No, the plea of moral justification was rotten to the heart's core, and had nothing to say for itself in a Court of Law. The defence had urged that it was founded on the laws of nature--that marriage implied chastity on the woman's part, and this woman had come to her husband unchaste. On the contrary, it was founded on the barbarous law of man--the infamous theory that a wife was the property of her husband and he was at liberty to do as he liked with her. A wife was not the property of her husband. He was not at liberty to do as he liked with her. There was no such thing as the unwritten law. What was not written was not law. And if, as the result of the verdict in that court, it should go forth that any man had a right to kill his wife in any circumstances--to be judge and jury and accuser and executioner over her--the reign of law and order in this island would be at an end, no woman's life would be secure, the daughter of no member of that jury would any longer be safe, and human society would dissolve into a welter of civilised savagery--the worst savagery of all. The effect of Stowell's reply had been overwhelming. The jury had either been frightened or convinced, and even the prisoner himself, during the more intimate passages, had held down his head as if he felt himself to be the vilest scoundrel on earth. Among the advocates (they had reached the station by this time, got into their carriages, and lit up their pipes) opinion was more divided. The younger men were enthusiastic, but some of the older ones thought the closing speech for the Crown had been false in logic and bad in law. One of the latter, with a special cock of the hat, (it was old Hudgeon, the young men called him "Fanny" now), sat with his shaven chin on the top of his stick and said: "Well, it's a big gospel the young man has got to live up to, with all his tall talk about women. But we'll see! We'll see!" Gell, who was wildly excited by his friend's success, was walking to and fro on the platform waiting for Stowell's arrival. When he came (he was the last to come) he had a graver look on his face than Gell had ever seen there before, except once, and he seemed to be painfully preoccupied. "Ah, is it you?" he had said, when Gell laid hold of him--he had started as if he had seen a ghost. They got into the train together and had a carriage to themselves. Gell began with his congratulations, but Stowell brushed them aside, and said: "What happened with your father?" Gell told his story as he had told it at Derby Haven--that the Speaker had cut up badly and turned him out of the house. "But what do I care? Not a ha'porth! Best thing that ever happened to me, perhaps." "And Bessie?" "Oh, Bessie? Well, that's all right now. A bit troubled at first about my being cut off by the family and losing my income. Just like a woman! So unselfish!"