Upon that subject I never wavered throughout the whole of my career, and the testimony of the letters which I received from the most distinguished members of the criminal Bar—­not to say that they are not equally distinguished in the civil—­will, I am sure, bear out my little self-praise upon a small matter of infinite importance.

Everything in this case seemed to be overwhelmingly against the unhappy doctor.  No one in court, except himself, could believe on the evidence but that he was guilty.

I, who through my whole life had been studying evidence and the mode in which it was delivered, believed in the man’s guilt, and felt that no cross-examination, however subtle and skilfully conducted, could shake it.

I felt for the man—­a scholar, a scientist—­as one must feel for the victim of so great a temptation.  But I felt also that he was entitled, on account of all those things which aroused my sympathy, to the severest sentence, which I had already considered it would be my duty to award him.

Then, under the New Act, which I had spoken against and written against, as one long associated with all the bearings of evidence given in the witness-box, the poor doctor stepped into that terrible trap for the untruthful.

Let me now observe that, even before he was sworn, his manner made a great impression on my mind.  And on this subject I would like to say that few Judges or advocates sufficiently consider it.

The greatest actor has a manner.  The man who is not an actor has a manner, and if you are only sufficiently read in the human character, it cannot deceive you, however disguised it may be.  A witness’s evidence may deceive, but his manner is the looking-glass of his mind, sometimes of his innocence.  It was so in this case.

The man was not acting, and he was not an actor.

This made the first impression on my mind, and I knew there must be something beneath it which only he could explain.  I waited patiently.  It was much more than life and death to this man.

The next thing that impressed me was that there was not the least confusion in his evidence or in himself.  His tone, his language, could only be the result of conscious innocence.

It was not very long before I gathered that he was the victim of a cruel and cowardly conspiracy.  It was absolutely a case of blackmailing, and nothing else.

I believed every word the man said, and so did the jury.  His evidence acquitted him.  He was saved from an ignominious doom by the new Act, and from that moment I went heart and soul with it:  however much it may be a danger to the guilty, it is of the utmost importance to the innocent.

This case was not finished without a little touch of humour.  When half-past seven arrived—­an hour on circuit at which I always considered it too early to adjourn—­the jury thought it looked very like an “all-night sitting,” although I had no such intention, and one of their body or of the Bar, I forget which, raised the question on a motion for the adjournment of the house.