, me after them——"

"How far behind?" asked Major Partridge-Cooper.

"Half a field's length, sir, till they reached the bend of the stream beyond which the prisoner Horn began to set his night lines, assisted by the prisoner Puttigraw. 'Hullo,' says I, and Horn bolted, and I closed with the other one."

"Did he make resistance?"

"No, sir. I walked him up to my house quite quiet."

"That all?"

"Yes, sir."

"You can stand down."

The prisoners had pleaded guilty and there was no other evidence. Simon began to see light. He could perceive at once that it would be a question of a fine, that the magistrates and Press had swallowed him as specified by Pugeot, that his name was saved. But he reckoned without Pugeot.

Pugeot had done everything in life except act as an advocate, and he was determined not to let the chance escape. Several brandies-and-sodas at the hotel had not lessened his enthusiasm for Publicity, and he rose.

"Mr. Chairman and Justices," said Pugeot. "I would like to say a few words on behalf of my friend, the prisoner, whom I have known for many years and who now finds himself in this unfortunate position through no fault of his own."

"How do you make that out?" asked Colonel Grouse.

"I beg your pardon?" said Pugeot, checked in his eloquence. "Oh yes, I see what you mean. Well, as a matter of fact, as a matter of fact—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, leaving aside the fact that he is the last man to do a thing of this sort, he has had money troubles in France."

"Do you wish to make out a case of non compos mentis?" asked old Mr. Teal. "There is no medical evidence adduced."

"Not in the least," said Pugeot; "he's as right as I am, only he has had worries." Then, confidentially, and speaking to the Bench as fellow-men: "If you will make it a question of a fine, I will guarantee everything will be all right—and besides"—a brilliant thought—"his wife will look after him."

"Is his wife present?" asked Colonel Grouse.

"That is the lady, I believe," said Colonel Salmon, looking in the direction of the Rossignols, whom he dimly remembered having seen at the Squire Simpson's with Simon.

Pugeot, cornered, turned round and looked at the blushing Madame Rossignol.

"Yes," said he, without turning a hair, "that is the lady."

Then the recollection struck him with a thud that he had introduced the Rossignols as Rossignols to the Squire Simpson's and that they were registered at the hotel as Rossignols. He felt as though he were in a skidding car, but nothing happened, no accusing voice rose to give him the lie, and the Bench retired to consider its sentence, which was one guinea fine for Sigismond and a month for Horn.

"You've married them," said Julia, as they walked back to the hotel, leaving the others to follow. "I never meant you to say that. But perhaps it's for the best; she's a good woman and will look after him, and he'll have to finish the business, won't he?"

"Rather, and a jolly good job!" said Pugeot. "Now I've got to bribe the hotel man and stuff old Simpson with the hard facts. Never had such fun in my life. I say, old thing, where do you hang out in London?"

Julia gave him her address.

That was the beginning of the end of Pugeot as a bachelor—also of Simon, who never would have been brought up to the scratch but for Pugeot's speech—also of Mr. Ravenshaw, who never in his wildest dreams could have foreseen his marriage to Simon's step-daughter a week after Simon's marriage to her mother.

Mudd alone remains unmarried out of all these people, for the simple and efficient reason that there is no one to marry him to. He lives with the Pettigrews in Charles Street, and his only trouble in life is dread of another outbreak on the part of Simon. This has not occurred yet—will never occur, if there is any truth in the dictum of Oppenshaw that marriage is the only cure for the delusions of youth.

THE END