It was now only a week from the date on which the trial was to open.  In eight days the mystery would almost certainly be solved (if it was capable of solution), for the trial promised to be quite a short one, and then Reuben Hornby would be either a convicted felon or a free man, clear of the stigma of the crime.

For several days past, Thorndyke had been in almost constant possession of the laboratory, while his own small room, devoted ordinarily to bacteriology and microscopical work was kept continually locked; a state of things that reduced Polton to a condition of the most extreme nervous irritation, especially when, as he told me indignantly, he met Mr. Anstey emerging from the holy of holies, grinning and rubbing his hands and giving utterance to genial but unparliamentary expressions of amused satisfaction.

I had met Anstey on several occasions lately, and each time liked him better than the last; for his whimsical, facetious manner covered a nature (as it often does) that was serious and thoughtful; and I found him, not only a man of considerable learning, but one also of a lofty standard of conduct.  His admiration for Thorndyke was unbounded, and I could see that the two men collaborated with the utmost sympathy and mutual satisfaction.

But although I regarded Mr. Anstey with feelings of the liveliest friendship, I was far from gratified when, on the morning of which I am writing, I observed him from our sitting-room window crossing the gravelled space from Crown Office Row and evidently bearing down on our chambers.  For the fact is that I was awaiting the arrival of Juliet, and should greatly have preferred to be alone at the moment, seeing that Thorndyke had already gone out.  It is true that my fair enslaver was not due for nearly half-an-hour, but then, who could say how long Anstey would stay, or what embarrassments might arise from my efforts to escape?  By all of which it may be perceived that my disease had reached a very advanced stage, and that I was unequal to those tactics of concealment that are commonly attributed to the ostrich.

A sharp rap of the knocker announced the arrival of the disturber of my peace, and when I opened the door Anstey walked in with the air of a man to whom an hour more or less is of no consequence whatever.  He shook my hand with mock solemnity, and, seating himself upon the edge of the table, proceeded to roll a cigarette with exasperating deliberation.

“I infer,” said he, “that our learned brother is practising parlour magic upstairs, or peradventure he has gone on a journey?”

“He has a consultation this morning,” I answered.  “Was he expecting you?”

“Evidently not, or he would have been here.  No, I just looked in to ask a question about the case of your friend Hornby.  You know it comes on for trial next week?”

“Yes; Thorndyke told me.  What do you think of Hornby’s prospects?  Is he going to be convicted, or will he get an acquittal?”

“He will be entirely passive,” replied Anstey, “but we” ­here he slapped his chest impressively ­“are going to secure an acquittal.  You will be highly entertained, my learned friend, and Mr. The Enemy will be excessively surprised.”  He inspected the newly-made cigarette with a critical air and chuckled softly.

“You seem pretty confident,” I remarked.

“I am,” he answered, “though Thorndyke considers failure possible ­which, of course, it is if the jury-box should chance to be filled with microcephalic idiots and the judge should prove incapable of understanding simple technical evidence.  But we hope that neither of these things will happen, and, if they do not, we feel pretty safe.  By the way, I hope I am not divulging your principal’s secrets?”

“Well,” I replied, with a smile, “you have been more explicit than Thorndyke ever has.”

“Have I?” he exclaimed, with mock anxiety; “then I must swear you to secrecy.  Thorndyke is so very close ­and he is quite right too.  I never cease admiring his tactics of allowing the enemy to fortify and barricade the entrance that he does not mean to attack.  But I see you are wishing me at the devil, so give me a cigar and I will go ­though not to that particular destination.”

“Will you have one of Thorndyke’s special brand?” I asked malignantly.

“What! those foul Trichinopolies?  Not while brown paper is to be obtained at every stationer’s; I’d sooner smoke my own wig.”

I tendered my own case, from which he selected a cigar with anxious care and much sniffing; then he bade me a ceremonious adieu and departed down the stairs, blithely humming a melody from the latest comic opera.

He had not left more than five minutes when a soft and elaborate rat-tat from the little brass knocker brought my heart into my mouth.  I ran to the door and flung it open, revealing Juliet standing on the threshold.

“May I come in?” she asked.  “I want to have a few words with you before we start.”

I looked at her with some anxiety, for she was manifestly agitated, and the hand that she held out to me trembled.

“I am greatly upset, Dr. Jervis,” she said, ignoring the chair that I had placed for her.  “Mr. Lawley has been giving us his views of poor Reuben’s case, and his attitude fills me with dismay.”

“Hang Mr. Lawley!” I muttered, and then apologised hastily.  “What made you go to him, Miss Gibson?”

“I didn’t go to him; he came to us.  He dined with us last night ­he and Walter ­and his manner was gloomy in the extreme.  After dinner Walter took him apart with me and asked him what he really thought of the case.  He was most pessimistic.  ‘My dear sir,’ he said, ’the only advice I can give you is that you prepare yourself to contemplate disaster as philosophically as you can.  In my opinion your cousin is almost certain to be convicted.’  ‘But,’ said Walter, ’what about the defence?  I understood that there was at least a plausible case.’  Mr. Lawley shrugged his shoulders.  ’I have a sort of alibi that will go for nothing, but I have no evidence to offer in answer to that of the prosecution, and no case; and I may say, speaking in confidence, that I do not believe there is any case.  I do not see how there can be any case, and I have heard nothing from Dr. Thorndyke to lead me to suppose that he has really done anything in the matter.’  Is this true, Dr. Jervis?  Oh! do tell me the real truth about it!  I have been so miserable and terrified since I heard this, and I was so full of hope before.  Tell me, is it true?  Will Reuben be sent to prison after all?”

In her agitation she laid her hands on my arm and looked up into my face with her grey eyes swimming with tears, and was so piteous, so trustful, and, withal, so bewitching that my reserve melted like snow before a July sun.

“It is not true,” I answered, taking her hands in mine and speaking perforce in a low tone that I might not betray my emotion.  “If it were, it would mean that I have wilfully deceived you, that I have been false to our friendship; and how much that friendship has been to me, no one but myself will ever know.”

She crept a little closer to me with a manner at once penitent and wheedling.

“You are not going to be angry with me, are you?  It was foolish of me to listen to Mr. Lawley after all you have told me, and it did look like a want of trust in you, I know.  But you, who are so strong and wise, must make allowance for a woman who is neither.  It is all so terrible that I am quite unstrung; but say you are not really displeased with me, for that would hurt me most of all.”

Oh!  Delilah!  That concluding stroke of the shears severed the very last lock, and left me ­morally speaking ­as bald as a billiard ball.  Henceforth I was at her mercy and would have divulged, without a scruple, the uttermost secrets of my principal, but that that astute gentleman had placed me beyond the reach of temptation.

“As to being angry with you,” I answered, “I am not, like Thorndyke, one to essay the impossible, and if I could be angry it would hurt me more than it would you.  But, in fact, you are not to blame at all, and I am an egotistical brute.  Of course you were alarmed and distressed; nothing could be more natural.  So now let me try to chase away your fears and restore your confidence.

“I have told you what Thorndyke said to Reuben:  that he had good hopes of making his innocence clear to everybody.  That alone should have been enough.”

“I know it should,” murmured Juliet remorsefully; “please forgive me for my want of faith.”

“But,” I continued, “I can quote you the words of one to whose opinions you will attach more weight.  Mr. Anstey was here less than half-an-hour ago ­”

“Do you mean Reuben’s counsel?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?  Oh, do tell me what he said.”

“He said, in brief, that he was quite confident of obtaining an acquittal, and that the prosecution would receive a great surprise.  He seemed highly pleased with his brief, and spoke with great admiration of Thorndyke.”

“Did he really say that ­that he was confident of an acquittal?” Her voice was breathless and unsteady, and she was clearly, as she had said, quite unstrung.  “What a relief it is,” she murmured incoherently; “and so very, very kind of you!” She wiped her eyes and laughed a queer, shaky little laugh; then, quite suddenly, she burst into a passion of sobbing.

Hardly conscious of what I did, I drew her gently towards me, and rested her head on my shoulder whilst I whispered into her ear I know not what words of consolation; but I am sure that I called her “dear Juliet,” and probably used other expressions equally improper and reprehensible.  Presently she recovered herself, and, having dried her eyes, regarded me somewhat shamefacedly, blushing hotly, but smiling very sweetly nevertheless.

“I am ashamed of myself,” she said, “coming here and weeping on your bosom like a great baby.  It is to be hoped that your other clients do not behave in this way.”

Whereat we both laughed heartily, and, our emotional equilibrium being thus restored, we began to think of the object of our meeting.

“I am afraid I have wasted a great deal of time,” said Juliet, looking at her watch.  “Shall we be too late, do you think?”

“I hope not,” I replied, “for Reuben will be looking for us; but we must hurry.”

I caught up my hat, and we went forth, closing the oak behind us, and took our way up King’s Bench Walk in silence, but with a new and delightful sense of intimate comradeship.  I glanced from time to time at my companion, and noted that her cheek still bore a rosy flush, and when she looked at me there was a sparkle in her eye, and a smiling softness in her glance, that stirred my heart until I trembled with the intensity of the passion that I must needs conceal.  And even while I was feeling that I must tell her all, and have done with it, tell her that I was her abject slave, and she my goddess, my queen; that in the face of such a love as mine no man could have any claim upon her; even then, there arose the still, small voice that began to call me an unfaithful steward and to remind me of a duty and trust that were sacred even beyond love.

In Fleet Street I hailed a cab, and, as I took my seat beside my fair companion, the voice began to wax and speak in bolder and sterner accents.

“Christopher Jervis,” it said, “what is this that you are doing?  Are you a man of honour or nought but a mean, pitiful blackguard?  You, the trusted agent of this poor, misused gentleman, are you not planning in your black heart how you shall rob him of that which, if he is a man at all, must be more to him than his liberty, or even his honour?  Shame on you for a miserable weakling!  Have done with these philanderings and keep your covenants like a gentleman ­or, at least, an honest man!”

At this point in my meditations Juliet turned towards me with a coaxing smile.

“My legal adviser seems to be revolving some deep and weighty matter,” she said.

I pulled myself together and looked at her ­at her sparkling eyes and rosy, dimpling cheeks, so winsome and lovely and lovable.

“Come,” I thought, “I must put an end to this at once, or I am lost.”  But it cost me a very agony of effort to do it ­which agony, I trust, may be duly set to my account by those who may sit in judgement on me.

“Your legal adviser, Miss Gibson,” I said (and at that “Miss Gibson” I thought she looked at me a little queerly), “has been reflecting that he has acted considerably beyond his jurisdiction.”

“In what respect?” she asked.

“In passing on to you information which was given to him in very strict confidence, and, in fact, with an implied promise of secrecy on his part.”

“But the information was not of a very secret character, was it?”

“More so than it appeared.  You see, Thorndyke thinks it so important not to let the prosecution suspect that he has anything up his sleeve, that he has kept even Mr. Lawley in the dark, and he has never said as much to me as Anstey did this morning.”

“And now you are sorry you told me; you think I have led you into a breach of trust.  Is it not so?” She spoke without a trace of petulance, and her tone of dignified self-accusation made me feel a veritable worm.

“My dear Miss Gibson,” I expostulated, “you entirely misunderstand me.  I am not in the least sorry that I told you.  How could I have done otherwise under the circumstances?  But I want you to understand that I have taken the responsibility of communicating to you what is really a professional secret, and that you are to consider it as such.”

“That was how I understood it,” replied Juliet; “and you may rely upon me not to utter a syllable on the subject to anyone.”

I thanked her for this promise, and then, by way of making conversation, gave her an account in detail of Anstey’s visit, not even omitting the incident of the cigar.

“And are Dr. Thorndyke’s cigars so extraordinarily bad?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I replied; “only they are not to every man’s taste.  The Trichinopoly cheroot is Thorndyke’s one dissipation, and, I must say, he takes it very temperately.  Under ordinary circumstances he smokes a pipe; but after a specially heavy day’s work, or on any occasion of festivity or rejoicing, he indulges in a Trichinopoly, and he smokes the very best that can be got.”

“So even the greatest men have their weaknesses,” Juliet moralised; “but I wish I had known Dr. Thorndyke’s sooner, for Mr. Hornby had a large box of Trichinopoly cheroots given to him, and I believe they were exceptionally fine ones.  However, he tried one and didn’t like it, so he transferred the whole consignment to Walter, who smokes all sorts and conditions of cigars.”

So we talked on from one commonplace to another, and each more conventional than the last.  In my nervousness, I overdid my part, and having broken the ice, proceeded to smash it to impalpable fragments.  Endeavouring merely to be unemotional and to avoid undue intimacy of manner, I swung to the opposite extreme and became almost stiff; and perhaps the more so since I was writhing with the agony of repression.

Meanwhile a corresponding change took place in my companion.  At first her manner seemed doubtful and bewildered; then she, too, grew more distant and polite and less disposed for conversation.  Perhaps her conscience began to rebuke her, or it may be that my coolness suggested to her that her conduct had not been quite of the kind that would have commended itself to Reuben.  But however that may have been, we continued to draw farther and farther apart; and in that short half-hour we retraced the steps of our growing friendship to such purpose that, when we descended from the cab at the prison gate, we seemed more like strangers than on the first day that we met.  It was a miserable ending to all our delightful comradeship, and yet what other end could one expect in this world of cross purposes and things that might have been?  In the extremity of my wretchedness I could have wept on the bosom of the portly warder who opened the wicket, even as Juliet had wept upon mine; and it was almost a relief to me, when our brief visit was over, to find that we should not return together to King’s Cross as was our wont, but that Juliet would go back by omnibus that she might do some shopping in Oxford Street, leaving me to walk home alone.

I saw her into her omnibus, and stood on the pavement looking wistfully at the lumbering vehicle as it dwindled in the distance.  At last, with a sigh of deepest despondency, I turned my face homeward, and, walking like one in a dream, retraced the route over which I had journeyed so often of late and with such different sensations.