We pushed our way in, assisted by the police. Inside the court we saw a lady seated, in a quiet black dress, with a becoming bonnet. A moment passed before I knew--it was Cesarine. "Who is--that person?" Charles asked once more of the nearest inspector, desiring to see in what way he would describe her. And once more the answer came, "That's the prisoner's wife, sir." Charles started back, surprised. "But--I was told--a lady outside was Mrs. Paul Finglemore," he broke in, much puzzled. "Very likely," the inspector replied, unmoved. "We have plenty that way. _When_ a gentleman has as many aliases as Colonel Clay, you can hardly expect him to be over particular about having only _one_ wife between them, can you?" "Ah, I see," Charles muttered, in a shocked voice. "Bigamy!" The inspector looked stony. "Well, not exactly that," he replied, "occasional marriage." Mr. Justice Rhadamanth tried the case. "I'm sorry it's him, Sey," my brother-in-law whispered in my ear. (He said _him_, not _he_, because, whatever else Charles is, he is _not_ a pedant; the English language as it is spoken by most educated men is quite good enough for his purpose.) "I only wish it had been Sir Edward Easy. Easy's a man of the world, and a man of society; he would feel for a person in _my_ position. He wouldn't allow these beasts of lawyers to badger and pester me. He would back his order. But Rhadamanth is one of your modern sort of judges, who make a merit of being what they call 'conscientious,' and won't hush up anything. I admit I'm afraid of him. I shall be glad when it's over." "Oh, _you'll_ pull through all right," I said in my capacity of secretary. But I didn't think it. The judge took his seat. The prisoner was brought in. Every eye seemed bent upon him. He was neatly and plainly dressed, and, rogue though he was, I must honestly confess he looked at least a gentleman. His manner was defiant, not abject like Charles's. He knew he was at bay, and he turned like a man to face his accusers. We had two or three counts on the charge, and, after some formal business, Sir Charles Vandrift was put into the box to bear witness against Finglemore. Prisoner was unrepresented. Counsel had been offered him, but he refused their aid. The judge even advised him to accept their help; but Colonel Clay, as we all called him mentally still, declined to avail himself of the judge's suggestion. "I am a barrister myself, my lord," he said--"called some nine years ago. I can conduct my own defence, I venture to think, better than any of these my learned brethren."