"Here's a young lady who knows nothing about the law, George," continued Blodwell. "She never heard of me--nor of you either, I dare say. It reminds me of what they used to say about old Dawkins. Old Daw never had a brief, but he was Recorder of some little borough or other--place with a prisoner once in two years, you know--I forget the name. Let's see--yes, Peckton." "Peckton!" exclaimed George Neston, loudly and abruptly. Neaera made a sudden motion with one hand--a sudden motion suddenly checked--and her fan dropped with a clatter on the polished boards. Gerald dived for it, so did Mr. Blodwell, and their heads came in contact with such violence as to drive all reminiscences of Recorder Dawkins out of Mr. Blodwell's brain. They were still indulging in recriminations, when Neaera swiftly left them, crossed to Lord Tottlebury, and took her leave. George went to open the door for her. She looked at him curiously. "Will you come and see me, Mr. Neston?" she asked. He bowed gravely, answering nothing. The party broke up, and as George was seeing Mr. Blodwell's bulk fitted into a four-wheeler, the old gentleman asked, "Why did you do that, George?" "What?" "Jump, when I said Peckton." "Oh, I used to go sessions there, you know." "Do you always jump when people mention the places you used to go sessions at?" "Generally," replied George. "I see," said Mr. Blodwell, lighting his cigar. "A bad habit, George; it excites remark. Tell him the House." "Good night, sir," said George. "I hope your head is better." Mr. Blodwell snorted indignantly as he pulled up the window, and was driven away to his duties. CHAPTER II. WHY GEORGE NESTON JUMPED. "How could I ever have forgotten?" said George, aloud, as he walked home. "I remember her now as if it was yesterday." Memory, like much else that appertains to man, is a queer thing, and the name of Peckton had supplied the one link missing in his recollection. How, indeed, had he ever forgotten it? Can a man forget his first brief any more than his first love?--so like are they in their infinite promise, so like in their very finite results! The picture was now complete in his mind: the little, muggy court at Peckton; old Dawkins, his wig black with age, the rest of him brown with snuff; the fussy clerk; the prosecuting counsel, son to the same fussy clerk; he himself, thrusting his first guinea into his pocket with shaking hand and beating heart (nervous before old Daw! Imagine!); the fat, peaceful policeman; the female warder, in her black straw-bonnet trimmed with dark-blue ribbons; and last of all, in the dock, a young girl, in shabby, nay, greasy, black, with pale cheeks, disordered hair, and swollen eyelids, gazing in blank terror on the majesty of the law, strangely expressed in the Recorder's ancient person. And, beyond all doubt or imagination of a doubt, the girl was Gerald's bride, Neaera Witt. "I could swear to her to-day!" cried George.