way of barristers. As a rule, I don't much admire barristers; they make a deal too much fuss, and often upset a caseespecially family barristers. Don't you employ one, my lord."

Philip started at this vulgar, friendly advice.

"If chancery and equity, and all kinds o' law, were done down to, or rather up to, the criminal standard, this country would be all the better for it," said the Inspector, glancing at his prisoner, and seeing that his hand trembled as he tied his cravat, and that he was not quite ready.

Then, after a pause

"There's no need to hurry, my lord. We never hurry people. Time goes fast enough with our customers. Yes, family barristers are troublesome. They don't know the practice of our courts, and they take liberties with the officers and magistrates, to the prejudice of the prisoners. Then they say too much. Now, the best Old Bailey man that I know—Mr Serjeant Jawkins-can talk when he likes, and he can be silent when he likes. Bless you, he had a rare case the other day. An old woman poisoned a hinfant, as plain as if I'd done it myself. (I'll just see what you take from that drawer, if you please. Oh! studs, is it? Beg pardon; all right!) He assumed that his client was quite innocent, o' course; and after he had made us very merry, says he-'And for my unfortunate client-for she is unfortunate, to be innocently in such a position-what shall I say? Nothin', absolutely nothin'. I leave her case, gentlemen o' the jury, to your common sense.' Thereon he throws down his papers, puts his hands in his weskit holes, and smiles beneficently at the jury. They turn round in the box, and bring her in not guilty, of course. Ah! Jawkins is your man, my lord."

It was, perhaps, lucky for the good-natured Inspector that at that moment Old Forster knocked at the door. "All right outside ?" asked Stevenson. ready now."

"We're nice and

And as the two walked out, Old Daylight, who had the blue serge bag of a lawyer under his arm, walked in.

"Got what you want?" asked Stevenson.

Old Daylight nodded, with a knowing look.

"My friend would just like to look round the apartment,"

side.

said the Inspector, with much politeness. "We will step outHe's a very gentlemanly man, and won't toss over the things. He's getting up the case."

"What case?" asked Philip, wearily.

"Why, your case, o' course. He's got it in hand. I'm only a supernumerary. Bless you, he's very clever, and as harmless as a dove; on'y I'd much rather have Old Daylight on my side than against me. That's my opinion. And now, my lord, we will

go out. Mr Forster will follow."

"Stay one moment," cried Philip, with a sudden pang, as he pressed his hand to his side. "You will let me write a letter?"

"Provided I see it, my lord, and knows to whom it is going."

Philip looked up, flushed at the insult.

"It is a private letter to a young lady," he answered. "It cannot concern you."

"That depends, my lord. I shall only look at it professionally."

Philip saw that there was only one thing to do, and that was to submit. He sat down mechanically, and wrote a few words to Winifred Vaughan, stating that he was accused of some dreadful crime, and showed the note to the police officer, who glanced over it and the address, and let his prisoner seal it and give it to a valet. Then—as Mr Tom Forster was quite ready, and trotted out of the room with a few small objects in his lawyer's blue moreen bag-the three walked coolly downstairs, where the valet was waiting, and ready to offer Lord Wimpole his hat and gloves, and then out into the courtyard, where a hackney coach, the panels of which blazed with the arms of some rich dowager in a gorgeous heraldic mantle, was waiting for them.

How quietly the whole thing was done! In the dramas of the period, the curtain would fall in the midst of a scene, the villain protesting his innocence, while a beautiful young lady, in a charming attitude and in a fainting fit, fell into the arms of the friend of the hero. It was curious that Philip thought of this, with a smile; and felt very thankful to Mr Tom Forster and the Inspector for their kindness. As for those

two estimable persons, they behaved to Lord Wimpole with much the same gentleness that they would have shown to the poorest culprit they ever arrested. The few words they exchanged as they were driven along bore no reference to the case in hand. Englishmen are not very demonstrative, and official Englishmen are wise in their determined silence. What they have is to do, not to talk.

The rumbling coach creaked and rattled on in so quick a transit, that Philip had not recovered from his dazed dismay before he had descended from the crazy conveyance, and had passed into the private room, awaiting Mr Horton.

That gentleman was consulting his colleague, Mr Boom, who had been seized with an industrious fit, and good-naturedly offered to relieve his colleague for several weeks. He had been philanthropically trying to persuade Mr Horton that half the crimes of the poor were owing to their bad lodgings and worse surroundings, and half apologising for the easy way in which he dismissed those who were brought before him.

"My dear Horton," he said, "if you and I were to live down one of those terrible alleys in Drury Lane, with squalling children, and an untidy, unkempt, and fractious wife, don't you think that we should be glad to escape from them into a public-house? I know that I should. I like my glass of wine now-I should be fond of my glass of gin then."

"It is very possible," said Horton; "but poverty, which brings its trials, should bring its lessons. To a working man, a momentary debauch is not an escape from misery: it rather binds him to it. The grog he drinks, which excites him for the moment, does not really exhilarate him. He ought to know this as well as I do. It maddens and poisons."

Quite right," returned his colleague. "All that is as plain as A, B, C. Adulterated gin maddens and excites: the man is a fool, a madman, under its influence. That's why I am lenient." "That's why I should be severe," said the other.

"Bad dwellings are the foundation of this miserable business," continued Mr Boom. "Bad wives and bad food the second step. General ignorance, ill health, and discontent the next. And the whole is crowned by crime. Poor people! who can condemn them?"

And here the magistrate took a gilt toothpick from his pocket, and, after meditatively using it, turned to speak to the clerk, who was making out certain depositions in some case which does not concern us here.

Mr Horton, still unconvinced, was about to answer, when the door which led from the court to the magistrates' room opened, and the square, intellectual head of Inspector Stevenson, tightly fixed on to his broad shoulders and deep chest by a military collar of a blue frock coat, which made him look like a staff officer in undress, appeared at the door, and his lips were seen to articulate the name of Mr Horton.

That gentleman at once rose and went to his summoner. "We've got him, sir," said the Inspector, "and all right. He is in the private room, and it is wonderful what a cool hand he is. Old Daylight's right, for a sovereign. His lordship made no more of being arrested than I should of going out to breakfast."

This said in a whispered tone, between the two doors of the short passage which led from the court to the private room-was intended to prepare the magistrate for his new charge. But it was not sufficient to prevent the good gentleman from experiencing a curious revulsion of feeling. Somehow or another, conscience seemed to whisper, "Do not try that man; give over this business to your colleague. You are not unbiased." Then, again, old scraps of plays and poems would occur to him: "Murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul;" and then his own conscience would make common cause with Lord Wimpole.

Nothing of this struggle was seen on the magistrate's face. He walked quietly into the room, and was about to sit down at his table-his eyes were cast down upon the groundwhen Lord Wimpole gladly, almost joyously, sprang up to shake hands with him.

"O Mr Horton ! he said, "I am so glad to meet you! In this trouble, it is quite refreshing to meet an old friend." The young man had stretched out his hand in the frankest and most jovial way. All his troubles seemed for the moment forgotten. Mr Horton suddenly faced round, crossed his arms, and looked at Philip with the cold, meaningless stare that

Englishmen can so well put on when they wish to be cruelly rude.

"My lord!" he said.

And his voice, often so soft and musical, grated with a hard resonancy as he spoke.

Lord Wimpole first turned red and then pale. Then, turning haughtily on his heel, he said—

"I forgot, Mr Horton, or I would not have insulted you. I said we were old friends. I did not at once realise our altered stations. I am the prisoner, and you are my judge."

CHAPTER XX.

“I DO CONJURE YOU, PLEAD; SPEAK, BE NOT DUMB."

THE words of Philip Stanfield cut the magistrate to the heart. He was one of those unhappy men, whose name is legion, who, always watching over their feelings, and intending to do the "right thing," somehow let their passions slip out of their hands just when they chiefly desire to hold them. Mr Horton would have given the world to have received Lord Wimpole coolly, and even generously; and yet, at his first interview, he by some means managed to insult him.

His next step was to motion Philip to a chair, and then to look in a meaning way at Old Daylight and the Inspector, who forthwith disappeared. After this, the way being cleared, he spoke

"Really, my lord," the harsh, dry voice of the magistrate was heard to say, "I must apologise. I forgot myself. We cannot be said to have established those relations you spoke of between us yet. A man is not guilty, in English law, at least, until he is tried and condemned."

The apology was as bad as the insult. Lord Wimpole winced under it, but answered

"Oh, sir, pray do not spare the feelings of so poor a thing as I am. I have fallen, indeed, in my own opinion, and, as I perceive, in those of others, since—since a few short days. I