Richard remained in the dock.  The warder who had charge of him gave him the option of retiring, but he preferred to stay where he was till all was over.  He had at last caught sight of his mother, straining her loving eyes toward him—­with still some hope in them—­from a distant corner of the gallery; and he kept his gaze fixed upon that spot.  They had all the world against them now, these two, so clever, and yet so wholly unable to combat with inexorable fate.  Harry’s evidence, and especially the manner of it, had not needed Mr. Smoothbore’s fiery scorn to turn all hearts against the accused.  To the great mass of spectators it seemed as though Richard would have made the girl change places with himself, and become a vicarious sacrifice for his worthless self.

The majesty of the law having withdrawn itself, a hum of many voices filled the court-house; a munching of biscuits, a sipping of flasks.  The silence of suspense no longer reigned.  The struggle was virtually over, and the victim was only waiting his doom.  It was hoped it would be a severe one.  The spectators were pitiless, and had turned their thumbs toward their breasts.  As to the verdict there was no doubt.  Those who knew the character of the judge opined that this young gentleman would “get it hot,” notwithstanding that this was his first offense.  Odds were taken that he would have fourteen years.  “At all events,” said one of the small officials, in answer to eager inquiries, “more than he could do on his head.”  With this enigmatical reply of the oracle its astonished questioners were compelled to be content.

“Silence in the court—­si-lence.”  The judge had returned.  It was thought by some that it was in the prisoner’s favor that the judge had lunched.  They were mistaken, or perhaps a fatal economy had provided African sherry.  His charge was scarcely less dead against the prisoner than had been Mr. Smoothbore’s closing speech.  As for the motive, upon which such stress had been laid by the counsel for the defense, that might be a plea for a recommendation to mercy, if the jury believed it, but it could not affect the question of the prisoner’s guilt.  That the stolen property had been found in the possession of the accused there was no sort of doubt.  If the prisoner at the bar had not himself taken it out of the prosecutor’s strong-box, who had?

Such was the form in which the case was left for the jury.

“It’s UP,” whispered Mr. Weasel behind his hand to Mr. Balais.  Mr. Balais nodded indifferently; the case was over so far as he was concerned, and he was not going to employ significant action gratuitously.  That would have been waste of power indeed at his age.  The jury did not leave the box; they laid their heads together, like a hydra, and “deliberated” for half a minute; that is to say, the foreman whispered, “We can return but one verdict, I should say, gentlemen;” and the eleven answered, “But one.”

“We find the prisoner guilty, your lordship.”