“What have you got for lunch?” demanded Anstey, who was now disrobed and in his right mind—­that is to say, in his usual whimsical, pseudo-frivolous character.

“That question savours of gluttony,” answered Thorndyke.  “Come and see.”

“I will come and eat, which is better,” answered Anstey, “and I must run off now, as I have to look in at my chambers.”

“How shall we go?” asked Thorndyke, as his colleague vanished through the doorway.  “Polton has gone for a four-wheeler, but it won’t hold us all.”

“It will hold four of us,” said Reuben, “and Dr. Jervis will bring Juliet; won’t you, Jervis?”

The request rather took me aback, considering the circumstances, but I was conscious, nevertheless, of an unreasonable thrill of pleasure and answered with alacrity:  “If Miss Gibson will allow me, I shall be very delighted.”  My delight was, apparently, not shared by Juliet, to judge by the uncomfortable blush that spread over her face.  She made no objection, however, but merely replied rather coldly:  “Well, as we can’t sit on the roof of the cab, we had better go by ourselves.”

The crowd having by this time presumably cleared off, we all took our way downstairs.  The cab was waiting at the kerb, surrounded by a group of spectators, who cheered Reuben as he appeared at the doorway, and we saw our friends enter and drive away.  Then we turned and walked quickly down the Old Bailey towards Ludgate Hill.  “Shall we take a hansom?” I asked.

“No; let us walk,” replied Juliet; “a little fresh air will do us good after that musty, horrible court.  It all seems like a dream, and yet what a relief—­oh! what a relief it is.”

“It is rather like the awakening from a nightmare to find the morning sun shining,” I rejoined.

“Yes; that is just what it is like,” she agreed; “but I still feel dazed and shaken.”

We turned presently down New Bridge Street, towards the Embankment, walking side by side without speaking, and I could not help comparing, with some bitterness, our present stiff and distant relations with the intimacy and comradeship that had existed before the miserable incident of our last meeting.

“You don’t look so jubilant over your success as I should have expected,” she said at length, with a critical glance at me; “but I expect you are really very proud and delighted, aren’t you?”

“Delighted, yes; not proud.  Why should I be proud?  I have only played jackal, and even that I have done very badly.”

“That is hardly a fair statement of the facts,” she rejoined, with another quick, inquisitive look at me; “but you are in low spirits to-day—­which is not at all like you.  Is it not so?”