"And it is her nephew who comes forward to shame her in her grave! You are now in the service of Mr. Pendarrel, the real claimant in this action?" "Of Mrs. Pendarrel." The answer produced a slight titter in the court. "What does Mrs. Pendarrel pay you for getting up her case?" Sinson hesitated for some time, and made no answer. "Do you hear, sir?" Rereworth continued. "What is to be your hire for slandering your mother's sister?" The plaintiff's counsel interposed, and protested against his learned friend's so discrediting his own witness. "I consider," the witness said, having recovered himself, "that my unfortunate relative was deceived in the business. It was no fault of hers." Rereworth now turned to Michael's connection with Everope. Asked how the acquaintance began; how long it had lasted; how the spendthrift came to communicate the story which he told in court; what Sinson knew of his habits and associates; whether he provided him with a maintenance? Then he reverted to the journey into Cornwall, of which Everope had given so frank an explanation; and concluded by again questioning the witness respecting any expectation of reward which he entertained or had held forth as the consequence of success in this action. "Do you expect any reward at all, sir?" Michael was asked, in cross-examination. "Have any promises been made to you?" "No," he answered, "I have been only doing my duty, and expect nothing." "And have you, in fact, held out any expectations to the witness Everope?" "None whatever." "Well, sir, is it not matter of notoriety that there was great doubt about this pretended marriage?" "Certainly. It has been thrown in my teeth a hundred times." Little profit had this witness brought to the defendant. Maud Basset, who had been detained out of court since her interruption of the proceedings, was now summoned into the box. "You are the mother of the late Mrs. Trevethlan, madam?" "Sure and I am. Of my own Margaret. But I dinna understand it at all." "You recollect your daughter's marriage, Mrs. Basset?" "And a proud day was that for me," the old woman replied, "when the squire asked for her to be his wife. But my Margaret was fit to be a queen. Woe's me that he beguiled me, that she should be married only to be murdered." "You were present at the marriage, I believe, madam?" "Of course I was. Where else should her mother be? And he all so cold and stately like, and she weeping and crying so. I might have known what would come of it. I saw it all with my own eyes." "Do you remember the name of the clergyman, Mrs. Basset?" "Ashton it was--Theodore Ashton. The same as I saw it written at the christening of her child. Woe's me! 'twas the last time almost I saw her." "And you believe it was a good marriage?"