“I came to thank my benefactor,” said the man. “I had heard nothing till this moment of the tragic sequel.” “Well,” said the barrister, in the same cynical tone, “you have come too late. The price of your acquittal is this little orphaned life.” He put his arm about my shoulders. The stranger looked hard at me. “His son?” he muttered. “There are some verdicts,” said Mr. Quayle, “bought too dear.” In a moment the man turned upon him in a sort of fierce concentrated bitterness. “With the inconsistency of your evil profession,” he cried, “you discount your own conclusions. The law guarantees and grudges me my innocence. A curse upon it, I say! Did he there sacrifice his life for me? He sacrificed it for truth, sir, and it’s that which you, as a lawyer, can’t forgive.” “You will observe,” said Mr. Quayle, icily, “that I have not questioned the truth.” “Not directly,” answered the visitor. “I know, I know. You damn by innuendo; it’s your trade.” The little lawyer laughed again. “You malign our benevolence,” he said. “The law, by its artless verdict, has entitled you to sue on the insurance question. Think, Mr. Pilbrow; it actually offers itself to witness to your right to the thousand pounds.” “And I shall force it to,” cried the other; “and would to heaven I could make it bleed another thousand for the wrong it has done me. It would, if equity were justice.” “Equity _is_ justice,” said Mr. Quayle. “Good morning.” The man did not move for a moment, but stood looking gloomily at me. Now, I cannot define what was working in my little soul. The pinched, shorn face was not lovely, the eyes in it were not good; yet there was something there of loss and hopelessness that touched me cruelly. And was not my father lying in the next room in solemn witness to its innocence? Suddenly, before Mr. Quayle could stay me, I had run to the visitor and plucked at his coat. “You did not do it,” I cried. “My father said so!” He gave a little gasp, and fluttered his hand across his eyes, sweeping in a wonderful way the evil out of them. “Ah!” he said, “if your father, young gentleman, would whisper to you where Abel lies hidden! He knows now.” He stepped back, with a strange, wintry smile on his lips, stopped, seemed about to speak, waved his hand to me, and was gone. “Dicky, Dicky,” cried Mr. Quayle, “you’re the son of your father; but, dear me, not so good a lawyer!” CHAPTER III. UNCLE JENICO.