“I beg your pardon,” said Anstey, with polite gravity.

“You were speaking of the committee of some society,” interposed the judge.  “What society were you referring to?”

Mrs. Hornby spread out the paper and, after a glance at it, replied—­

“The Society of Paralysed Idiots, your worship,” whereat a rumble of suppressed laughter arose from the gallery.

“But what has that society to do with the ’Thumbograph’?” inquired the judge.

“Nothing, your worship.  Nothing at all.”

“Then why did you refer to it?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hornby, wiping her eyes with the paper and then hastily exchanging it for her handkerchief.

The judge took off his glasses and gazed at Mrs. Hornby with an expression of bewilderment.  Then he turned to the counsel and said in a weary voice—­“Proceed, if you please, Mr. Anstey.”

“Can you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?” said the latter in persuasive accents.

“I thought it was Walter, and so did my niece, but Walter says it was not, and he ought to know, being young and having a most excellent memory, as I had myself when I was his age, and really, you know, it can’t possibly matter where I got the thing—­”

“But it does matter,” interrupted Anstey.  “We wish particularly to know.”

“If you mean that you wish to get one like it—­”

“We do not,” said Anstey.  “We wish to know how that particular ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession.  Did you, for instance, buy it yourself, or was it given to you by someone?”

“Walter says I bought it myself, but I thought he gave it to me, but he says he did not, and you see—­”

“Never mind what Walter says.  What is your own impression?”

“Why I still think that he gave it to me, though, of course, seeing that my memory is not what it was—­”

“You think that Walter gave it to you?”

“Yes, in fact I feel sure he did, and so does my niece.”

“Walter is your nephew, Walter Hornby?”

“Yes, of course.  I thought you knew.”

“Can you recall the occasion on which the ‘Thumbograph’ was given to you?”

“Oh yes, quite distinctly.  We had some people to dinner—­some people named Colley—­not the Dorsetshire Colleys, you know, although they are exceedingly nice people, as I have no doubt the other Colleys are, too, when you know them, but we don’t.  Well, after dinner we were a little dull and rather at a loss, because Juliet, my niece, you know, had cut her finger and couldn’t play the piano excepting with the left hand, and that is so monotonous as well as fatiguing, and the Colleys are not musical, excepting Adolphus, who plays the trombone, but he hadn’t got it with him, and then, fortunately, Walter came in and brought the ‘Thumbograph’ and took all our thumb-prints and his own as well, and we were very much amused, and Matilda Colley—­that is the eldest daughter but one—­said that Reuben jogged her elbow, but that was only an excuse—­”