Mrs. Wareing appeared in answer to the call, and was duly sworn “to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”  She was a good-looking woman, of perhaps forty years of age, and bore a striking resemblance to her son.  She rapidly, smoothly, and unhesitatingly confirmed the evidence of Headley to a tittle.  She trembled, I observed, excessively; and on the examining counsel intimating that he had no more questions to ask, turned hastily to leave the box.

“Stay—­stay, my good woman,” I exclaimed; “you and I must have some talk together before we part.”

She started, and looked at me with frightened earnestness; and then her nervous glances stole towards Mr. Silas Thorndyke.  There was no comfort there:  in his countenance she only saw the reflex of the agitation and anxiety which marked her own.  Sleek Silas, I could see, already repented of the rash move he had made, and would have given a good deal to get his witness safely and quietly out of court.

It was now nearly dark, and observing that it was necessary the court and jury should see as well as hear the witness whilst under examination, I requested that lights should be brought in.  This was done.  Two candles were placed in front of the witness-box, one on each side of Mrs. Wareing; a few others were disposed about the bench and jury desks.  The effect of this partial lighting of the gloomy old court was, that the witness stood out in strong and bright relief from the surrounding shadows, rendering the minutest change or play of her features distinctly visible.  Mr. Silas Thorndyke was, from his position, thrown entirely into the shade, and any telegraphing between him and the witness was thus rendered impossible.  This preparation, as if for some extraordinary and solemn purpose, together with the profound silence which reigned in the court, told fearfully, as I expected, upon the nerves of Mrs. Elizabeth Wareing.  She already seemed as if about to swoon with agitation and ill-defined alarm.

“Pray, madam,” said I, “is your name Wareing or Tucker?”

She did not answer, and I repeated the question.  “Tucker,” she at last replied in a tremulous whisper.

“I thought so.  And pray, Mrs. Tucker, were you ever ‘in trouble’ in London for robbing your lodgings?”

I thought she attempted to answer, but no sound passed her lips.  One of the ushers of the court handed her a glass of water at my suggestion, and she seemed to recover somewhat.  I pressed my question; and at last she replied in the same low, agitated voice, “Yes, I have been.”

“I know you have.  Mr. Silas Thorndyke, I believe, was your bail on that occasion, and the matter was, I understand, compromised—­arranged—­at all events the prosecution was not pressed.  Is not that so?”

“Yes—­no—­yes.”

“Very well:  either answer will do.  You lived also, I believe, with Mr. Thorndyke, as his housekeeper of course, when he was in business as a concocter and vender of infallible drugs and pills?”