During the interval preceding the trial Marks managed to obtain an interview with him in London. It was short and bitter, for the old lodge-keeper firmly believed that his young master had made him an innocent accomplice in a deed of violence. George, however, was glad to see him, for he made him understand how necessary it was that Bess should in no way be mixed up with this new charge, and that he was to keep her out of the way until the trial was over. ‘Whatever happens, Marks,’ he said gently, ‘don’t let me drag her down with me. My only consolation now is that I know she is safe with you.’ ‘Come what may, Master George,’ answered the old man, his voice husky with emotion, ‘my gal shall never know a moment’s misery as I can help.’ Then they parted almost coldly, for George somewhat resented his father-in-law’s implied doubts as to his innocence of the outrage at the hall. But George felt that he was acting lightly in extorting a promise from Bess’s father to keep her out of the way, though he would have given the world to clasp her to his arms and cheer her up. ‘I did not acknowledge her when I could hold my head high,’ he said to himself; ‘she shall not acknowledge me now I am a suspected felon.’ Amid all his misery, broken in spirit and broken in heart, the old pride struggled for mastery and won. He had an odd idea that he was doing the correct thing by the lodge-keeper’s daughter he had married in not allowing her to see him or to acknowledge the tie that bound them now he was in such an unfortunate and degraded position. At the trial Mr. Jabez Duck told, with many embellishments and at least two poetical quotations, how this dreadful young man had been admitted to the bosom of his family under the name of Smith. Then the detective bobbed up in the box to produce the implements of forgery and the records of crime found at Mr. Smith’s lodging. The clerks from the bank swore to him as the person who had presented the forged cheque of Grigg and Limpet’s. Then an expert in handwriting proved that the endorsement, ‘Smith and Co.,’ tallied with certain writings admitted to be George’s, found at his rooms and on his person. Link by link the chain of evidence was completed. Defence there was practically none, but a firm denial on the prisoner’s part, and a cock-and-bull story of having been the victim of some vile plot, which had not even the merit of originality. It was just the sort of story clever rascals do invent as a last resource. Doubtless there were other people concerned in the matter, but they were his confederates, not his employers. George stood and listened as the evidence grew blacker and blacker, and at last began to wonder if it could be true—if he had lived two lives and didn’t know it.