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little by the rails; he looked down at the delicate face of his girl-wife, this woman of seventeen, who had sat throughout the trial tense and haggard, listening to the evidence.
    â€œIt can’t be helped, dear,” he said. He was a man of the working classes, but his voice showed an unusual culture.
    The girl could only raise her piteous eyes to his; her lips trembled, she could frame no answer. She knew that her young husband spoke the truth. Poverty had ground them down to desperation, but to whatever end it might drive them, it would never make her man a thief.
    The jury were back in five minutes. They shuffled into the box, and answered to their names, keeping their eyes averted from the prisoner at the Bar. The Clerk of Assizes put his questions to them.
    â€œDo you find the prisoner ‘Guilty’ or ‘Not Guilty’ of the crime of burglary?”
    â€œGuilty,” said the foreman, in a high, nervous voice.
    Sir Ralph nodded his head approvingly. He turned to the prisoner as the Clerk said, “Have you anything to say before the sentence is passed?”
    The man in the dock took a swift glance at the drooping figure of his wife. She had fainted, and a kindly policeman was lifting her to carry her from the court.
    â€œThe story I have told,” he said, speaking clearly and without hesitation, “was a true story. I had no idea of burgling your house, Sir Ralph. I merely went there because I thought I was acting as the agent of somebody who was carrying on some sort of——” he hesitated. “I hardly like to say it—some sort of intrigue,” he continued boldly, “and did not want this fact to leak out.”
    His eyes roved round the Bench and halted when they met those of Lady Morte-Mannery. They looked at each other; she calmly, incuriously, he hopefully, with a wondering, puzzled stare.
    â€œIt is my first offence,” he went on. “I have never been in this position before, and although the jury have found me ‘Guilty,’ my lord, I do hope that you will take a lenient view of my offence, not only for my own sake, but for the sake of my wife and unborn child.” His voice shook a little as he pleaded. It was the only sign of emotion he had given.
    Sir Ralph nodded again. It was a grim nod. It put a period to the prisoner’s speech. The Chairman adjusted his gold pince-nez, and bent his head from left to right, consulting his colleagues.
    â€œYour offence, George Mansingham,” he said, “is peculiarly abhorrent to me. I do not consider the fact that the house burgled was my own. Fortunately I am unaffected by personal considerations, and the fact that I, myself, was away from home that night enables me to try this case in an unprejudiced spirit.”
    He looked down at the paper on his desk musingly. Then he suddenly jerked his head up.
    â€œYou will be kept in penal servitude for seven years,” he said.
    Something like a gasp ran through the court. Hilary George, monocle in eye, half started to his feet, then sank back again. The man in the dock stood dazed.
    â€œSeven years,” he repeated, and shook his head as though he could not understand it, then turned and stepped down the stairs which led to the cells below.
    Hilary George was a stout man; he had a large fresh face, and eyes that told plainly of his immense vitality and joy of life. Seeing him you thought of an overgrown boy, and the monocle, as a friend had remarked, seemed out of place in one so young. He had one of the biggest practices at the Bar; he was a skilful lawyer and a brilliant debater.
    You might think him an easy man to manage, with his parted lips that showed two rows of white even teeth and that look of surprise and delight which shone in his eyes. But no man who had ever tried to persuade Hilary George against his will or against his better judgment, had ever repeated the attempt.
    He stood now, an immaculate figure, on the steps of the