“I’ve no explanation to give. Finding a bottle and glass doesn’t prove I was blind.” “It’s pretty strong evidence of drinking. Mind you, I _know_ you weren’t drunk. But we’ve got to satisfy the Court. What construction will the Court put upon the discovery of that bottle and glass? Assuming the Magistrate is reasonable, he will consider it peculiar. Even if they’re addicted to drink, people of your position do not as a rule go about with a glass and a bottle of beer. So, finding the discovery peculiar, the Magistrate will expect an explanation. If you don’t give him one, he will very naturally put the worst construction upon those unfortunate utensils.” “What’ll he think?” The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he’ll think. He’ll certainly assume that your explanation is not forthcoming because you know very well that it wouldn’t assist your case. And if he thinks any further, I suppose he’ll class you with the thirsty and prudent undesirable who carries a flask in his pocket wherever he goes.” “And he’ll send me down?” “Wait. The time is late in the evening—ten-twenty-five. That is the hour when those who do get drunk may be most easily encountered. You have a smash—which ought to have been avoided. You smell of liquor. Real evidence of liquor, recently consumed, is found. The police say you were drunk. If you were on the Bench, would you accept the accused’s unsupported statement that he was sober?” “Frankly, I don’t think I should.” “Add to all this two scandalously irrelevant facts, which, because the Magistrate is human, will be constantly present to his mind. One is that of late the crater of public indignation upon the subject of drunken drivers has been in violent eruption: the other is that at the present moment there are hundreds of thousands of people who are simply living for an opportunity of demonstrating that there is one law for the poor and another for the rich.” “And he’ll send me down?” “I think he will have no alternative.” Lord Pembury laced his fingers and put them behind his head. “Can’t be helped,” he said. “I’ve nothing to say.” Forsyth put in his oar. “Look here,” he said. “The most formidable position we’re faced with is that which is erected upon that bottle and glass. If we can reduce that position, the moral effect upon the Magistrate’s mind will be precisely as powerful as the position was formidable. You always get most credit for doing what seems to be the hardest thing to do. If you won’t explain the presence of those infernal vessels, it’s not the slightest good insisting that all you had recently consumed was half a small bottle of beer.” “Well, there’s the blinkin’ bottle to bear me out. I tell you, I shared it with a friend.” “Then produce the friend.” “I can’t,” said Pembury. “‘Can’t’?” said Forsyth. “Or ‘won’t’?” “Won’t.” Forsyth threw up his hands. Quaritch leaned forward.