As the solicitor stood on the doorstep under the portico bidding Jerry O'Brien good-evening, he saw the two men, who looked like stable-helpers, go up to Tom Blake and speak to him. He had noticed these men during the day, and when he saw them speak to Blake, he knew what their business with him was. On a motion from one of the two, a cab drew up a little way from the door of the inn. Tom Blake and the two men got into it, and the cab drove off. Then Pringle went back into the inn, spoke a few words to the police inspector, and sent up word to Mrs. Davenport that he and the carriage were ready. In a few minutes she came down, looking as calm and impassible as ever. With some commonplace remarks about the rain, he handed her in, and then took his seat beside her. For a while they drove in perfect silence. She broke it by asking what had occurred since she left the room downstairs. He briefly told her the substance of Blake's evidence, softening down the sentimental portions as far as they had relation to herself, but setting forth fully and fairly the salient points of his history. She listened without a word. She had heard the coroner say the inquiry would not close that day. She therefore knew nothing final was to be decided immediately. But although Pringle knew she was aware of this, he was surprised that upon his ending she said nothing, made no comment, seemed but sparingly interested, although she listened with attention. At last he thought best to volunteer something. "I am afraid," he said, "that although we may be able to corroborate every word of Mr. Blake's, as far as facts are concerned, his hypothesis will not have much influence with the jury." "Why?" "Did you know Mr. Blake got money from Mr. Davenport on the very night of the 17th?" In the darkness of the carriage here, he was free from the spell of her beauty, and spoke in a purely professional tone. "I did," she answered. "Mr. Blake told me." "That admission took me by surprise. It would greatly facilitate the discharge of my duty towards you if you would even _now_ take me a little more fully into your confidence." "There is nothing farther to tell--nothing further to conceal," she said, in a slow, emotionless voice. He threw himself back, and did not speak at once. At length he moved uneasily in his place, and said, after deliberation: "I appealed to you once, and cautioned you several times. I may now tell you, as a matter of certainty, not as a matter of my own personal opinion, but of ascertained fact, that the theory of what I _must_ now call the defence will not stand a trial, and that a trial there will be." "I have nothing to add," she said, in an unmoved tone. "Up to this I have not told you the most unpleasant, the most significant and alarming fact of all." "What is that?"--in the same voice. "I hope you will try and face the horrible position with fortitude. I spoke of a trial as now inevitable."