She sobbed out her story, and was led away.  The foreman glanced round the tables.

“I think we ought to hear the doctor,” said the red-faced man.  The doctor was called and described a deep incised wound, severing certain anatomical details.

“I think we ought to hear the constable,” said the red-faced man, and there was a murmur of agreement.  A policeman came in, carrying a brown paper parcel.  Having described the arrest, he unwrapped a long knife, which was handed round the tables for inspection.  When it reached the red-faced juror, he regarded the blade closely up and down, with gloating satisfaction.  “Are those stains blood?” he asked the policeman.

“Yes, sir; them there is the poor feller’s blood.”

The red-faced man looked again, and suddenly turning upon Mr. Clarkson, went through a pantomime of plunging the knife into his throat.  At Mr. Clarkson’s horrified recoil he laughed himself purple.

“Well said the Preacher you may know a man by his laughter,” Mr. Clarkson murmured, while the red-faced man patted him amicably on the back.

“No offence, I hope; no offence!” he said.  “Come and have some lunch.  I always must, and I always do eat a substantial lunch.  Nice, juicy cut from the joint, and a little dry sherry?  What do you say?”

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Mr. Clarkson, instantly benign.  “You are most kind, but I always have coffee and a roll and butter.”

“O my God!” exclaimed the red-faced man, and speaking across Mr. Clarkson to another substantial juror, he entered into discussion on the comparative merits of dry sherry and champagne-and-bitters.

Soon after two they both returned in the comfortable state of mind produced by the solution of doubt.  But Mr. Clarkson’s doubts had not been solved, and his state of mind was far from comfortable.  All through the lunch hour he had been tortured by uncertainty.  A plain duty confronted him, but how could he face it?  He hated a scene.  He abhorred publicity as he abhorred the glaring advertisements in the streets.  He had never suffered so much since the hour before he had spoken at the Oxford Union on the question whether the sense for beauty can be imparted by instruction.  He closed his eyes.  He felt the sweat standing on his forehead.  And still the cases went on.  “Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve.  True Bill.  True Bill.  Two, four, six, eight....”

“Now then, sleepy!” cried the red-faced man in his ear, giving him a genial dig with his elbow.  Mr. Clarkson quivered at the touch, but he rose.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I wish to protest against the continuation of this farce.”

The jury became suddenly alert, and his voice was drowned in chaos.  “Order, order!  Chair, chair!” they shouted.  “Everybody’s doing it!” sang one.

“I call that gentleman to order,” said the foreman, rising with dignity.  “He has previously interrupted and delayed our proceedings, without bringing fresh light to bear upon our investigations.  After the luncheon interval, I was pleased to observe that for one cause or another—­I repeat, for one cause or another—­he was distinctly—­shall I say somnolent, gentlemen?  Yes, I will say somnolent.  And I wish to inform him that the more somnolent he remains, the better we shall all be pleased.”