1

next morning, saturday, after breakfast, a very subdued jimmy and mollie broke the news of their formal engagement. to both of them the events of overnight, remembered in the prosaic day, seemed curiously out of perspective. they had, they decided, "gone off the deep end"; and, being rather casual young people, left it at that, content to enjoy the happiness which their emotional plunge had brought them.

jimmy, of course, changed his original plan of returning to town by the evening train. the usual notice for the "daily telegraph" was drafted, clyst fullerford and the baronet communicated with in two conventional letters, and the inevitable bottle of champagne broached for luncheon.

though julia did not share that bottle, the engagement was like a draft of wine to her mentality. she felt that the alliance of the wilberforces with the fullerfords could only benefit her secret schemes; and, strong in that feeling, put all cerebral turmoils away. on saturday afternoon, quite undisturbed by the swish and pat from the tennis-court, she worked two hours, and on sunday morning, three.

aliette, delighted though she was at her sister's obvious happiness (for some time past she had guessed that only her own peculiar position could be hindering mollie's chance of matrimony), found it hard to restrain a vague jealousy, a trace of petty resentment. soon mollie would be a married woman. whereas she----

and in aliette's lover the resentment was tenfold stronger. the utter legality and social correctness of the whole procedure infuriated him. it took all his self-control to make semblance of congratulating the "lucky couple." his overnight absorption in a "vulgar murder-case" seemed absurd. every time he looked at aliette, graceful on the tennis-court or dignified across the dinner-table, he said to himself: "if only we could be 'engaged,' if only we could be legally married."

but monday morning--the two men traveled to london together, leaving julia at her anvil and the sisters surreptitiously planning trousseaux--brought back the nervous excitement of friday night with a rush. no sooner had ronnie arrived at pump court than benjamin bunce--a little soured by the setback suffered in the civil courts, yet tolerably optimistic about the new criminal work--informed him that mr. john cartwright had been on the telephone twice before ten o'clock and would be glad of a conference as soon as possible.

"it's about this shooting case at brixton. perhaps you've read about it, sir," confided benjamin; and ronnie's heart leaped at the confidence.

at twelve o'clock precisely the clerk announced the solicitor, who came in clutching an armful of the sunday papers, which he flung down on the barrister's table with a curt "here you are. here's your murder at last."

for john cartwright, john cartwright was phenomenally moved. a man of five-and-fifty, domed of forehead, bald of pate, his black pupils--which possessed the inclination to squint--prominent under rimless eye-glasses of peculiar magnification, he had those thin, unemotional lips, those bony, unemotional hands, which are so often found in the legal profession. but to-day the unemotional lips twitched, and the bony hands were almost feverish in their excitement as they drew a battered pocket-book from the tail of a battered black coat, fumbled for an envelope, and handed it over.

"read what's in that," said john cartwright, "and see if it isn't a plum."

"that" turned out to be a letter from the millionaire editor of the "democratic news," a new sunday illustrated paper devoted almost exclusively to those readers whom unkind journalists describe, when they foregather with one another, as "the father-of-the-family public."

bertram standon--he had so far refused two titles and owned one derby winner--was apparently much exercised over "this unfortunate woman, mrs. towers." "i feel convinced," he wrote to his friend, sir peter wilberforce, bart., who had turned the letter over to his partner, "that she is more sinned against than sinning; and in the cause of honest justice, no less than in the cause of honest journalism, i have decided that--should the coroner's court bring in a verdict of wilful murder against her or the ex-sailor, fielding--i will put all my personal resources, and all the resources of my paper, at their disposal. will you therefore have the case watched on my behalf, and, should the verdict go as i am afraid it will, take any steps you consider necessary."

"a stunt, i should imagine," decided cartwright, "and not a very new stunt at that. bottomley, you may remember, once did the same thing. still, it may not be a stunt. standon's a curious fellow. sometimes his heart gets away with his brain. it certainly has in this case."

"you think lucy towers and fielding guilty then?"

"not a doubt, i should say. still, that's not our affair. our job is to give standon as good a run as we can for his money. the inquest, i see, has been adjourned for a week. when it comes on again you'll have to go down."

"can't i see the prisoners beforehand?"

"better not, as i take our instructions."

"but we might get them off at the inquest."

"where would bertram standon's stunt come in if we did?" said john cartwright satirically, and so closed the interview.

2

during the week which preceded the adjourned inquest on william towers, bertram standon held his journalistic hand; and--fleet street being momentarily occupied with the controversy of "submarines v. battleships"--no further details of the tragedy became available.

reperusing the week-end papers of an evening, it seemed to ronnie that the case against the woman--whose likeness to aliette waned and waned the more one scrutinized her photograph--looked black enough. apparently she had shot her husband during an altercation in another man's room. the other man, a sailor who had lost both his arms in the war, was her cousin, and--the reports suggested--her lover.

all the same, the "vulgar murder-case" continued to excite both his personalities: the magisterial cavendish because of a curious inward conviction--the conviction he had voiced to wilberforce--that "the woman was no murderess": and the imaginative wixton because if the coroner's jury found her guilty he might at last get his chance--slim though that chance appeared--of a big forensic victory.

night after night, therefore, caroline staley, who, in the absence of her mistress, had relapsed into the perfect bachelor housekeeper, completely idle from ten to four, and completely assiduous for the rest of the time, left her master at work in the little sitting-room of the "ridiculous flat," studying--with his mother's own concentration--first in his red "gibson and weldon," and thereafter at length, the reports of rex v. lesbini, of rex v. simpson, of rex v. greening (in which it is definitely held that, though the sight of adultery committed with his wife gives sufficient provocation for a husband to plead manslaughter, the major accusation must hold good if the woman be only mistress of the accused), and of any other case that might, by the vaguest possibility, have some bearing on the problematic defense of lucy towers.

3

on the saturday, ronnie, as usual, went down to daffadillies. mollie had returned to clyst fullerford. julia and aliette, informed of the new work, were enthusiastic.

"it'll be a public prosecution, i suppose?" asked julia.

"of course. all murder cases are conducted by the director of public prosecutions. but i haven't got the brief yet."

"not even a watching brief?" put in aliette.

ronnie laughed. "where did you pick up that phrase?"

"in the newspapers, i suppose." aliette, remembering from whose lips she had last heard the expression, blushed faintly. and next morning, sunday, the front page of the "democratic news" again reminded her of hector.

standon, nervous lest some of his titled brethren in fleet street should appropriate the stunt, devoted his napoleonic leader-page to "the quality of mercy."

standon dared not, of course, comment on a case which was still "sub judice," but standon could and did dare to comment at great length on "one-sided justice," on the delays demanded by the police at inquests, on the hardships suffered by those who could not afford "our overpaid silks," and on the crying need of a "public defender."

"our 'hanging prosecutor,'" howled standon, "is paid by the state. who pays for the defense of his victims? why, even as i write, there lie in brixton prison a man and a woman who--for all we know--may be as innocent of the charge brought against them as i am. next week they will be haled before the coroner. the police will have sifted every vestige of evidence against them. but who will have sifted the evidence in their defense? no one! i ask the great-hearted british people, whose generosity to the weak and unhappy never fails, whether this is justice or a travesty of justice; whether, in any properly constituted community, the very finest legal brains obtainable would not have been placed immediately and without any fee whatsoever entirely at the service of these two unfortunates, who now lie in a felon's cell, hoping against hope, if they are innocent, as i believe them to be innocent, that some public-spirited person will come forward and give them, out of mere charity, money. money! the shame of it!! the shame of it!!!"

the "silly season," when newsprint gasps for "copy" as a drowning man for air, was already on fleet street; and standon's article, duly garnished with photographs of lucy towers, of bob fielding, the ex-sailor, and of "big bill" towers, started a controversy which relegated both submarines and battleships to the editorial scrap-heap.

"mark my words," said john cartwright, calling for ronnie on the tuesday morning, "the cairns case will be nothing to this one. if by any chance you were to get lucy towers off, you'd be a made man."

"but surely,"--for a moment the wild idea that by some amazing piece of fortune hector brunton might be briefed for the prosecution crossed ronnie's mind--"surely, if standon's out for publicity, he'll never let you brief me for the actual trial? he'll have one of the big guns, marshall hall or somebody like that."

"no, he won't." john cartwright chuckled slyly. "oh no, he won't. he'll make a discovery."

"a discovery?"

"yes, a young man. 'a new light in the legal firmament--a david to slay goliath.' that'd look well in the democratic news.' besides," cartwright chuckled again, "marshall hall would cost them a week's advertising revenue, and you're julia cavendish's son."

"i've no wish to trade on my mother's reputation," said ronnie stiffly. but, as cartwright's car came nearer and nearer to the coroner's court, he realized that if by any possible miracle hector brunton were briefed for the prosecution, he, ronald cavendish, would trade on any one's reputation rather than not be entrusted with the defense.

4

by the peculiar processes of the english legal machine, a man or woman on trial for murder may be required to undergo no less than three ordeals: at the coroner's court, before the magistrate, and finally at the assizes.

even before cartwright's car came to a standstill outside the modest building of the coroner's court at brixton, ronald cavendish could see tangible effects of bertram standon's publicity. the two bemedaled constables at the door were surrounded by a knot of people, well-dressed for the most part, all equally anxious for admittance to the first ordeal of lucy towers, and all equally ready to pay modest baksheesh for the privilege. various alert youngsters, whose living depended on the news-pictures which their wits and their hand-cameras could snap, hovered--eager for the face of a celebrity--on the pavement. a touch of the theatrical was added to this scene by two sandwich-men, parading boards with the latest slogan of the "democratic news": "why not a public defender?"

ronald and cartwright pushed their way to the door; and--cartwright having shown his card--were conducted down a long passage into the exiguous court-room. the jury, all males, had already taken their chairs. the coroner, a meek, tubby mid-victorian fellow with a rosy bald head and a hint of port wine in his rosy cheeks--was just about to sit down.

one of cartwright's henchmen, sent on in advance, came up, whispering that he had kept them seats at the back of the room. these, unobtrusively, they took.

so far, apparently, the state--to use standon's phraseology--had not thought it worth while to brief counsel. at the table reserved for the prosecution ronnie saw only a black-mustached uninterested solicitor and his clerk. the solicitor for the defense, a weak-kneed, unimposing little man, sat at the table opposite, looking even more bored. only the reporters, bent over their note-books, and the few members of the public who had by now bribed themselves into the room, seemed in any way alive to the enacting of a human tragedy.

then the coroner whispered something to his clerk, and the prisoners were brought in.

in that moment--despite the photographs--ronnie thought himself the victim of hallucinations. "it's a dream," he thought; "a crazy nightmare." for the accused woman, accompanied on the one side by a hatchet-faced constable, and on the other by a tall prison-wardress in the blue cloak and cap of her order, might--had it not been for the work-reddened hands, the over-feathered hat and the rusty black coat and skirt--have been aliette's self. complexion, figure, carriage, personality, the very voice that answered to her name, showed lucy towers the living, breathing double of hector brunton's wife. she had the same auburn hair, the same vivid eyes, the identical nose, the identical mouth. there was about her, even, that same shy dignity which, in ronnie's eyes, distinguished the woman he loved from all other women in the world.

"not a bad-looking wench," whispered cartwright.

but the barrister could not answer. sheer amazement held him speechless. he had no eyes for the other guarded figure, for the pale unshaven young man whose two coat-sleeves hung empty from his broad shoulders. as it was to be throughout the case, so now at the very first glimpse of his client, every instinct urged him to her defense. he forgot standon, cartwright, his own career, everything. seeing, not a woman of the lower orders, presumably the mistress of a common sailor, but his own woman, his aliette, aliette on trial for her life, lone save for his aid against a hostile world, he no longer wanted even the coroner's jury to convict her. he wanted her to be free. free!

and suddenly, he hated the law. the law--policemen, wardress, coroner, jury, the little black-haired treasury solicitor--wanted to hang this woman, to put a greasy rope round her throat, to let her body drop with one jerk into eternity. against her, even as against aliette, the law was hostile. and "they sha'n't hang her," swore ronnie. "by god, they sha'n't."

with a great effort he pulled his legal wits together and began to follow the evidence. deadly, damning evidence it was, too. the woman, according to the police, had already confessed.

"bob didn't do it. i did it," began the confession which a sergeant, thumbing over his note-book, read out in a toneless voice. "bob is my cousin. he lived in the same house as me and my husband, bill. every afternoon i used to go and clean bob's room for him, because he couldn't do it himself, having no arms. bill, my husband, didn't like me going to bob's room. he was jealous of bob. he didn't like me giving bob money. this morning bill told me that if i went to bob's room again, he would do us both in. i told him i must go and help bob, because he couldn't feed himself proper. i went to bob's room about half-past four. i told bob what my husband had said, and bob laughed about it. he told me there was an old pistol in the cupboard and that if my husband came, i could pretend to shoot him. of course bob was joking. i got him a cup of tea. i was helping him drink the tea when my husband came in. bill was very angry. he said he was going to thrash bob, and then thrash me. i got very frightened, and thought of the pistol. bill had his stick in his hand. i thought he was going to hit bob with the stick, so i ran to the cupboard. i found the pistol and pointed it at bill. i told him not to touch bob. he said, 'that pistol's not loaded. you can't frighten me.' bob said, 'don't be a fool, bill; it is loaded.' i thought bill was going to strike bob, so i pulled the trigger. i'm not sorry i killed bill because i thought he was going to do bob in. i love bob very much."

"i love bob very much." as those last words fell, heavy for all their tonelessness, on the hot hush of the crowded room, ronald cavendish knew--with the instinct of the born criminal lawyer--that coroner, jury, and public had already decided on their verdict. he could read condemnation, abhorrence, fear, in every eye that stared and stared at the pale forlorn creature seated motionless between her jailors. "the sailor was her lover," said those condemning eyes. "that was why she killed her rightly jealous husband." but for the armless man whose lips, as he listened, writhed in pain, those eyes held only pity.

cartwright's voice whispered to his clerk, "you'll get a copy of that, of course," and the inquiry went on.

the police produced bob fielding's revolver, the blood-stained bullet, the empty cartridge-case, a plan of the room where the crime had been committed, bob fielding's navy record. the black-mustached solicitor called witnesses who had heard the shot, witnesses who had seen the body, one witness, even, who was prepared to swear the crime premeditated.

"more than once i've heard her say," swore maggie peterson, a frowzy, blowzy creature whose hands showed like collops of raw meat against her blowzy skirt, "that she wished bill was dead. and there's others as heard her besides me."

in the case of lucy towers, the weak-kneed unimposing solicitor for the defense reserved his cross-examination, but for fielding, to ronnie's surprise, he put up a most spirited fight; and despite the prosecution's every effort to implicate the sailor as accessory to the shooting, the jury refused to give a verdict against him. "as if," decided the unimaginative jury, "armless men could fire pistols."

but lucy towers they found guilty of murder. "and quite rightly," said john cartwright, as the woman--with a faint smile in the direction of her released cousin--was led from the room.

5

"all the same, mater, i'll swear that--in intention--lucy towers is innocent."

it was sunday afternoon at daffadillies, and ever since his arrival ronnie had been harping on the same topic. but ronnie found his womenfolk hard to convince. in their eyes, as in the eyes of the public, fleet street's report of the inquest, and more particularly maggie peterson's evidence, branded lucy towers irrevocably murderess.

"rubbish!" said julia--it was one of her "good" days--"rubbish! she's guilty, and she'll either hang or go to jail for life."

"that would be an outrage," answered ronnie gravely.

"why?" the novelist laughed. "lucy towers shot her husband. she'll never get over that point. not in england, anyway. in france it's just possible that a sentimental jury would give her their verdict. we, thank heaven, do not indulge in that sort of perverted justice."

aliette reluctantly sided with julia.

"but, of course, man," said aliette, "of course, i'm sorry for the poor creature. still, whatever her husband did, she had no right to shoot him."

"not even in self-defense?"

"no, not even in self-defense."

"in defense of an armless man, then?" countered ronnie; and, so countering, saw in one vivid flash of insight his one and only chance of victory should cartwright give him the brief.