“And you are the only owner of all these patent rights?”

“I am, sir.”

“What is your profession?”

“I was trained for a mechanical engineer.”

“What has been your principal employment?”

“Invention.”

“When you left New York, whither did you go?”

“To Sevenoaks.”

“How many years ago was that?”

“Eleven or twelve, I suppose.”

“Now I want you to tell to the Court, in a plain, brief way, the history of your life in Sevenoaks, giving with sufficient detail an account of all your dealings with the defendant in this case, so that we may perfectly understand how your inventions came into Mr. Belcher’s hands, and why you have never derived any benefit from them.”

It was a curious illustration of the inventor’s nature that, at this moment, with his enemy and tormentor before him, he shrank from giving pain.  Mr. Cavendish noticed his hesitation, and was on his feet in an instant.  “May it please the court,” said he, “there is a question concerning identity that comes up at this point, and I beg the privilege of asking it here.”

The judge looked at Mr. Balfour, and the latter said:  “Certainly.”

“I would like to ask the witness,” said Mr. Cavendish, “whether he is the Paul Benedict who left the city about the time at which he testifies that he went away, in consequence of his connection with a band of counterfeiters.  Did you, sir, invent their machinery, or did you not?”

“I did not,” answered the witness—­his face all aflame.  The idea that he could be suspected, or covertly charged, with crime, in the presence of friends and strangers, was so terrible that the man tottered on his feet.

Mr. Cavendish gave a significant glance at his client, whose face bloomed with a brutal smile, and then sat down.

“Is that all?” inquired Mr. Balfour.

“All, for the present,” responded Mr. Cavendish, sneeringly, and with mock courtesy.

“May it please the Court,” said Mr. Balfour, “I hope I may be permitted to say that the tactics of the defendant are worthy of his cause.”  Then turning to Mr. Benedict, he said, “I trust the witness will not be disturbed by the insult that has been gratuitously offered him, and will tell the history which I have asked him to tell.”

Mr. Cavendish had made a mistake.  At this insult, and the gratification which it afforded Mr. Belcher, the inventor’s pity died out of him, and he hardened to his work.

“When I went to Sevenoaks,” said he, “I was very poor, as I have always been since.  I visited Mr. Belcher’s mill, and saw how great improvements could be made in his machines and processes; and then I visited him, and told him what I could do for him.  He furnished me with money for my work, and for securing the patents on my inventions, with the verbal promise that I should share in such profits as might accrue from their use.  He was