Seth glided into the box, and stood with his eyes fixed upon Mr. McAndrew, as if he looked to him for guidance and protection. McAndrew, close to Mr. Sewell’s elbow, whispered his instructions, and that eminent counsel, evidently struggling against an overwhelming astonishment not unmingled with a certain professional indignation, addressing the judge, said: “My lord, I have received--I am indeed only now receiving--intelligence bearing upon this trial, of the most extraordinary nature. I am sure I shall have the indulgence of your lordship and the jury, and that they will credit me with my sincere desire to obtain the truth. Mr. Edgar, I think this witness should belong to you, but as I am in possession of the information, I will examine him.” Mr. Edgar bowed, scarcely taking his eyes from Seth’s cunning face. “I reserve all my rights, my lord,” he said. “Your name is Seth Lee?” “It is,” said Seth, clearly enough, and as readily, his gaze still fixed on Mr. McAndrew. “What do you know of this murder?” “Everything,” came the response. The crowded court was so still that the ticking of the clock in the corridor could be heard distinctly. “Do you know the prisoner at the bar?” “I do. He’s Lord Clydesfold.” “Did you know the deceased?” “I did. She was a gypsy, one of my tribe, a Lee.” “When did you see the prisoner--Lord Clydesfold--last?” “In Harkwood Spinney, the day of the murder.” A rustle in the crowded court as people turned and looked at one another. “At what time did you see him?” “A little after four,” said Seth. “Say twenty minutes, half-an-hour.” “Who was with him? The deceased?” “She was.” “Alive?” “Alive.” “Then you saw her killed? Be careful.” “I’m careful,” replied Seth, doggedly. “I saw her killed; yes, shot.” “Now, on your oath; who fired the shot?” “Bartley Bradstone!” was the grim reply. No pen can describe the sensation which for the moment seemed to paralyze the court. The judge raised his head, the jury craned forward; a murmur that was almost a cry ran round. Faradeane drew a deep sigh, and looked toward Olivia. For a second it seemed as if she were about to fall; but she caught her father’s arm, and hid her face on his shoulder; then she turned and looked at Faradeane. “Bartley Bradstone,” said Seth. “I see it all. I knew he was to meet her. I watched ’em from under the bracken; I could have touched ’em a’most.” And in rapid but perfectly distinct words he told the story of the crime. Amazement sat upon every face. Mr. Sewell, himself pale and disturbed, held up his hand as McAndrew whispered in his ear. “More slowly, please; every word is of importance.” “Do you know the relationship between the deceased and Bartley Bradstone? You know that they were married?” “They were,” said Seth. “Before or after her marriage with Lord Clydesfold?” “Before,” replied Seth. Olivia sank into a seat, and hid her face. “Come away, my poor darling,” murmured the squire.