Robinson Asbury was charged with many crimes--with all that he had committed and some that he had not. When Mr. Bingo saw what was afoot he threw himself heart and soul into the work of his old rival's enemies. He was of incalculable use to them. Judge Davis refused to have anything to do with the matter. But in spite of his disapproval it went on. Asbury was indicted and tried. The evidence was all against him, and no one gave more damaging testimony than his friend, Mr. Bingo. The judge's charge was favourable to the defendant, but the current of popular opinion could not be entirely stemmed. The jury brought in a verdict of guilty. "Before I am sentenced, judge, I have a statement to make to the court. It will take less than ten minutes." "Go on, Robinson," said the judge kindly. Asbury started, in a monotonous tone, a recital that brought the prosecuting attorney to his feet in a minute. The judge waved him down, and sat transfixed by a sort of fascinated horror as the convicted man went on. The before-mentioned attorney drew a knife and started for the prisoner's dock. With difficulty he was restrained. A dozen faces in the court-room were red and pale by turns. "He ought to be killed," whispered Mr. Bingo audibly. Robinson Asbury looked at him and smiled, and then he told a few things of him. He gave the ins and outs of some of the misdemeanours of which he stood accused. He showed who were the men behind the throne. And still, pale and transfixed, Judge Davis waited for his own sentence. Never were ten minutes so well taken up. It was a tale of rottenness and corruption in high places told simply and with the stamp of truth upon it. He did not mention the judge's name. But he had torn the mask from the face of every other man who had been concerned in his downfall. They had shorn him of his strength, but they had forgotten that he was yet able to bring the roof and pillars tumbling about their heads. The judge's voice shook as he pronounced sentence upon his old ally--a year in State's prison. Some people said it was too light, but the judge knew what it was to wait for the sentence of doom, and he was grateful and sympathetic. When the sheriff led Asbury away the judge hastened to have a short talk with him. "I'm sorry, Robinson," he said, "and I want to tell you that you were no more guilty than the rest of us. But why did you spare me?" "Because I knew you were my friend," answered the convict. "I tried to be, but you were the first man that I've ever known since I've been in politics who ever gave me any decent return for friendship." "I reckon you're about right, judge."