The morning of the day on which the party crossed the country from Rattletrap to Timbully, Timms arrived at the latter place. He was expected, and was soon after closeted with the senior counsel in the pending and most important cause. “Does the District Attorney intend to move for the trial?” demanded Dunscomb, the instant the two were alone. “He tells me he does, sir; and that early in the week, too. It is my opinion we should go for postponement. We are hardly ready, while the State is too much so.” “I do not comprehend this, Timms. The law-officers of the public would hardly undertake to run down a victim, and she a solitary and unprotected woman!” “That’s not it. The law-officers of the State don’t care a straw whether Mary Monson is found guilty or is acquitted. That is, they care nothing about it _at present_. The case may be different when they are warmed up by a trial and opposition. Our danger comes from Jesse Davis, who is a nephew of Peter Goodwin, his next of kin and heir, and who thinks a great deal of money was hoarded by the old people; much more than the stocking ever held or could hold, and who has taken it into his wise head that the prisoner has laid hands on this treasure, and is carrying on her defence with his cash. This has roused him completely, and he has retained two of the sharpest counsel on our circuit, who are beginning to work as if the bargain has been clenched in the hard metal. Williams has given me a great deal of trouble already. I know him; he will not work without pay; but pay him liberally, and he is up to anything.” “Ay, you are diamond cut diamond, Timms—outsiders in the profession. You understand that I work only in the open court, and will know nothing of this out-door management.” “We do not mean to let you know anything about it, ’Squire,” returned Timms, drily. “Each man to his own manner of getting along. I ought to tell you, however, it has got out that you are working without a fee, while I am paid in the most liberal manner.” “I am sorry for that. There is no great harm in the thing itself; but I dislike the parade of seeming to be unusually generous. I do not remember to have spoken of this circumstance where it would be likely to be repeated; and I beg you will be equally discreet.” “The fact has not come from me, I can assure you, sir. It puts me in too awkward a position to delight me; and I make it a point to say as little as possible of what is disagreeable. I do not relish the idea of being thought selfish by my future constituents. Giniros’ty is my cue before _them_. But they say you work for love, sir.” “Love!” answered Dunscomb, quickly—“Love of what?—or of _whom_?” “Of your client—that’s the story now. It is said that you admire Miss Monson; that she is young, and handsome, and rich; and she is to marry you, if acquitted. If found guilty and hanged, the bargain is off, of course. You may look displeased, ’Squire; but I give you my word such is the rumour.”