against her?" said Adam. "What do you think, Mr Massey? Tell me the truth."
"Yes, my lad, yes: the truth is the best thing to tell. It must come at last. The doctors' evidence is heavy on her—is heavy. But she's gone on denying she's had a child from first to last: these poor silly women-things—they've not the sense to know it's no use denying what's proved. It'll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so obstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the verdict's against her. But Mr Irwine 'll leave no stone unturned with the judge—you may rely upon that, Adam."
"Is there nobody to stand by her, and seem to care for her, in the court?" said Adam.
"There's the chaplain o' the jail sits near her, but he's a sharp ferrety-faced man—another sort o' flesh and blood to Mr Irwine. They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end o' the clergy."
"There's one man as ought to be there," said Adam, bitterly. Presently he drew himself up, and looked fixedly out of the window, apparently turning over some new idea in his mind.
"Mr Massey," he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead, "I'll go back with you. I'll go
