“How did this girl lose her place at the laundry?” asked Mr. Helter.

Waymark could not say; for all he knew it was through her own fault.

“And that’s all you can tell us, Waymark?” observed Mr. Woodstock, who had listened with a show of indifference.  “Well, I have no more time at present.  Look the thing up, Helter.”

On reaching home, Waymark wrote a few lines to Ida, merely to say that Grim was provided for, and assure her that she was not forgotten.  In a day or two he received a reply.  The official envelope almost startled him at first.  Inside was written this: 

“You have been kind.  I thank you for everything.  Try to think kindly of me, whatever happens; I shall be conscious of it, and it will give me strength.  I. S.”

The week went by, and Ida again appeared in court.  Mr. Woodstock went with Waymark, out of curiosity, he said.  The statement of the case against the prisoner sounded very grave.  What Harriet had said about the discovery of the pawn-ticket for her silver spoon was true.  Ida’s face was calm, but paler yet and thinner.  When she caught sight of Harriet Casti, she turned her eyes away quickly, and with a look of trouble.  She desired to ask no question, simply gave her low and distinct “Not guilty.”  She was committed for trial.

Waymark watched Mr. Woodstock, who was examining Ida all the time; he felt sure that he heard something like a catching of the breath when the girl’s face first became visible.

“And what’s your opinion?” asked Waymark.

“I couldn’t see the girl very well,” said the old man coldly.

“She hasn’t quite a fortnight to wait.”

“No.”

“You’re sure Helter will do all that can he done?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Woodstock nodded his head, and walked off by himself.

Julian Casti was ill.  With difficulty he had dragged himself to the court, and his sufferings as he sat there were horribly evident on his white face.  Waymark met him just as Mr. Woodstock walked off; and the two went home together by omnibus, not speaking on the way.

“She will be convicted,” was Julian’s first utterance, when he had sat for a few minutes in Waymark’s room, whilst Waymark himself paced up and down.  The latter turned, and saw that tears were. on his friends hollow cheeks.

“Did you sleep better last night?” he asked.

“Good God, no!  I never closed my eyes.  That’s the third night without rest.  Waymark, get me an opiate of some kind, or I shall kill myself; and let me sleep here.”

“What will your wife say?”

“What do I care what she says!” cried Julian, with sudden excitement, his muscles quivering, and his cheeks flaming all at once.  “Don’t use that word ‘wife,’ it is profanation; I can’t bear it!  If I see her to-night, I can’t answer for what I may do.  Curse her to all eternity!”

He sank beck in exhaustion.