The sight of her emotion penetrated through his spectacles to something lying deep in the old butler.

“Don’t you take on,” he said; “I’ll stand by yer.  He shan’t treat yer with impuniness.”

To his uncomplicated nature the affair was still one of tit for tat.  Mrs. Hughs became mute again.  Her torn heart yearned to cancel the penalty that would fall on all of them, to deliver Hughs from the common enemy—­the Law; but a queer feeling of pride and bewilderment, and a knowledge, that, to demand an eye for an eye was expected of all self-respecting persons, kept her silent.

Thus, then, they reached the great consoler, the grey resolver of all human tangles, haven of men and angels, the police court.  It was situated in a back street.  Like trails of ooze, when the tide, neither ebb nor flow, is leaving and making for some estuary, trails of human beings were moving to and from it.  The faces of these shuffling “shadows” wore a look as though masked with some hard but threadbare stuff-the look of those whom Life has squeezed into a last resort.  Within the porches lay a stagnant marsh of suppliants, through whose centre trickled to and fro that stream of ooze.  An old policeman, too, like some grey lighthouse, marked the entrance to the port of refuge.  Close to that lighthouse the old butler edged his way.  The love of regularity, and of an established order of affairs, born in him and fostered by a life passed in the service of the “Honorable Bateson” and the other gentry, made him cling instinctively to the only person in this crowd whom he could tell for certain to be on the side of law and order.  Something in his oblong face and lank, scanty hair parted precisely in the middle, something in that high collar supporting his lean gills, not subservient exactly, but as it were suggesting that he was in league against all this low-class of fellow, made the policeman say to him: 

“What’s your business, daddy?”

“Oh!” the old butler answered.  “This poor woman.  I’m a witness to her battery.”

The policeman cast his not unkindly look over the figure of the seamstress.  “You stand here,” he said; “I’ll pass you in directly.”

And soon by his offices the two were passed into the port of refuge.

They sat down side by side on the edge of a long, hard, wooden bench; Creed fixing his eyes, whose colour had run into a brownish rim round their centres, on the magistrate, as in old days sun-worshippers would sit blinking devoutly at the sun; and Mrs. Hughs fixing her eyes on her lap, while tears of agony trickled down her face.  On her unwounded arm the baby slept.  In front of them, and unregarded, filed one by one those shadows who had drunk the day before too deeply of the waters of forgetfulness.  To-day, instead, they were to drink the water of remembrance, poured out for them with no uncertain hand.  And somewhere very far away, it may have been that Justice