What could he say, with that certificate lying there? In spite of the high tone he assumed, he stood there a sorry picture of convicted guilt. Just at that moment, however, the fact of the production of the letter was occupying his mind more than anything else, for he believed its resuscitation to be nothing short of a miracle.
“I do know nothing of the letter,” replied the prisoner, in answer to the chairman’s question. “Some conspiracy must have been got up against me, and I am the victim: it may be cleared yet.”
That was the most reasonable acknowledgement they could get from him; but, of course, plain as the proofs were, he was not bound to criminate himself. Lawyer Billiter, whose zeal rose with the danger and the necessity for exertion in his client’s cause, talked himself hoarse in the throat, and twisted the evidence of the witnesses into various plausible contortions. All in vain. The case, with the production of that marriage-certificate, had assumed altogether a different complexion, and the deferent leniency with which the justices of South Wennock had been at first inclined to treat Mr. Carlton, was exchanged for uncompromising official firmness.
The examination lasted until dark, when candles were brought in; the twilight of a winter’s evening steals upon us all too quickly. The town hall had not yet been improved by gas or lamps—South Wennock was but a slow country place—and there were no means of lighting it, if lights were required, save by candles. Four of them were brought, to be stuck in any place convenient: Mr. Drone’s clerk got one on his desk, the acting beadle held another in his hand, and the other two were disposed of where they could be. The hall—or court, as South Wennock was wont to call it—presented a strange view in that vague and glimmering light: the densely packed crowd and their lifted faces, the excited aspect of those taking part in the proceedings, the hot defiance of Lawyer Billiter’s countenance, and the calmly impassive countenance of the prisoner.
But it was shortly found not practicable to conclude the examination that day, and the magistrates remanded it until the morrow. That would be the close, and there was not a shadow of doubt on any mind present, including the zealous one of Lawyer Billiter, that Lewis Carlton would then be committed to the county jail to take his trial for the wilful murder of Clarice Beauchamp, otherwise Clarice Beauchamp Chesney, otherwise Clarice Beauchamp Carlton. The various names were being bandied about the court in an undertone in disquisition, carping spirits had already mooted the question—could the young Lady have been his real wife in point of law, as sit had not been married in the name of Chesney?
“The prisoner is remanded, and the magistrates will meet at ten o’clock to-morrow,” came forth the announcement after the Bench had conferred together for a few moments.
“Of course your worships will take bail,” said Lawyer Billiter, boldly.
“Bail!” repeated the magistrates, wondering whether the like demand in a parallel case had ever been made before to a bench in its senses. “Not if the whole town were to offer it.”
The whole town apparently had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Rather the contrary. A certain portion of it—not the most respectable, you may be sure—were anticipating the pleasure of escorting Mr. Carlton to his place of lodging for the night, and in a manner more emphatic than agreeable.
“Let them get off first, the unwashed ruffians,” whispered Lawyer Billiter to Mr. Carlton. “You shall stop here until the coast’s clear.”
The hall was emptying itself. Gentlemen, whether magistrates, audience, or lawyers, stood in groups to say a word on the disclosed marvels of that day. They were indeed scarcely believable, and half South Wennock had a latent impression, lying deep in the bottom of their minds, that they should wake up in the morning and find the charge against Mr. Carlton to have been nothing more than a dream. One of that audience, however, gave himself no time to say a word to anybody: he got away with all the speed he could, dashed into the Red Lion, and nearly into the arms of its landlady, who was as excited as anybody.
“Has the omnibus started, Mrs. Fitch?”
“This ten minutes ago, sir.”
“There! I feared it would be so. Well, you must let me have a conveyance of some sort, a gig or carriage, anything that will go quick.”
“Surely you are not going away to London to-night, Mr. Frederick?”
“Not I. I shall stay now to see this unhappy play out. No, I’ll tell you a secret, but don’t you go and let it out to the town. I have telegraphed for my father, and expect he will be down by the seven o’clock train. It will be something, won’t it, to be cleared in the eyes of South Wennock.”
“You expect Sir Stephen down!” she exclaimed, in excitement. “I should think you do want a carriage for him. He shan’t come into the town obscurely on a joyful occasion like this—joyful to him. You shall