"Yis, an' I did 'em up agin."

"Did you break down the grated door?"

"I remember about somethin' squeakin' an' givin' 'way," replied Jim, with a smile. "It was purty dark, an' I couldn't see 'xactly what was a goin' on."

"Oh you couldn't! We have your confession, then, that you are a thief and a burglar, and that you couldn't see the man you took out."

"Well, now, Squar, that won't help ye any. Benedict is the man as got away, an' I saved the town the board of two paupers an' the cost of two pine coffins, an' sent old Buffum where he belonged, an' n.o.body cried but his pertickler friend as sets next to ye."

"I beg the Court's protection for my client, against the insults of this witness," said Mr. Cavendish.

"When a man calls Jim Fenton a thief an' a buggler, he must take what comes on't," said Jim. "Ye may thank yer everlastin' stars that ye didn't say that to me in the street, for I should 'a licked ye. I should 'a fastened that slippery old scalp o' yourn tighter nor a drum-head."

"Witness," said the Judge, peremptorily, "you forget where you are, sir.

You must stop these remarks."

"Jedge look 'ere! When a man is insulted by a lawyer in court, what can he do? I'm a reasomble man, but I can't take anybody's sa.r.s.e. It does seem to me as if a lawyer as snubs a witness an calls 'im names, wants dressin' down too. Give Jim Fenton a fair shake, an' he's all right."

Jim's genial nature and his irrepressible tongue were too much for the court and the lawyers together. Mr. Cavendish writhed in his seat. He could do nothing with Jim. He could neither scare nor control him, and saw that the witness was only anxious for another encounter. It was too evident that the sympathy of the jury and the increasing throng of spectators was with the witness, and that they took delight in the discomfiture of the defendant's counsel.

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Cavendish, "after the disgraceful confessions of the witness, and the revelation of his criminal character, it will not comport with my own self-respect to question him further."

"Paddlin' off, eh?" said Jim, with a comical smile.

"Witness," said the Judge, "be silent and step down."

"No 'fense, Jedge, I hope?"

"Step down, sir."

Jim saw that matters were growing serious. He liked the Judge, and had intended, in some private way, to explain the condition of his hair as attributable to his fright on being called into Court as a witness, but he was obliged to relinquish his plan, and go back to his seat. The expression of his face must have been most agreeable to the spectators, for there was a universal giggle among them which called out the reproof of the Court.

"Helen Dillingham" was next called for. At the p.r.o.nunciation of her name, and her quiet progress through the court-room to the stand, there was a hush in which nothing was heard but the rustle of her own drapery.

Mr. Belcher gasped, and grew pale. Here was the woman whom he madly loved. Here was the woman whom he had a.s.sociated with his scheme of European life, and around whom, more and more, as his difficulties increased and the possibilities of disaster presented themselves, he had grouped his hopes and gathered his plans. Had he been the dupe of her cunning? Was he to be the object of her revenge? Was he to be betrayed?

Her intimacy with Harry Benedict began to take on new significance. Her systematic repulses of his blind pa.s.sion had an explanation other than that which he had given them. Mr. Belcher thought rapidly while the formalities which preceded her testimony were in progress.

Every man in the court-room leaned eagerly forward to catch her first word. Her fine figure, graceful carriage and rich dress had made their usual impression.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said the Judge, with a courteous bow and gesture, "will you have the kindness to remove your veil?"

The veil was quietly raised over her hat, and she stood revealed. She was not pale; she was fresh from the woods, and in the glory of renewed health. A murmur of admiration went around the room like the stirring of leaves before a vagrant breeze.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said Mr. Balfour, "where do you reside?"

"In this city, sir."

"Have you always lived here?"

"Always."

"Do you know Paul Benedict?"

"I do, sir."

"How long have you known him?"

"From the time I was born until he left New York, after his marriage."

"What is his relation to you?"

"He is my brother, sir."

Up to this answer, she had spoken quietly, and in a voice that could only be heard through the room by the closest attention; but the last answer was given in a full, emphatic tone.

Mr. Belcher entirely lost his self-possession. His face grew white, his eyes were wild, and raising his clenched fist he brought it down with a powerful blow upon the table before him, and exclaimed: "My G.o.d!"

The court-room became in an instant as silent as death. The Judge uttered no reprimand, but looked inquiringly, and with unfeigned astonishment, at the defendant.

Mr. Cavendish rose and begged the Court to overlook his client's excitement, as he had evidently been taken off his guard.

"Paul Benedict is your brother, you say?" resumed Mr. Balfour.

"He is, sir."

"What was his employment before he left New York?"

"He was an inventor from his childhood, and received a careful education in accordance with his mechanical genius."

"Why did he leave New York?"

"I am ashamed to say that he left in consequence of my own unkindness."

"What was the occasion of your unkindness?"

"His marriage with one whom I did not regard as his own social equal or mine."

"What was her name?"

"Jane Kendrick."

"How did you learn that he was alive?"

"Through his son, whom I invited into my house, after he was brought to this city by yourself."

"Have you recently visited the cemetery at Sevenoaks?"

"I have, sir."