“Julian,” said Waymark, using his friend’s first name by exception, “if this goes on, you will be ill.  What the deuce shall we do then?”

“No, I shall not be ill.  It will be all right if I can get sleep.”

He was silent for a little, then spoke, with his eyes on the ground.

“Waymark, is this true they say about her—­about the former time?”

“Yes; it is true.”

Waymark in turn was silent.

“I suppose,” he continued presently, “I owe you an apology.”

“None.  It was right of you to act as you did.”

He was going to say something else, but checked himself.  Waymark noticed this, watched his face for a moment, and spoke with some earnestness.

“But it was in that only I misled you.  Do you believe me when I repeat that she and I were never anything but friends!”

Julian looked up with a gleam of gratitude in his eyes.

“Yes, I believe you!”

“And be sure of this,” Waymark went on, “whether or not this accusation is true, it does not in the least affect the nobility of her character.  You and I are sufficiently honest, in the true sense of the word, to understand this.”

Waymark only saw Mr. Woodstock once or twice in the next fortnight, and very slight mention was made between them of the coming trial.  He himself was not to be involved in the case in any way; as a witness on Ida’s side he could do no good, and probably would prejudice her yet more in the eyes of the jury.  It troubled him a little to find with what complete calmness he could await the result; often he said to himself that he must be sadly lacking in human sympathy.  Julian Casti, on the other hand, had passed into a state of miserable deadness; Waymark in vain tried to excite hope in him.  He came to his friend’s every evening, and sat there for hours in dark reverie.

“What will become of her!” Julian asked once.  “In either case—­ what will become of her!”

“Woodstock shall help us in that,” Waymark replied.  “She must get a place of some kind.”

“How dreadfully she is suffering, and how dark life will be before her!”

And so the day of the trial came.  The pawnbroker’s evidence was damaging.  The silver spoon had been pledged, he asserted, at the same time with another article for which Ida possessed the duplicate.  The inscriptions on the duplicates supported him in this, and he professed to have not the least doubt as to the prisoner’s identity.  Pressed in cross-examination, he certainly threw some suspicion on the trustworthiness of his assertions.  “You positively swear that these two articles were pledged by the prisoner, and at the same time!” asked the cross-examiner.  “Well,” was the impatient reply, “there’s the same date and name, and both in my writing.”  But even thus much of doubt he speedily retracted, and his evidence could not be practically undermined.

Harriet’s examination was long and searching, but she bore it without the slightest damage to her credit.  Plain, straightforward, and stubborn were all her replies and assertions; she did not contradict herself once.  Waymark marvelled at her appearance and manner.  The venom of malice had acted upon her as a tonic, strengthening her intellect, and bracing her nerves.  Once she looked directly into Ida’s face and smiled.