“Is there not always a woman in these cases?” said the lady. “This unfortunate creature whom our advocate is to deliver from the gallows, may she not be a Delilah of some kind?” XIII BE BOLD, WARY, FEAR NOT At these words, lightly spoken, Northcote grew conscious of an indescribable sensation which he had never experienced before. “If it were one’s custom,” he said, with a laugh as wry as the solicitor’s, “ever to heed the note of prophecy, one might discern it in your words. But I will not do so. Since that dark hour in which I summoned the genie, have I not adopted as my device, ‘Be bold, wary, fear not’?” “Now you come to mention it,” said the solicitor, “it may be this talk of the genie that has filled me with these forebodings.” “That is very foolish, Witty,” said the lady. “You have but to look into the eyes of our advocate to know what it is and where it dwells.” “He is quite entitled to keep one, of course, but it is not usual to take it into society. I sometimes think I may have a bit of a genie myself, but I do what I can to keep it a profound secret from the world.” “Should a man venture to compliment himself, Witty, upon the score of his reticence?” “Would you not say,” inquired Northcote, “that all our reticences had their roots in our cowardice?” “I would love to say it if I dared. And I would love to say of our advocate that his genie enables him to fear nothing.” “Yes,” said Northcote, “you shall say that.” “A man must have fear of some kind,” said the solicitor, “if he is to succeed against enormous odds.” “There may be a place for it in his reflections, but never in his resolves. Hence you will discern how our reticence has its basis in our cowardice.” “Subtle brute,” said Mr. Whitcomb, giving his mustache a tug of perplexity. “He is entering upon his special function of turning black into white.” “Nay,” said Northcote, “the subtlety is not mine, but Francis Bacon’s.” “Good, O Advocate!” said the lady, as she rewarded him with bright eyes. “You do well to confute the Philistine with a learned name.” Again the young man carried the jewelled hand to his lips. He felt the lithe fingers respond with a sweet and secret motion. “Rogue!” said the solicitor, laughing. “George Sand and De Musset--Polly Whitcomb and the greengrocer at the back door. Well, Mischief, as you have entered into a compact with this fellow to get him his way, play us another bit of a tune, he shall keep his brief, and we will go to bed.” “I knew we should force him to capitulate,” said Northcote to the siren, as he arranged the stool before the piano. “What must I play?” she said, looking down at her hands. “Play me a bit of Beethoven, so that I may take him out with me into the darkness of the streets.”