“None at all--isn’t it dreadful? He seemed quite indifferent, and, as I told you, almost stupefied. When I questioned him, he seemed to have no power to answer clearly. When he spoke, his voice was thick and I could hardly understand a word he said.” “Good heavens! It sounds as if some drug had been at work. I suppose he never----?” “I am quite sure he never takes a drug of any sort,” was the girl’s emphatic answer to the unfinished question. “No, of course not, of course not,” said her lover soothingly; then, looking once more at his watch: “Well, I ought to see our other leader at once, that’s clear.” “That’s Mr Boulton, isn’t it?” “Yes, Boulton. Look here, will you come down to the Bailey in my hansom, and we’ll talk about this on the way?” “Yes, I can do that, and then drive home again,” she agreed readily. “And you must tell Sir John he needn’t worry. I daresay the case will work out all right, after all.” “You don’t think so really,” said Aldwyth, looking with her clear eyes into his. And in his heart of hearts he did not. Within a few minutes they were driving eastward as fast as the congested traffic of the street, alleged to have been specially beloved by Dr Johnson, would permit. On Blackfriars Bridge, cabs, omnibuses, vans, and vehicles of all sorts, held back by the raised hand of the constable on duty, were let loose just as the hansom in which the lovers sat had reached the end of Fleet Street. There was nothing unusual or remarkable in being blocked. But what struck Herrick as distinctly odd was the vast number of low-class pedestrians who were to be noticed streaming over the bridge from the Surrey side, and turning to the right up Ludgate Hill. The crowd impeded the vehicular traffic under the railway bridge, and blocked the narrow turning which gave access to that ancient bit of London, still popularly known as the Old Bailey. As Herrick stood up to pay the cabman presently, he noticed with surprise that other streams of people of the same low order seemed to be converging from Holborn, Giltspur Street, and Newgate Street. What did it mean? When he had sent Aldwyth off in the hansom with a lover’s look for herself and a last message of sympathy for her father, he turned to Henshaw, the detective inspector, who was standing near counsel’s entrance to the Courts. “Where’s all this riff-raff coming from,” asked the barrister. “Slums,” said Henshaw briefly. “But why?” “Ah! that’s the question! Honourable members of this precious League, perhaps. There’s more in this affair than meets the eye, Mr Herrick.” “The jury won’t know what to make of it.” “Begging your pardon, I think they’ll be made to know.” “What!--intimidation? Surely not!” “P’raps we’ll know more about it after a bit,” said the detective; and, with eyes scanning the growing crowd, he moved quietly away.