“You need not answer these wild adjurations, Mr. Hornby,” said the judge, as soon as he could make himself heard.

A smile curled the fellow’s lip as he bowed deferentially to his lordship, and he sat down without uttering a syllable.

“May the Lord, then, have mercy on my soul!” exclaimed the prisoner solemnly.  Then glancing at the bench and jury-box, he added, “And you, my lord and gentlemen, work your will with my body as quickly as you may:  I am a lost man!”

The calling of witnesses to character, the opening of the judge’s charge, pointing from its first sentence to a conviction, elicited no further manifestation of feeling from the prisoner:  he was as calm as despair.

The judge had been speaking for perhaps ten minutes, when a bustle was heard at the hall, as if persons were striving to force their way into the body of the court in spite of the resistance of the officers.

“Who is that disturbing the court?” demanded the judge angrily.

“For the love of Heaven let me pass!” we heard uttered in passionate tones by a female voice.  “I must and will see the judge!”

“Who can this be?” T inquired, addressing Mr. Symonds.

“I cannot conceive,” he replied; “surely not Mrs. Burton?”

I had kept my eye, as I spoke, upon Hornby, and noticed that he exhibited extraordinary emotion at the sound of the voice, to whomsoever it belonged, and was now endeavoring to force his way through the crowded and anxious auditory.

“My lord,” said I, “I have to request on the part of the prisoner that the person desirous of admittance may be heard.”

“What has she to say?  Or if a material witness, why have you not called her at the proper time?” replied his lordship with some irritation.

“My lord, I do not even now know her name; but in a case involving the life of the prisoner, it is imperative that no chance be neglected”—­

“Let the woman pass into the witness-box,” interrupted the judge.

The order brought before our eyes a pale, stunted woman, of about fifty years of age, whose excited and by no means unintellectual features, and hurried, earnest manner, seemed to betoken great and unusual feeling.

“As I’m alive, Hornby’s deformed housekeeper!” whispered Symonds.  “This poor devil’s knot will be unraveled yet.”

The woman, whose countenance and demeanor, as she gave her evidence, exhibited a serious, almost solemn intelligence, deposed to the following effect:—­

“Her name was Mary McGrath, and she was the daughter of Irish parents, but born and brought up in England.  She had been Mr. Hornby’s housekeeper, and remembered well the 4th of February last, when Mr. Burton, the prisoner, called at the house.  Witness was dusting in an apartment close to her master’s business-room, from which it was only separated by a thin wooden partition.  The door was partly open, and she could see as well as hear what was going on without being seen herself.  She heard the conversation between the prisoner and her master; heard Mr. Hornby agree to sign the paper—­bill she ought to say—­for two hundred and fifty pounds; saw him do it, and then deliver it folded up to Mr. Burton.”