"Police agent."

"And your nationality?"

"Russian."

The old man a police agent! Dumbfounded, I looked blankly around me.

"You are father of the previous witness?"

"I am."

"Now, what evidence can you give regarding the charge against the prisoner?"

There was a dead and painful silence.

"We first met at the Hotel Isotta, Genoa, about a month after the murder in Bedford Place. We frequently played _ecarte_ together, and on one occasion he paid me a debt with the three five-pound notes I now produce."

"And what is there peculiar about them?"

"I have since ascertained that their numbers correspond with those now known to have been stolen from the house in Bedford Place."

The thought flashed across my mind that once, when I had lost to him, I had discharged the debt with three notes. From whom I received them I could not tell.

"What else do you know about the affair?" was the insinuating question of the prosecuting counsel.

"Well; some three months after this I was present at the Central Tribunal at St Petersburg, when prisoner was sentenced to the mines for complicity in the murder of a hotel-keeper. The sentence, however, was never carried out, for on the way to Siberia he escaped, returning to England."

"It's a lie! I was exiled without trial," I shouted. Amid the loud cries of "Silence," counsel turned to the judge, and with a cruel smile about his lips remarked, "You see, my lord, prisoner admits he was exiled."

Mr Roland made an impatient motion to me to preserve silence; so seeing my protests were useless, I sank again into my chair, and tried to conquer my fate by bearing it.

Mr Crane the junior counsel defending me, cross-examined him at some length, but resumed his seat without being able to shake his testimony.

The waiter who had attended to me at the Charing Cross Hotel, and two of my own servants were called, but their evidence was immaterial and uninteresting.

I felt a strange morbid yielding to a superst.i.tious feeling that I could not shake off, and sat as one in a dream, until the Court rose and I was sent back to my cell.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

Next morning my trial was resumed.

There was the same array of counsel; the same crowd of curious onlookers lounging on the benches like carrion crows around a carcase; the same strange, half-visionary procession of judges, lawyers and witnesses, who pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed before me, sometimes ludicrous, but generally gloomy and depressing.

The jury looked pale and weary. They had been locked up during the night, and now several of them were yawning. None gave indication that they felt the responsibility of the sentence they had to p.r.o.nounce.

I sat in the dock heedless of everything; I had grown callous. I had one thought only: Why had not Vera made her promised explanation?

A few minor witnesses were called, and the case for the prosecution closed.

At last Mr Roland rose to make his speech in my defence. The circ.u.mstantial evidence already produced was, I knew, sufficient to cause the jury to find me guilty, and I listened in rapt attention to the clear, concise arguments of the famous advocate.

But how unsatisfactory was his speech--how weak was his defence! With a sinking heart I saw more than one of the jury smile incredulously when my innocence was a.s.serted.

"I admit, gentlemen," said Mr Roland, in the course of his address, "that this case is enshrouded in mystery; but while a.s.serting that the prisoner is innocent, I tell you plainly there is a secret. The key to this enigma is known to one person alone, and that person, for reasons with which I am myself unacquainted, is not in a position to divulge it.

That this secret bears directly upon the crime is obvious, nevertheless it is a most unfortunate circ.u.mstance that the mystery cannot be wholly elucidated by a satisfactory explanation. However, I have several witnesses whom I purpose calling before you; and having heard them, I shall ask you to discharge the prisoner, feeling a.s.sured you will be convinced that he is entirely innocent."

"But, Mr Roland, this is a most extraordinary case," interposed the judge. "You speak of a person who knows the secret and refuses to give evidence. If this is so, this person is party to the crime. To whom do you refer?"

Counsel held a brief consultation with his junior, then rose again.

The Court was all expectancy.

"I refer, m'lord, to no less a person than the prisoner's wife!"

The reply caused a sensation. Vera knew the secret! I was not wrong.

"Ah, that is unfortunate," exclaimed the judge, disappointedly. "It is impossible to call her in a case of this description."

At that moment the usher handed Mr Roland a note. He read it hastily, and, raising his hand, said:

"The lady has just arrived in court, and is about to produce important evidence, m'lord."

The silence was unbroken, save for the _frou-frou_ of Vera's dress as she advanced towards my counsel, and bent over him, whispering.

Mr Roland was seated close to the dock, and I strained my ears to catch their hurried conversation.

In face of the horrible charge brought against me, the persistency with which it was pursued, and the evidence produced in support of it, I had been so overwhelmed by a sense of fatality that I had almost decided to let things take their course. I knew I was innocent, nevertheless I felt the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of proving it. Now, however, encouraged by this proof of sympathy on the part of Vera, I took heart.

"What will these witnesses prove?" asked Mr Roland, hurriedly.

Vera, whose face was rendered more delicate and touching by the tortures she seemed undergoing, glanced quickly towards me, and replied:

"They will prove my husband's innocence!"

Counsel uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of surprise. "Are you certain of this?"

he asked.

"Yes. If it were possible that I might be called as a witness I could tell the Court things that would probably astonish it; but I leave everything to the two persons I have brought," she replied in a tremulous voice.

The jury grew impatient. The excitement was intense.

In a few moments a young and rather showily-attired woman stepped into the box. As she turned towards me I was puzzled to know where I had seen the face before. The features seemed quite familiar, yet I could not recollect.

"You are Jane Maygrove?" asked my counsel.

"Yes."