And, indeed, such was the case. Sal Rawlins had made her appearance at the eleventh hour, to the heartfelt thankfulness of Calton, who saw in her an angel from heaven, sent to save the life of an innocent man.

It was at the conclusion of the trial; and, together with Madge, he had gone down to his office, when his clerk entered with a telegram. The lawyer opened it hastily, and, with a silent look of pleasure on his face, handed the telegram to Madge.

She, womanlike, being more impulsive, gave a cry when she read it, and, falling on her knees, thanked God for having heard her prayers, and saved her lover’s life.

“Take me to her at once,” she implored the lawyer.

She was anxious to hear from Sal Rawlins’ own lips the joyful words which would save Brian from a felon’s death.

“No, my dear,” answered Calton, firmly, but kindly. “I can hardly take a lady to the place where Sal Rawlins lives. You will know all tomorrow, but, meanwhile, you must go home and get some sleep.”

“And you will tell him?” she whispered, clasping her hands on Calton’s arm.

“At once,” he answered promptly. “And I will see Sal Rawlins tonight, and hear what she has to say. Rest content, my dear,” he added, as he placed her in the carriage, “he is perfectly safe now.”

Brian heard the good news with a deep feeling of gratitude, knowing that his life was safe, and that he could still keep his secret. It was the natural revulsion of feeling after the unnatural life he had been leading since his arrest. When one is young and healthy, and has all the world before one, it is a terrible thing to contemplate a sudden death. And yet, in spite of his joy at being delivered from the hangman’s rope, there mingled with his delight the horror of that secret which the dying woman had told him with such malignant joy.

“I had rather she had died in silence than she should have bequeathed me this legacy of sorrow.”

And the gaoler, seeing his haggard face the next morning, muttered to himself, “He war blest if the swell warn’t sorry he war safe.”

So, while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the weary watches of the night, Madge, in her own room, was kneeling beside her bed and thanking God for His great mercy; and Calton, the good fairy of the two lovers, was hurrying towards the humble abode of Mrs. Rawlins, familiarly known as Mother Guttersnipe. Kilsip was beside him, and they were talking eagerly about the providential appearance of the invaluable witness.

“What I like,” observed Kilsip, in his soft, purring tone, “is the sell it will be for that Gorby. He was so certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the man, and when he gets off tomorrow Gorby will be in a rage.”

“Where was Sal the whole time?” asked Calton, absently, not thinking of what the detective was saying.

“Ill,” answered Kilsip. “After she left the Chinaman she went into the country, caught cold by falling into some river, and ended up by getting brain fever. Some people found her, took her in, and nursed her. When she got well she came back to her grandmother’s.”

“But why didn’t the people who nursed her tell her she was wanted? They must have seen the papers.”

“Not they,” retorted the detective. “They knew nothing.”

“Vegetables!” muttered Calton, contemptuously. “How can people be so ignorant! Why, all Australia has been ringing with the case. At any rate, it’s money out of their pocket. Well?”

“There’s nothing more to tell,” said Kilsip, “except that she turned up tonight at five o’clock, looking more like a corpse than anything else.”

When they entered the squalid, dingy passage that led to Mother Guttersnipe’s abode, they saw a faint light streaming down the stair. As they climbed up they could hear the rancorous voice of the old hag pouring forth alternate blessings and curses on her prodigal offspring, and the low tones of a girl’s voice in reply. On entering the room Calton saw that the sick woman, who had been lying in the corner on the occasion of his last visit, was gone. Mother Guttersnipe was seated in front of the deal table, with a broken cup and her favourite bottle of spirits before her. She evidently intended to have a night of it, in order to celebrate Sal’s return, and had commenced early, so as to lose no time. Sal herself was seated on a broken chair, and leaned wearily against the wall. She stood up as Calton and the detective entered, and they saw that she was a tall, slender woman of about twenty-five, not bad-looking, but with a pallid and haggard appearance from recent illness. She was clothed in a kind of tawdry blue dress, much soiled and torn, and had over her shoulders an old tartan shawl, which she drew tightly across her breast as the strangers entered. Her grandmother, who looked more weird and grotesquely horrible than ever, saluted Calton and the detective on their entrance with a shrill yell, and a volley of choice language.

“Oh, ye’ve come again, ’ave ye,” she screeched, raising her skinny arms, “to take my gal away from ’er pore old gran’mother, as nussed ’er, cuss her, when ’er own mother had gone a-gallivantin’ with swells. I’ll ’ave the lawr of ye both, s’elp me, I will.”

Kilsip paid no attention to this outbreak of the old fury, but turned to the girl.

“This is the gentleman who wants to speak to you,” he said, gently, making the girl sit on the chair again, for indeed she looked too ill to stand. “Just tell him what you told me.”

“ ’Bout the ‘Queen,’ sir?” said Sal, in a low, hoarse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton. “If I’d only known as you was a-wantin’ me I’d ’ave come afore.”

“Where were you?” asked Calton, in a pitying tone.

“Noo South Wales,” answered the girl with a shiver. “The cove as I went with t’ Sydney left me⁠—yes, left me to die like a dog in the gutter.”

“Cuss ’im!” croaked the old woman in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.

“I tooked up with a Chinerman,” went on her granddaughter, wearily, “an’ lived with ’im for a bit⁠—it’s orful, ain’t it?” she said with a dreary laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer’s face. “But Chinermen ain’t bad; they treat a pore girl a dashed sight better nor a white cove does. They don’t beat the life out of ’em with their fists, nor drag ’em about the floor by the ’air.”

“Cuss ’em!” croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily, “I’ll tear their ’earts out.”

“I think I must have gone mad, I must,” said Sal, pushing her tangled hair off her forehead, “for arter I left the Chiner cove, I went on walkin’ and walkin’ right into the bush, a-tryin’ to cool my ’ead, for it felt on fire like. I went into a river an’ got wet, an’ then I took my ’at an’ boots orf an’ lay down on the grass, an’ then the rain comed on, an’ I walked to a ’ouse as was near, where they tooked me in. Oh, sich kind people,” she sobbed, stretching out her hands, “that didn’t badger me ’bout my soul, but gave me good food to eat. I gave ’em a wrong name. I was so ’fraid of that Army a-findin’ me. Then I got ill, an’ know’d nothin’ for weeks. They said I was orf my chump. An’ then I came back ’ere to see gran’.”

“Cuss ye,” said the old woman, but in such a tender tone that it sounded like a blessing.

“And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder?” asked Calton.

Sal shook her head.

“No, it were a long way in the country, and they never knowd anythin’, they didn’t.”

“Ah! that explains it,” muttered Calton to himself.

“Come, now,” he said cheerfully, “tell me all that happened on the night you brought Mr. Fitzgerald to see the ‘Queen.’ ”

“Who’s ’e?” asked Sal, puzzled.

“Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for to the Melbourne Club.”

“Oh, ’im?” said Sal, a sudden light breaking over her wan face. “I never knowd his name afore.”

Calton nodded complacently.

“I knew you didn’t,” he said, “that’s why you didn’t ask for him at the Club.”

“She never told me ’is name,” said Sal, jerking her head in the direction of the bed.

“Then whom did she ask you to bring to her?” asked Calton, eagerly.

“No one,” replied the girl. “This was the way of it. On that night she was orfil ill, an’ I sat beside ’er while gran’ was asleep.”

“I was drunk,” broke in gran’, fiercely, “none of yer lies; I was blazin’ drunk.”

“An’ ses she to me, she ses,” went on the girl, indifferent to her grandmother’s interruption, “ ‘Get me some paper an’ a pencil, an’ I’ll write a note to ’im, I will.’ So I goes an’ gits ’er what she arsks fur out of gran’s box.”

“Stole it, cuss ye,” shrieked the old hag, shaking her fist.

“Hold your tongue,” said Kilsip, in a peremptory tone.

Mother Guttersnipe burst into a volley of oaths, and having run rapidly through all she knew, subsided into a sulky silence.

“She wrote on it,” went on Sal, “an’ then arsked me to take it to the Melbourne Club an’ give it to ’im. Ses I, ‘Who’s ’im?’ Ses she, ‘It’s on the letter; don’t you arsk no questions an’ you won’t ’ear no lies, but give it to ’im at the Club, an’ wait for ’im at the corner of Bourke Street and Russell Street.’ So out I goes, and gives it to a cove at the Club, an’ then ’e comes along, an’ ses ’e, ‘Take me to ’er,’ and I tooked ’im.”

“And what like was the gentleman?”

“Oh, werry good lookin’,” said Sal. “Werry tall, with yeller ’air an’ moustache. He ’ad party clothes on, an’ a masher coat, an’ a soft ’at.”

“That’s Fitzgerald right enough,” muttered Calton. “And what did he do when he came?”

“He goes right up to ’er, and she ses, ‘Are you ’e?’ and ’e ses, ‘I am.’ Then ses she, ‘Do you know what I’m a-goin’ to tell you?’ an’ ’e says, ‘No.’ Then she ses, ‘It’s about ’er;’ and ses ’e, lookin’ very white, ‘ ’Ow dare you ’ave ’er name on your vile lips?’ an’ she gits up an’ screeches, ‘Turn that gal out, an’ I’ll tell you;’ an’ ’e takes me by the arm, an’ ses ’e, ‘ ’Ere git out,’ an’ I gits out, an’ that’s all I knows.”

“And how long was he with her?” asked Calton, who had been listening attentively.

“ ’Bout arf-a-hour,” answered Sal. “I takes ’im back to Russell Street ’bout twenty-five minutes to two, ’cause I looked at the clock on the Post Office, an’ ’e gives me a sov., an’ then he goes a-tearin’ up the street like anything.”

“Take him about twenty minutes to walk to East Melbourne,” said Calton to himself “So he must just have got in at the time Mrs. Sampson said. He was in with the ‘Queen’ the whole time, I suppose?” he asked, looking keenly at Sal.

“I was at that door,” said Sal, pointing to it, “an’ ’e couldn’t ’ave got out unless I’d seen ’im.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Calton, nodding to Kilsip, “there won’t be any difficulty in proving an alibi. But I say,” he added, turning to Sal, “what were they talking about?”

“I dunno,” answered Sal. “I was at the door, an’ they talks that quiet I couldn’t ’ear ’em. Then he sings out, ‘My G⁠⸺, it’s too horrible!’ an’ I ’ear ’er a larfin’ like to bust, an’ then ’e comes to me, and ses, quite wild like, ‘Take me out of this ’ell!’ an’ I tooked ’im.”

“And when you came back?”

“She was dead.”

“Dead?”

“As a blessed doornail,” said Sal, cheerfully.

“An’ I never knowd I was in the room with a corpse,” wailed Mother Guttersnipe, waking up. “Cuss ’er, she was allays a-doin’ contrary things.”

“How do you know?” said Calton, sharply, as he rose to go.

“I knowd ’er longer nor you,” croaked the old woman, fixing one evil eye on the lawyer; “an’ I know what you’d like to know; but ye shan’t, ye shan’t.”

Calton turned from her with a shrug of his shoulders.

“You will come to the Court tomorrow with Mr. Kilsip,” he said to Sal, “and tell what you have just now told me.”

“It’s all true, s’elp me,” said Sal, eagerly; “ ’e was ’ere all the time.”

Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, when Mother Guttersnipe rose.

“Where’s the money for finin’ her?” she screeched, pointing one skinny finger at Sal.

“Well, considering the girl found herself,” said Calton, dryly, “the money is in the bank, and will remain there.”

“An’ I’m to be done out of my ’ard earned tin, s’elp me?” howled the old fury. “Cuss ye, I’ll ’ave the lawr of ye, and get ye put in quod.”

“You’ll go there yourself if you don’t take care,” said Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones.

“Yah!” shrieked Mother Guttersnipe, snapping her fingers at him. “What do I care about yer quod? Ain’t I bin in Pentrig’, an’ it ain’t ’urt me, it ain’t? I’m as lively as a gal, I am.”

And the old fury, to prove the truth of her words, danced a kind of war dance in front of Mr. Calton, snapping her fingers and yelling out curses, as an accompaniment to her ballet. Her luxurious white hair streamed out during her gyrations, and with her grotesque appearance and the faint light of the candle, she presented a gruesome spectacle.

Calton remembered the tales he had heard of the women of Paris, at the revolution, and the way they danced “La Carmagnole.” Mother Guttersnipe would have been in her element in that sea of blood and turbulence, he thought. But he merely shrugged his shoulders, and walked out of the room, as with a final curse, delivered in a hoarse voice, Mother Guttersnipe sank exhausted on the floor, and yelled for gin.

Next morning the Court was crowded, and numbers were unable to gain admission. The news that Sal Rawlins, who alone could prove the innocence of the prisoner, had been found, and would appear in Court that morning, had spread like wildfire, and the acquittal of the prisoner was confidently expected by a large number of sympathising friends, who seemed to have sprung up on all sides, like mushrooms, in a single night. There were, of course, plenty of cautious people left who waited to hear the verdict of the jury before committing themselves, and who still believed him to be guilty. But the unexpected appearance of Sal Rawlins had turned the great tide of public feeling in favour of the prisoner, and many who had been loudest in their denunciations of Fitzgerald, were now more than half convinced of his innocence. Pious clergymen talked in an incoherent way about the finger of God and the innocent not suffering unjustly, which was a case of counting unhatched chickens, as the verdict had yet to be given.

Felix Rolleston awoke, and found himself famous in a small way. Out of good-natured sympathy, and a spice of contrariness, he had declared his belief in Brian’s innocence, and now, to his astonishment, he found that his view of the matter was likely to prove correct. He received so much praise on all sides for his presumed perspicuity, that he soon began to think that he had believed in Fitzgerald’s innocence by a calm course of reasoning, and not because of a desire to differ from everyone else in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolleston is not the only man who has been astonished to find greatness thrust upon him, and come to believe himself worthy of it. He was a wise man, however, and while in the full tide of prosperity he seized the flying moment, and proposed to Miss Featherweight, who, after some hesitation, agreed to endow him with herself and her thousands. She decided that her future husband was a man of no common intellect, seeing that he had long ago arrived at a conclusion which the rest of Melbourne were only beginning to discover now, so she determined that, as soon as she assumed marital authority, Felix, like Strephon in Iolanthe, should go into Parliament, and with her money and his brains she might some day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolleston had no idea of the political honours which his future spouse intended for him, and was seated in his old place in the court, talking about the case.

“Knew he was innocent, don’t you know,” he said, with a complacent smile “Fitzgerald’s too jolly good-looking a fellow, and all that sort of thing, to commit murder.”

Whereupon a clergyman, happening to overhear the lively Felix make this flippant remark, disagreed with it entirely, and preached a sermon to prove that good looks and crime were closely connected, and that both Judas Iscariot and Nero were beauty-men.

“Ah,” said Calton, when he heard the sermon, “if this unique theory is a true one, what a truly pious man that clergyman must be!” This allusion to the looks of the reverend gentleman was rather unkind, for he was by no means bad-looking. But then Calton was one of those witty men who would rather lose a friend than suppress an epigram.

When the prisoner was brought in, a murmur of sympathy ran through the crowded Court, so ill and worn-out he looked; but Calton was puzzled to account for the expression of his face, so different from that of a man whose life had been saved, or, rather, was about to be saved, for in truth it was a foregone conclusion.

“You know who stole those papers,” he thought, as he looked at Fitzgerald, keenly, “and the man who did so is the murderer of Whyte.”

The judge having entered, and the Court being opened, Calton rose to make his speech, and stated in a few words the line of defence he intended to take.

He would first call Albert Dendy, a watchmaker, to prove that on Thursday night, at eight o’clock in the evening, he had called at the prisoner’s lodgings while the landlady was out, and while there had put the kitchen clock right, and had regulated the same. He would also call Felix Rolleston, a friend of the prisoner’s, to prove that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings, and frequently expressed his detestation of such a custom. Sebastian Brown, a waiter at the Melbourne Club, would be called to prove that on Thursday night a letter was delivered to the prisoner at the Club by one Sarah Rawlins, and that the prisoner left the Club shortly before one o’clock on Friday morning. He would also call Sarah Rawlins, to prove that she had delivered a note to Sebastian Brown for the prisoner, at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve on Thursday Night, and that at a few minutes past one o’clock on Friday morning she had conducted the prisoner to a slum off Little Bourke Street, and that he was there between one and two on Friday morning, the hour at which the murder was alleged to have taken place. This being his defence to the charge brought against the prisoner, he would call Albert Dendy.

Albert Dendy, duly sworn, stated⁠—

I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I remember Thursday, the 26th of July last. On the evening of that day I called at Powlett Street East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who is the landlady of the prisoner. She was out at the time I called, and I waited in the kitchen till her return. I looked at the kitchen clock to see if it was too late to wait, and then at my watch. I found that the clock was ten minutes fast, upon which I put it right, and regulated it properly.

Calton: At what time did you put it right?

Witness: About eight o’clock.

Calton: Between that time and two in the morning, was it possible for the clock to gain ten minutes?

Witness: No, it was not possible.

Calton: Would it gain at all?

Witness: Not between eight and two o’clock⁠—the time was not long enough.

Calton: Did you see your aunt that night?

Witness: Yes, I waited till she came in.

Calton: And did you tell her you had put the clock right?

Witness: No, I did not; I forgot all about it.

Calton: Then she was still under the impression that it was ten minutes fast?

Witness: Yes, I suppose so.

After Dendy had been cross-examined, Felix Rolleston was called, and deposed as follows:⁠—

I am an intimate friend of the prisoner. I have known him for five or six years, and I never saw him wearing a ring during that time. He has frequently told me he did not care for rings, and would never wear them.

In cross-examination:⁠—

Crown Prosecutor: You have never seen the prisoner wearing a diamond ring?

Witness: No, never.

Crown Prosecutor: Have you ever seen any such ring in his possession?

Witness: No, I have seen him buying rings for ladies, but I never saw him with any ring such as a gentleman would wear.

Crown Prosecutor: Not even a seal ring.

Witness: No, not even a seal ring.

Sarah Rawlins was then placed in the witness-box, and, after having been sworn, deposed⁠—

I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter, addressed to him at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve o’clock on Thursday, 26th July. I did not know what his name was. He met me shortly after one, at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, where I had been told to wait for him. I took him to my grandmother’s place, in a lane off Little Bourke Street. There was a dying woman there, who had sent for him. He went in and saw her for about twenty minutes, and then I took him back to the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quarters strike shortly after I left him.

Crown Prosecutor: You are quite certain that the prisoner was the man you met on that night?

Witness: Quite certin’, s’elp me G⁠⸺.

Crown Prosecutor: And he met you a few minutes past one o’clock?

Witness: Yes, ’bout five minutes⁠—I ’eard the clock a-strikin’ one just afore he came down the street, and when I leaves ’im agin, it were about twenty-five to two, ’cause it took me ten minits to git ’ome, and I ’eard the clock go three-quarters, jest as I gits to the door.

Crown Prosecutor: How do you know it was exactly twenty-five to two when you left him?

Witness: ’Cause I sawr the clocks⁠—I left ’im at the corner of Russell Street, and comes down Bourke Street, so I could see the Post Orffice clock as plain as day, an’ when I gets into Swanston Street, I looks at the Town ’All premiscus like, and sees the same time there.

Crown Prosecutor: And you never lost sight of the prisoner the whole time?

Witness: No, there was only one door by the room, an’ I was a-sittin’ outside it, an’ when he comes out he falls over me.

Crown Prosecutor: Were you asleep?

Witness: Not a blessed wink.

Calton then directed Sebastian Brown to be called. He deposed⁠—

I know the prisoner. He is a member of the Melbourne Club, at which I am a waiter. I remember Thursday, 26th July. On that night the last witness came with a letter to the prisoner. It was about a quarter to twelve. She just gave it to me, and went away. I delivered it to Mr. Fitzgerald. He left the Club at about ten minutes to one.

This closed the evidence for the defence, and after the Crown Prosecutor had made his speech, in which he pointed out the strong evidence against the prisoner, Calton arose to address the jury. He was a fine speaker, and made a splendid defence. Not a single point escaped him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is still remembered and spoken of admiringly in the purlieus of Temple Court and Chancery Lane.

He began by giving a vivid description of the circumstances, of the murder⁠—of the meeting of the murderer and his victim in Collins Street East⁠—the cab driving down to St. Kilda⁠—the getting out of the cab of the murderer after committing the crime⁠—and the way in which he had secured himself against pursuit.

Having thus enchained the attention of the jury by the graphic manner in which he described the crime, he pointed out that the evidence brought forward by the prosecution was purely circumstantial, and that they had utterly failed to identify the prisoner in the dock with the man who entered the cab. The supposition that the prisoner and the man in the light coat were one and the same person, rested solely upon the evidence of the cabman, Royston, who, although not intoxicated, was, judging from his own statements, not in a fit state to distinguish between the man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in. The crime was committed by means of chloroform; therefore, if the prisoner was guilty, he must have purchased the chloroform in some shop, or obtained it from some friends. At all events, the prosecution had not brought forward a single piece of evidence to show how, and where the chloroform had been obtained. With regard to the glove belonging to the murdered man found in the prisoner’s pocket, he picked it up off the ground at the time when he first met Whyte, when the deceased was lying drunk near the Scotch Church. Certainly there was no evidence to show that the prisoner had picked it up before the deceased entered the cab; but, on the other hand, there was no evidence to show that it had been picked up in the cab. It was far more likely that the glove, and especially a white glove, would be picked up under the light of the lamp near the Scotch Church, where it was easily noticeable, than in the darkness of a cab, where there was very little room, and where it would be quite dark, as the blinds were drawn down. The cabman, Royston, swore positively that the man who got out of his cab on the St. Kilda Road wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand, and the cabman, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who got out at Powlett Street. Against this could be placed the evidence of one of the prisoner’s most intimate friends⁠—one who had seen him almost daily for the last five years, and he had sworn positively that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings.

The cabman Rankin had also sworn that the man who entered his cab on the St. Kilda Road alighted at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, at two o’clock on Friday morning, as he heard that hour strike from the Post Office clock, whereas the evidence of the prisoner’s landlady showed plainly that he entered the house five minutes previously, and her evidence was further supported by that of the watchmaker, Dendy. Mrs. Sampson saw the hand of her kitchen clock point to five minutes to two, and, thinking it was ten minutes slow, told the detective that the prisoner did not enter the house till five minutes past two, which would just give the man who alighted from the cab (presuming him to have been the prisoner) sufficient time to walk up to his lodgings. The evidence of the watchmaker, Dendy, however, showed clearly that he had put the clock right at the hour of eight on Thursday night; that it was impossible for it to gain ten minutes before two on Friday morning, and therefore, the time, five minutes to two, seen by the landlady was the correct one, and the prisoner was in the house five minutes before the other man alighted from the cab in Powlett Street.

These points in themselves were sufficient to show that the prisoner was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Rawlins must prove conclusively to the jury that the prisoner was not the man who committed the crime. The witness Brown had proved that the woman Rawlins had delivered a letter to him, which he gave to the prisoner and that the prisoner left the Club, to keep the appointment spoken of in the letter, which letter, or, rather, the remains of it had been put in evidence. The woman Rawlins swore that the prisoner met her at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, and had gone with her to one of the back slums, there to see the writer of the letter. She also proved that at the time of the committal of the crime the prisoner was still in the back slum, by the bed of the dying woman, and, there being only one door to the room, he could not possibly have left without the witness seeing him. The woman Rawlins further proved that she left the prisoner at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets at twenty-five minutes to two o’clock, which was five minutes before Royston drove his cab up to the St. Kilda Police Station, with the dead body inside. Finally, the woman Rawlins proved her words by stating that she saw both the Post Office and Town Hall clocks; and supposing the prisoner started from the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, as she says he did, he would reach East Melbourne in twenty minutes, which made it five minutes to two on Friday morning, the time at which, according to the landlady’s statement, he entered the house.

All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreed completely, and formed a chain which showed the whole of the prisoner’s movements at the time of the committal of the murder. Therefore, it was absolutely impossible that the murder could have been committed by the man in the dock. The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that of the witness Hableton, who swore that the prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the language used was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner. The defence which the prisoner set up was that of an alibi, and the evidence of the witnesses for the defence proved conclusively that the prisoner could not, and did not, commit the murder. Finally, Calton wound up his elaborate and exhaustive speech, which lasted for over two hours, by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to base their verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did so they could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of “Not guilty.”

When Calton sat down a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, strongly in favour of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, and immediately there was a dead silence in the crowded Court⁠—an unnatural silence, such as must have fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long, lithe forms of lion and panther creeping steadily towards their prey. The hour being late the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glare through the wide hall.

Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, which seemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and then the quick-drawn breath of some timid onlooker. Suddenly, a woman, whose nerves were overstrung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence, every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury would reissue with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock moved slowly round⁠—a quarter⁠—a half⁠—three quarters⁠—and then the hour sounded with a silvery ring which startled everyone. Madge, sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her highly-strung nerves would give way.

“My God,” she muttered softly to herself; “will this suspense never end?”

Just then the door opened, and the jury reentered. The prisoner was again placed in the dock, and the judge resumed his seat, this time with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.

The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman of the jury stood up every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed a little and then grew pale as death, giving a quick, nervous glance at the quiet figure in black, of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then came the verdict, sharp and decisive, “Not guilty.”

On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong was the sympathy with Brian.

In vain the crier of the Court yelled, “Order!” until he was red in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court⁠—his voice being inaudible, it did not matter much⁠—the enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment, and discharged the prisoner, in accordance with the verdict.

Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed Fitzgerald innocent.

And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the Court, where a woman was waiting for him⁠—a woman who clung round his neck, and sobbed out⁠—

“My darling! My darling! I knew that God would save you.”