“What creatures women are!” said Linton, holding up his hands. “And how are they betting? What says Frobisher?” “He affects to think it no case for odds; he says there 's a little fellow in the jury-box never was known to say 'Guilty.'” “A scheme to win money,--a stale trick, my Lord Charles!” muttered Linton, contemptuously; “but I've no objection to hedge a little, for all that.” “I must be going,” said Jones, looking at his watch; “the charge will soon be over, and I must look to the proceedings.” “Will they be long in deliberation, think you?” asked Linton. “I suspect not; they are all weary and tired. It is now ten o'clock.” “I thought it later,” said Linton, thoughtfully; “time lags heavily with him whose mind is in expectancy. Hark! there is some one below talking of the trial! What says he?” “He speaks of Cashel as still addressing the Court. Can they have consented to hear him, after all?” A fearful curse broke from Linton, and he closed the door noiselessly. “See to this, Jones; see to it speedily. My mind misgives me that something will go wrong.” “You say that you know him thoroughly, and that he never would--” “No, no,” broke in Linton, passionately; “he'll not break one tittle of his word, even to save his life! When he promised me that all should be secret between us, he made no reservations, and you 'll see that he 'll not avail himself of such privileges now. I do know him thoroughly.” “Then what, or whence, is your fear?” Linton made no other answer than a gesture of his hand, implying some vague and indistinct dread. “But go,” said he, “and go quickly. You ought never to have left the court. Had you remained, perhaps this might have been prevented. If all goes right, you 'll be here by daybreak at furthest, and Keane along with you. Take care of that, Jones; don't lose sight of him. If--if--we are unfortunate--and do you think such possible?” “Everything is possible with a jury.” “True,” said he, thoughtfully; “it is an issue we should never have left it to. But away; hasten back. Great Heaven! only to think how much hangs upon the next half-hour!” “To Cashel, you mean?” said Jones, as he prepared himself for the road. “No; I mean to _me_, I _do_ know him thoroughly; and well I know the earth would be too narrow to live upon, were that man once more free and at liberty.” In his eagerness for Jones's departure, he almost pushed him from the room; and then, when he had closed and locked the door again, he sat down beside the low flickering fire, and as the fitful light played upon his features, all the appliances of disguise he wore could not hide the terrible ravages that long corroding anxiety had made in him. Far more did he resemble the arraigned criminal than he who now stood in the dock, and with a cheek blanched only by imprisonment, waited calm, collected, and erect--“Equal to either fortune.”