“But he had not done so?”

“No, sir; he wrote it in the drawing-room.”

“Thank you.  That is all.”

But this witness was not allowed to pass as the others had done.  The counsel for the prosecution got up.

“You told Mrs. Assheton that it had been left at the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew that was untrue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For what reason did you say it, then?”

Martin hesitated; he looked down, then he looked up again, and was still silent.

“Answer the question.”

His eyes met those of the prisoner.  Morris smiled at him, and nodded.

“Mr. Taynton told me to say that,” he said, “I had once been in Mr. Taynton’s service.  He dismissed me.  I—­”

The judge interposed looking at the cross-examining counsel.

“Do you press your question?” he asked.  “I do not forbid you to ask it, but I ask you whether the case for the prosecution of the—­the prisoner is furthered by your insisting on this question.  We have all heard, the jury and I alike, what the last three or four witnesses have said, and you have allowed that—­quite properly, in my opinion—­to go unchallenged.  I do not myself see that there is anything to be gained by the prosecution by pressing the question.  I ask you to consider this point.  If you think conscientiously, that the evidence, the trend of which we all know now, is to be shaken, you are right to do your best to try to shake it.  If not, I wish you to consider whether you should press the question.  What the result of your pressing it will be, I have no idea, but it is certainly clear to us all now, that there was a threat implied in Mr. Taynton’s words.  Personally I do not wish to know what that threat was, nor do I see how the knowledge of it would affect your case in my eyes, or in the eyes of the jury.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“No, my lord, I do not press it.”

Then a clear young voice broke the silence.

“Thanks, Martin,” it said.

It came from the dock.

The judge looked across to the dock for a moment, with a sudden irresistible impulse of kindliness for the prisoner whom he was judging.

“Charles Martin,” he said, “you have given your evidence, and speaking for myself, I believe it to be entirely trustworthy.  I wish to say that your character is perfectly clear.  No aspersion whatever has been made on it, except that you said a note had been delivered at the door, though you knew it to have been not so delivered.  You made that statement through fear of a certain individual; you were frightened into telling a lie.  No one inquires into the sources of your fear.”

But in the general stillness, there was one part of the court that was not still, but the judge made no command of silence there, for in the jury-box there was whispering and consultation.  It went on for some three minutes.  Then the foreman of the jury stood up.