“Gentlemen of the jury, before I call my evidence, I direct your attention to the bandage the accused is still wearing.  He gave himself this wound with his Army razor, adding, if I may say so, insult to the injury he was inflicting on his country.  He pleads not guilty; and before the magistrates he said that absence from his wife was preying on his mind”—­the advocate’s close lips widened—­“Well, gentlemen, if such an excuse is to weigh with us in these days, I’m sure I don’t know what’s to happen to the Empire.”

‘No, by George!’ thought Mr. Bosengate.

The evidence of the first witness, a room-mate who had caught the prisoner’s hand, and of the sergeant, who had at once been summoned, was conclusive and he began to cherish a hope that they would get through without withdrawing, and he would be home before five.  But then a hitch occurred.  The regimental doctor failed to respond when his name was called; and the judge having for the first time that day showed himself capable of human emotion, intimated that he would adjourn until the morrow.

Mr. Bosengate received the announcement with equanimity.  He would be home even earlier!  And gathering up the sheets of paper he had scribbled on, he put them in his pocket and got up.  The would-be suicide was being taken out of the court—­a shambling drab figure with shoulders hunched.  What good were men like that in these days!  What good!  The prisoner looked up.  Mr. Bosengate encountered in full the gaze of those large brown eyes, with the white showing underneath.  What a suffering, wretched, pitiful face!  A man had no business to give you a look like that!  The prisoner passed on down the stairs, and vanished.  Mr. Bosengate went out and across the market place to the garage of the hotel where he had left his car.  The sun shone fiercely and he thought:  ’I must do some watering in the garden.’  He brought the car out, and was about to start the engine, when someone passing said:  “Good evenin’.  Seedy-lookin’ beggar that last prisoner, ain’t he?  We don’t want men of that stamp.”  It was his neighbour on the jury, the commercial traveller, in a straw hat, with a little brown bag already in his hand and the froth of an interrupted drink on his moustache.  Answering curtly:  “Good evening!” and thinking:  ‘Nor of yours, my friend!’ Mr. Bosengate started the car with unnecessary clamour.  But as if brought back to life by the commercial traveller’s remark, the prisoner’s figure seemed to speed along too, turning up at Mr. Bosengate his pitifully unhappy eyes.  Want of his wife!—­queer excuse that for trying to put it out of his power ever to see her again!  Why!  Half a loaf, even a slice, was better than no bread.  Not many of that neurotic type in the Army—­thank Heaven!  The lugubrious figure vanished, and Mr. Bosengate pictured instead the form of his own wife bending over her “Gloire de Dijon roses” in the rosery, where she generally worked a little before tea now