The speech for the prosecution immensely disappointed the general public, already half-convinced, in spite of themselves, by Mr. Smoothbore’s impassioned clearness and straightforward simplicity, while it pleased the jury, who were glad to hear that the matter in hand was, after all, an ordinary one, which would necessitate no deprivation of victuals, nor absence of fire and candle.  The witnesses for the prosecution appeared, as usual, in an order in inverse ratio to the interest and importance of their respective testimonies—­the clerk of the Miners’ Bank into whose hands the notes had been paid, policemen, Mr. Dodge, and others, who only repeated what we already know.  Even the appearance of Solomon Coe was marked by nothing especial, save to the eyes of the accused.  In the triumphant bearing of this witness, and in the malignant glance which he had shot toward him ere he began his tale, Richard read that the charge against him was to be pushed to the bitter end.  It was in this man’s power, more than in any other’s (save one), to extenuate or to set down in malice; and there was no doubt in his rival’s mind (though his rancor took so blunt a form that it might well have been mistaken by others for outspoken candor) which of the two courses Solomon had chosen.  He showed neither scruple nor hesitation; every word was distinct and decisive, and on one occasion (though the repetition of it was forbidden by the judge) even accompanied by a blow with his sledge-hammer fist in the way of corroboration.  It seemed that the story he had to tell was, after all, a very plain one.

When John Trevethick, who was the last witness examined for the prosecution, strode into the box, this feeling was intensified.  His giant frame and massive features seemed, somehow, to associate themselves with a plain story; and his evidence was as much in consonance with his counsel’s speech as evidence could be with pleading.

But when he had quite done with his unvarnished tale, and when Mr. Smoothbore had given him a parting nod in sign that he had done with him, Sergeant Balais rose, for the first time, with an uplifted finger, as though, but for that signal of delay, the honest landlord would have fled incontinently, and hanged himself, like another Judas.

“You have a daughter, I believe, Mr. Trevethick?” and the Sergeant looked at the jury, with elevated eyebrows, as though he would have said, “If we can get even that admission out of this hoary miscreant, we may consider ourselves fortunate.”

And indeed John Trevethick did hesitate for one instant ere he replied.  He had not even looked at the prisoner before, but at that question he gave an involuntary glance toward him, and met Richard’s answering look.  When two men are fighting, each with his hands upon the throat of the other, not for dear life, but for the longed-for death of his foe, it is possible that in their faces some such inextinguishable lurid fire of hatred may be seen burning as then flashed from witness-box to dock, from dock to witness-box; but scarcely under any other circumstances could such a look of deadly malice be exchanged between man and man.  It passed, however, in an instant, like the electric fire, and was gone, leaving no trace behind it.