“There in front of him stood the woman he loved, the woman who had just shot her husband, and the woman who was now free for him to marry. He knew as well as I did that in adopting the line I had suggested lay the best chance of getting her acquitted. He knew as well as I did that the vast majority of juries would acquit if the story were put to them as we had outlined it. He could visualise as well as I the scene in court. Counsel for the defence—I’d already fixed on Grayson in my mind as her counsel—outlining the whole scene: her late husband’s abominable conduct culminating in this final outrage at her reception. And then as he came to the moment of the tragedy, I could picture him turning to the jury with passionate sincerity in his face—appealing to them as men—happily married, perhaps, but men, at any rate, to whom home life was sacred. “I could hear his voice—low and earnest—as he sketched for them that last scene. This poor, slighted, tormented woman—girl, gentlemen, for she is little more than a girl—went in desperation to the man—well, he is dead now, and we will leave it at that—to the man who had made her life a veritable hell. She pleaded with him, gentlemen, to allow her to divorce him—pleaded for some remnant of decent feelings in him. And what was his answer—what was the answer of this devil who was her husband? Did he meet her half-way? Did he profess the slightest sorrow for his despicable conduct? “No, gentlemen—not one word. His sole response was to spring at her in his drunken frenzy and endeavour to fix his vile attentions on her. And she, mad with terror and fright, snatched up the revolver which was lying on the desk. It might have been a ruler—anything; she was not responsible at the moment for what she did. Do you blame her, gentlemen? You have daughters of your own. She no more knew what she had in her hand than a baby would. To keep him away—that was her sole idea. And then—suddenly—it happened. The revolver went off—the man fell dead. “What did this girl do, gentlemen, after that? Realising that he was dead, did she make any attempt to conceal what she had done—to conceal her share in the matter? No—exactly the reverse. Instantly she rang up Sir Edward Shoreham, whose views on such matters are well known to you all. And then and there she told him everything—concealing nothing, excusing nothing. Sir Edward Shoreham of all people, who, with due deference to such a distinguished public man, has at times been regarded as—well—er—not lenient in his judgments. And you have heard what Sir Edward said in the box. . . .” Once again the Barrister paused and smiled faintly. “I’d got as far as that, you see, before Shoreham answered her. And he had got as far as that, too, I think. He saw it all, built on a foundation of lies—built on the foundation of his dishonour. No one would ever know except us three—but that doesn’t make a thing easier for the Edward Shorehams of the world.