LITMIR.BIZ

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and depressing were the brief proceedings that followed, and dreadfully suggestive of the helplessness of even an innocent man on whom the law has laid its hand and in whose behalf its inexorable machinery has been set in motion.

      The presiding magistrate, emotionless and dry, dipped his pen while Reuben, who had surrendered to his bail, was placed in the dock and the charge read over to him. The counsel representing the police gave an abstract of the case with the matter-of-fact air of a house-agent describing an eligible property. Then, when the plea of “not guilty” had been entered, the witnesses were called. There were only two, and when the name of the first, John Hornby, was called, I glanced towards the witness-box with no little curiosity.

      I had not hitherto met Mr. Hornby, and as he now entered the box, I saw an elderly man, tall, florid, and well-preserved, but strained and wild in expression and displaying his uncontrollable agitation by continual nervous movements which contrasted curi­ously with the composed demeanour of the accused man. Nevertheless, he gave his evidence in a perfectly connected man­ner, recounting the events connected with the discovery of the crime in much the same words as I had heard Mr. Lawley use, though, indeed, he was a good deal more emphatic than that gentleman had been in regard to the excellent character borne by the prisoner.

      After him came Mr. Singleton, of the fingerprint department at Scotland Yard, to whose evidence I listened with close attention. He produced the paper which bore the thumb-print in blood (which had previously been identified by Mr. Hornby) and a paper bearing the print, taken by himself, of the prisoner’s left thumb. These two thumb-prints, he stated, were identical in every respect.

      “And you are of opinion that the mark on the paper that was found in Mr. Hornby’s safe, was made by the prisoner’s left thumb?” the magistrate asked in dry and business-like tones.

      “I am certain of it.”

      “You are of opinion that no mistake is possible?”

      “No mistake is possible, your worship. It is a certainty.”

      The magistrate looked at Anstey inquiringly, whereupon the barrister rose.

      “We reserve our defence, your worship.”

      The magistrate then, in the same placid, business-like man­ner, committed the prisoner for trial at the Central Criminal Court, refusing to accept bail for his appearance, and, as Reuben was led forth from the dock, the next case was called.

      By special favour of the authorities, Reuben was to be allowed to make his journey to Holloway in a cab, thus escaping the horrors of the filthy and verminous prison van, and while this was being procured, his friends were permitted to wish him farewell.

      “This is a hard experience, Hornby,” said Thorndyke, when we three were, for a few moments, left apart from the others; and as he spoke the warmth of a really sympathetic nature broke through his habitual impassivity. “But be of good cheer; I have convinced myself of your innocence and have good hopes of convincing the world—though this is for your private ear, you understand, to be mentioned to no one.”

      Reuben wrung the hand of this “friend in need,” but was unable, for the moment, to speak; and, as his self-control was evidently strained to the breaking point, Thorndyke, with a man’s natural instinct, wished him a hasty good-bye, and passing his hand through my arm, turned away.

      “I wish it had been possible to save the poor fellow from this delay, and especially from the degradation of being locked up in a jail,” he exclaimed regretfully as we walked down the street.

      “There is surely no degradation in being merely accused of a crime,” I answered, without much conviction, however. “It may happen to the best of us; and he is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”

      “That, my dear Jervis, you know, as well as I do, to be mere casuistry,” he rejoined. “The law professes to regard the unconvicted man as innocent; but how does it treat him? You heard how the magistrate addressed our friend; outside the court he would have called him Mr. Hornby. You know what will happen to Reuben at Holloway. He will be ordered about by warders, will have a number label fastened on to his coat, he will be locked in a cell with a spy-hole in the door, through which any passing stranger may watch him; his food will be handed to him in a tin pan with a tin knife and spoon; and he will be periodically called out of his cell and driven round the exercise yard with a mob composed, for the most part, of the sweepings of the London slums. If he is acquitted, he will be turned loose without a suggestion of compensation or apology for these indignities or the losses he may have sustained through his detention.”

      “Still I suppose these evils are unavoidable,” I said.

      “That may or may not be,” he retorted. “My point is that the presumption of innocence is a pure fiction; that the treatment of an accused man, from the moment of his arrest, is that of a criminal. However,” he concluded, hailing a passing hansom, “this discussion must be adjourned or I shall be late at the hospital. What are you going to do?”

      “I shall get some lunch and then call on Miss Gibson to let her know the real position.”

      “Yes, that will be kind, I think; baldly stated, the news may seem rather alarming. I was tempted to thrash the case out in the police court, but it would not have been safe. He would almost certainly have been committed for trial after all, and then we should have shown our hand to the prosecution.”

      He sprang into the hansom and was speedily swallowed up in the traffic, while I turned back towards the police court to make certain inquiries concerning the regulations as to visitors at Holloway prison. At the door I met the friendly inspector from Scotland Yard, who gave me the necessary information, whereupon with a certain homely little French restaurant in my mind I bent my steps in the direction of Soho.

      CHAPTER VII

      SHOALS AND QUICKSANDS

      When I arrived at Endsley Gardens, Miss Gibson was at home, and to my unspeakable relief, Mrs. Hornby was not. My veneration for that lady’s moral qualities was excessive, but her conversation drove me to the verge of insanity—an insanity not entirely free from homicidal tendencies.

      “It is good of you to come—though I thought you would,” Miss Gibson said impulsively, as we shook hands. “You have been so sympathetic and human—both you and Dr. Thorndyke—so free from professional stiffness. My aunt went off to see Mr. Lawley directly we got Walter’s telegram.”

      “I am sorry for her,” I said (and was on the point of adding “and him,” but fortunately a glimmer of sense restrained me); “she will find him dry enough.”

      “Yes; I dislike him extremely. Do you know that he had the impudence to advise Reuben to plead ‘guilty’?”

      “He told us he had done so, and got a well-deserved snubbing from Thorndyke for his pains.”

      “I am so glad,” exclaimed Miss Gibson viciously. “But tell me what has happened. Walter simply said ‘Transferred to higher court,’ which we agreed was to mean, ‘Committed for trial.’ Has the defence failed? And where is Reuben?”

      “The defence is reserved. Dr. Thorndyke considered it almost certain that the case would be sent for trial, and that being so, decided that it was essential to keep the prosecution in the dark as to the line of defence. You see, if the police knew what the defence was to be they could revise their own plans accordingly.”

      “I see that,” said she dejectedly, “but I am dreadfully disappointed. I had hoped that Dr. Thorndyke would get the case dismissed. What has happened to Reuben?”

      This was the question that I had dreaded, and now that I had to answer it I cleared my throat and bent my gaze nervously on the floor.

      “The magistrate refused bail,” I said after an uncomfortable pause.

      “Well?”

      “Consequently Reuben has been—er—detained in custody.”

      “You don’t mean to say that they have sent him to prison?” she exclaimed

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