On Wednesday morning, the 15th of March, in expectation that the three distinguished prisoners would appear before Sir John Fielding, the Bow Street court was besieged by so large a crowd that it was deemed prudent to adjourn to more commodious quarters in the Guildhall, Westminster. Surprising revelations were forthcoming. It was found that the forgery discovered seven days ago was only one of many. Two other persons--Dr Brooke and Admiral Sir Thomas Frankland--less cautious than the Drummonds, came forward to declare that they had obliged their friend Mr Perreau by discounting similar bonds, all of which bore the signature of William Adair! Plain indeed was the motive of Robert’s betrayal. It was not enough that the bankers should forgive him--it was needful that the woman must answer as scapegoat for much more. Never had a fairer prisoner stood before the blind magistrate than the intended victim. Above a striped silk gown she wore a pink cloak trimmed with ermine, and a small black bonnet--as usual, daintiest of the dainty, in spite of her tears and shame. Hitherto, she had given splendid proofs of courage and loyalty, but treachery had changed her heart to stone, and she lent herself to a cunning revenge. A youthful barrister named Bailey, who was hovering around Bow Street soon after her arrest, had been lucky enough to be accepted as her counsel. Clever almost as his client--in spite of contemporary libels from Grub Street, that repute him more intimate with Ovid’s _Art of Love_ than Glanvill or Bracton--he came forward with the naïve suggestion that she should be admitted as evidence for the Crown! And a witness she was made there and then, two days later being let loose on bail, which created a very pretty legal causerie in a little while. On the other hand, the unhappy brothers were committed to the New Prison, Clerkenwell, on the capital charge of forgery. All this was very welcome entertainment for the fashionable mob that crushed into the Westminster Guildhall. [Illustration: MARGARET CAROLINE RUDD] The repartee of one of Sir John’s myrmidons, often quoted by wags of the time as an excellent joke, is not without its moral. One of the doorkeepers refused entrance to a certain person on the ground that he had been told to admit only gentlemen. “That is Mr ----, the great apothecary,” quoth a bystander. “Oh!” returns the doorkeeper, “if that’s the case, he must on no account go in, for my orders extend only to gentlemen, and the whole room is filled with apothecaries already.” It would have been well for Robert Perreau had he held no more exalted opinion of his station in life than the Bow Street officer.