My unfortunate cousin entered the witness-box pale and trembling. In answer to questions he acknowledged that he had lost the whole of his fortune and ruined a once noble business in the space of three or four years. He confessed that his bankruptcy was inevitable: that Probus had been urgent with him to get his cousin to sell his chance of succession in order to raise money by which he himself might recover his money: that he was willing to do so if his cousin would sell: but his cousin would not. He said that Mr. Probus had come to him stating that a man's life might be lost in many ways: that, for instance, he might fall into the hands of the law: that he had brought Mr. Merridew, who offered to arrange so that his cousin might lose his life in some such way if he were paid a thousand pounds down; that he would not listen to such detestable overtures; that he heard of his cousin's arrest: that he had informed his cousin's attorney of the offer made him by Probus and Merridew: but he had neither paid nor promised a thousand pounds, or anything at all: and that he had never been a consenting party to the plot. He was allowed to stand down: he remained in the court, trembling and shivering, as pitiable an object as the wretched conspirators themselves. If there had been interest in the case before, judge what it was now in the appearance of the next witness, for there entered the box none other than Jenny herself, the bewitching Jenny. She was all lace and ribbons, as beautiful a creature as one could expect to see anywhere. She smiled upon the Judge and upon the Lord Mayor: she smiled upon the Jury: she smiled upon me, the prisoner in the Dock. In answer to the questions put to her, she answered, in substance: 'My name is Jenny Halliday. I am the wife of the last witness, Matthew Halliday. I am an actress. I am known by my maiden name, Jenny Wilmot. As an entertainer, I am known as Madame Vallance.' There was now the most breathless attention in Court. 'By birth, I am the daughter of the landlady of the Black Jack. It is a place of resort of the residents of St. Giles's. Most of them, to my certain knowledge, probably all, are thieves. I sometimes go there to see my mother and sister, not to see the frequenters of the place. Whenever I do go there, I always find the two witnesses who just now called themselves Carstairs and Fenwick: at the Black Jack they were always called the Bishop and the Captain. I have always heard, and I understand, that they are rogues of the deepest dye. The Bishop is not a clergyman at all: he is so called because he dresses like a clergyman and can write well: the Captain is a highwayman: most of his fraternity call themselves Captains: he is the son of a butcher in Clare market. His name is Tom Kestever. Both are Mr. Merridew's men: that is, they have to carry out whatever he orders, and they live in perpetual terror that their time is up. The last time I was in the Black Jack, Merridew