She had scraped together a guinea for his fee. "I don't know where she got it from," the fat policeman said with professional cynicism as he gave it to George. "She pleads guilty and wants you to address the court." So George had, with infinite trepidation, addressed the court. The girl had a father--drunk when not starving, and starving when not drunk. Now he was starving, and she had stolen the shoes (oh! the sordidness of it all!) to pawn, and buy food--or drink. It was a case for a caution merely--and--and--and George himself, being young to the work, stammered and stuttered as much from emotion as from fright. You see the girl was pretty! All old Daw said was, "Do you know anything about her, policeman?" and the fat policeman said her father was a bad lot, and the girl did no work, and---- "That's enough," said old Daw; and, leaning forward, he pronounced his sentence: "I'll deal lightly with you. Only"--shaking a snuffy forefinger--"take care you don't come here again! One calendar month, with hard labour." And the girl, gazing back at honest old Daw, who would not have hurt a fly except from the Bench, softly murmured, "Cruel, cruel, cruel!" and was led away by the woman in the black straw bonnet. Whereupon George did a very unprofessional thing. He gave his guinea, his firstborn son, back to the fat policeman, saying, "Give it her when she comes out. I can't take her money." At which the policeman smiled a smile that convicted George of terrible youthfulness. It was all complete--all except the name by which the fussy clerk had called on the girl to plead, and which old Dawkins had mumbled out in sentencing her. That utterly escaped him. He was sure it was not "Neaera"--of course not "Neaera Witt;" but not "Neaera Anything," either. He would have remembered "Neaera." "What on earth was it?" he asked himself as he unlocked his door and went upstairs. "Not that it matters much. Names are easily changed." George Neston shared his chambers in Half Moon Street with the Honourable Thomas Buchanan Fillingham Myles, commonly known (as the peerage has it) as Tommy Myles. Tommy also had a small room in the Temple Chambers, where the two Nestons and Mr. Blodwell pursued their livelihood; but Tommy's appearances at the latter resort were few and brief. He did not trouble George much in Half Moon Street either, being a young man much given to society of all sorts, and very prone to be in bed when most people are up, and _vice versâ_. However, to-night he happened to be at home, and George found him with his feet on the mantelpiece, reading the evening paper. "Well, what's she like?" asked Tommy. "She's uncommonly pretty, and very pleasant," said George. Why say more, before his mind was made up? "Who was she?" pursued Tommy, rising and filling his pipe. "Ah! I don't know. I wish I did." "Don't see that it matters to you. Anybody else there?" "Oh, a few people." "Miss Bourne?" "Yes, she was there."