“Well, go and ring them up, man. There’s hardly time to get there before the Court sits, and the Lord Chief won’t wait for anyone.” In a few moments he heard Wilson’s “Are you there?”--the feeble stereotyped inquiry of the telephonist--and presently the tinkle of the bell in the outer room in answer. Herrick felt nervous and excited--moved by an unaccountable apprehension of sinister happenings. So far as he knew at the moment, he had nothing to do but prompt his leader in regard to dates and details, if Westwood’s memory or private notes should fail him. The case had been a professional and financial godsend to the young barrister. Of course he knew perfectly well that the brief had not come to him as the just due of his talents. He was young, untried, and inexperienced--except in his capacity as one of the lesser “devils” in the Solicitor-General’s forensic Hades. The Treasury Solicitor gave him brief No. 4 because it was officially known that it would suit Sir John Westwood to have him in the case. He also happened to be a young fellow of good family, with a not very remote chance of succeeding to an earldom; finally, he was engaged to be married to Sir John Westwood’s only daughter. While Wilson seemed to be trying to extract intelligible information over the wires, Herrick took a turn up and down the slip of a back room in which he worked; then he stood awhile with his bulky brief tucked under his arm, and hands clasped behind him, gazing across the sunlit grass in the gardens. It was a perfect spring morning in point of weather, and Bobby, as the Bar called him, reflected how pleasant it would be if he and Aldwyth Westwood were up the river, or sauntering side by side along the woodland ways. Suddenly the door behind him was opened, and the staccato voice of a boy-clerk announced, “Miss Westwood.” “Father can’t come! Isn’t it dreadfully unlucky?” she exclaimed, entering in a whirlwind of “frock and frill.” “Unlucky!” echoed Herrick, turning, aghast; “why, it’s the very---- Well, it’s simply disastrous! I firmly believe that unless he has the last word to the jury, they’ll acquit those scoundrels. The prosecution will fall through like a house of cards! Is anything serious the matter?” “I don’t know--I can’t make out,” was the girl’s anxious answer. “He seems quite----well, almost stupefied this morning. Of course you know he’s not been well for some time past, and last night----” She paused, her lips trembling, tears in her tender eyes. “My dear girl, I’m so awfully sorry,” said Herrick, taking her hand. “It can’t be helped. Don’t worry; the doctor will pull him round in no time. You sent for one, of course?” “Yes, I telephoned to Queen Anne Street before I left.” “What message did your father send me?”