The trial seemed to drag on interminably and it was not till the afternoon of the sixth day that Kean rose to make his speech for the Defence. To Fayre, who had sat through the Counsel for the Crown’s very able address to the Jury, Leslie’s case seemed almost hopeless and he was beginning to feel that only a miracle could save him. He had watched Kean, on whom all their hopes rested, sitting motionless, his face utterly impassive, apparently entirely unmoved by his rival’s eloquence, and had tried to read his mind in vain. And all the time he had thanked his stars that he had allowed Cynthia to influence him and had kept back until after the trial the secret that, even now, he dreaded to reveal to Kean. Indeed, it seemed to Fayre, during the long hours of suspense, as though his mind had become a sort of Bluebeard’s chamber into which he no longer dared look. So much that he could not fathom and a little that he understood only too well he had locked away there until after Leslie’s fate was decided. Even if Kean managed to secure an acquittal for him Fayre could only look forward with a kind of horror to the aftermath of the trial. For one who wished nothing but happiness to his fellow men the world had indeed gone agley. The knowledge that lay at the back of all his thoughts and actions had come between him and Edward Kean and their friendship had lost its old ease and intimacy. In his distress he had lost all desire to see and consult with Sybil Kean and, in spite of the fact that her health was mending rapidly and that he had had a charming letter of invitation from her in answer to the note he had written in Kean’s Chambers and had eventually posted from his club, he had felt unable to face her. Fortunately her health had given no further cause for anxiety and her improvement had been so steady that Kean had come north for the trial comparatively free from anxiety.