“Just about, sir.  Near shave, though, from what I see of the people a-comin’ out.  ’Eard the case ’ad gone against Sir Nigel, sir—­poor chap.  ’Ere, you, Dollops—­”

But Dollops was gone in his master’s wake, in his arms a huge, ungainly bundle that looked like a stove-pipe wrapped up in brown paper, gone through the courtroom door, without so much as passing the time of day with an old pal.  Petrie felt distinctly hurt about it, and sauntered back to his place with his smile gone, while Cleek, hurrying through the crowded court room and passing, by the sheer power of his name, the various court officials who would have stopped him, stopped only as he reached the space before the judge’s bench.  Already the jury were filing in, one by one, and taking their seats.  The black cap lay beside Mr. Justice Grainger’s spectacles, a sinister emblem, having its response in the white-faced man who stood in the dock, awaiting the verdict upon his life.

Cleek saw it all in one glance, and then spoke.

“Your Lordship,” he said, addressing the judge, who looked at him with raised eyebrows, “may I address the court?” The barristers arose, scandalized at the interruption, knowing not whether advantage for prosecution or defence lay in what this man had to say.  The clerk of the court stood aghast ready to order the court officers to eject the interloper who dared interrupt the course of the majestic law.  All stood poised for a breathless moment, held in check by the power of the man Cleek, or by uncertainty as to the action of the judge.

A tense pause, and then the court broke the silence, “You may speak.”

“Your Lordship, may it please the court,” said Cleek, “I have evidence here which will save this man’s life.  I demand to show it to the court.”

The barristers, held in check by the stern practice of the English law, which, unlike American practice does not allow counsel to becloud the issue with objection and technical argument, remained motionless.  They knew Cleek, and knew that here was the crisis of the case they had presented so learnedly.

“This is an unusual occurrence, sir,” at last spoke the judge, “and you are distinctly late.  The jury has returned and the foreman is about to pronounce the verdict.  What is it you have to say, sir?”

“Your Lordship, it is simply this.”  Cleek threw back his head.  “The prisoner at bar—­” He pointed to Merriton, who at the first sound of Cleek’s voice had spun round, a sudden hope finding birth in his dull eyes, “is innocent!  I have absolute proof.  Also—­” He switched round upon his heel and surveyed the court room, “I beg of your Lordship that you will immediately give orders for no person to leave this court.  The instigator of the crime is before my eyes.  Perhaps you do not know me, but I have been at work upon this case for some time, and am a colleague of Mr. Narkom of Scotland Yard.  My name is—­Cleek—­Hamilton Cleek.  I have your permission to continue?”