A general smile succeeded this sally; and Timms looked round at the audience, with his nose pointing upwards, as if he scented his game. “I dare say—I pay as I go,” returned Williams; “and my memory is not loaded with such transactions——” “Mr. Williams,” interrupted the judge, a little impatiently, “the time of the court is very precious.” “So is the dignity of the outraged laws to the State, your Honour. We shall soon be through, sir—Many people in the habit of frequenting your store, Mr. Hatfield?” “As much so as is usual in the country.” “Ten or fifteen at a time, on some occasions?” “I dare say there may be.” “Has the murder of Peter Goodwin ever been discussed by your customers in your presence?” “I don’t know but it has—such a thing is very likely; but one hears so much, I can’t say.” “Did you never join in such a discussion yourself?” “I may, or I may not.” “I ask you, now, distinctly, if you had no such discussion on the 26th of May last, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the forenoon?” The sharpness of the manner in which this question was put, the minuteness of the details, and the particularity of the interrogatories, quite confounded the juror, who answered accordingly. “Such a thing _might_ have taken place, and it might _not_. I do not remember.” “Is Jonas White (a regular country loafer) in the habit of being in your store?” “He is—it is a considerable lounge for labouring men.” “And Stephen Hook?” “Yes; he is there a good deal of his time.” “Now, I beg you to remember—did not such a conversation take place, in which you bore a part, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the forenoon; White and Hook being present?” Hatfield seemed perplexed. He very conscientiously desired to tell the truth, having nothing to gain by an opposite course; but he really had no recollection of any such discussion, as well might be the case; no such conversation ever having taken place. Williams knew the habits of the loafers in question, had selected the time a little at random, and adopted the particularity merely as a means of confounding the juror, of whom he was seriously afraid. “Such a thing _may_ have happened,” answered Hatfield, after a pause—“I don’t remember.” “It _may_ have happened—Now, sir, allow me to ask you if, in that conversation, you did not express an opinion that you did not, and _could_ not believe that a lady educated and delicate, like the prisoner at the bar, did, or would, under any circumstances, commit the offence with which Mary Monson is charged?” Hatfield grew more and more confounded; for Williams’s manner was more and more confident and cool. In this state of feeling he suffered the reply to escape him— “I _may_ have said as much—it seems quite natural.” “I presume, after this,” observed Williams, carelessly, “your Honour will order the juror not to enter the box?”