“I will take care not to transgress again,” said Mrs. Yorke, with a sweet smile; “your consideration for us I am sure demands all obedience.”

“Has Mr. Weasel made his arrangements, mother?”

“Yes, all; the subpoena will be sent to Gethin to morrow.  He is most confident as to the result.”

“And what does Mr. Smoothbore say?  Have you seen him?”

“No, dear, no.  But the matter on which I went to Gethin having been satisfactorily arranged, we may consider that is all settled.  Your counsel has no doubt of being able to establish your innocence, notwithstanding the malice of your enemies.”

“But what is he like, this Smoothbore?”

“Well, the fact is, Richard, we have not got him, but another man, Mr. Balais—­quite his equal, Mr. Weasel assures me, in all respects.”

“Not got him!” cried Richard, impatiently.  “Why, Weasel told me Smoothbore led the circuit.  Why have we not secured him?”

“He has been retained by the other side,” answered Mrs. Yorke, in a tone that she in vain endeavored to render cheerful.  “To say the truth, Richard, the prosecutor is exhibiting the utmost vindictiveness, and straining every nerve for a conviction.  Money, which he was said to be so fond of, is now no object with him, or at least he spares none.  But he can not bribe twelve honest men, nor a righteous judge.”

“I knew it,” exclaimed Richard, stamping his foot on the stone floor.  “Those sullen brutes, Trevethick and the other, would have my life, if they could.  There is nothing that they would stick at, be assured of that—­and do you put Weasel on his guard—­to work my ruin.  How could he be such a dolt as to let them be beforehand with him, when he himself said there was not an hour to be lost!”

“Indeed, Richard, all was done for the best.  One could scarcely expect Mr. Weasel to advance so large a sum as was required, without security; and he did communicate with Mr. Smoothbore as soon as he had satisfied himself upon that score.  He assures me Mr. Balais is quite as clever a counsel.  Indeed, I should not have told you of the change, had you not pressed the question so directly.”

“Tell me all, mother; tell me every thing; I adjure you to keep nothing back.  To think and guess and fear, in a place like this, is worse than not to know the worst.  Trevethick is a miser, and yet you say he is spending with a lavish hand.  How is it you know that?”

“Why, Mr. Smoothbore’s clerk is a friend of Mr. Weasel’s, and he hears from him that his master has never received so large a retaining fee as on this occasion.  The sum we offered, two days afterward, though larger than is customary, was, he said, but a trifle compared with it.”

“You have something else to tell me yet, mother—­I see it in your eyes.  If you go away with it untold, you leave me on the rack.”

“There is nothing more,” answered his mother, hesitatingly, “or almost nothing.”