“What makes you think so?”

“Well, she said something to that effect the other day.”

“She’s a very interesting, clever woman,” interposed Daventry, with sudden warmth.

“I’m sure she is.  We must see.  It’s very kind of her.  Poor woman!  What dreadful anxiety she must be in to-day!  You’ll all be glad when it’s over.”

When the two friends were out in the sunshine, walking towards the Strand, Daventry said: 

“Why is your wife against Mrs. Clarke?”

“She isn’t.  What makes you thinks so?”

“I’m quite sure she doesn’t want to know her, even if she gets the verdict.”

“Well, of course all this sort of thing is—­it’s very far away from Rosamund.”

“You don’t mean to say you doubt Mrs. Clarke?”

“No, but——­”

“Surely if she’s innocent she’s as good as any other woman.”

“I know, but——­I suppose it’s like this:  there are different ways of being good, and perhaps Mrs. Clarke’s way isn’t Rosamund’s.  In fact, we know it isn’t.”

Daventry said nothing more on the subject; he began to discuss the case in all its bearings, and presently dwelt upon the great power English judges have over the decisions of juries.

“Mrs. Clarke gave her evidence splendidly on the whole,” he said.  “And Hadi Bey made an excellent impression.  My one fear is that fellow Aristide Dumeny.  You didn’t hear him, but, of course, you read his evidence.  He was perfectly composed and as clever as he could be in the box, but I’m sure, somehow, the jury were against him.”

“Why?”

“I hardly know.  It may be something in his personality.”

“I believe he’s a beast,” said Dion.

“There!” exclaimed Daventry, wrinkling his forehead.  “If the Judge thinks as you do it may just turn things against us.”

“Why did she make a friend of the fellow?”

“Because he’s chock-full of talent and knowledge, and she loves both.  Dion, my boy, the mind can play the devil with us as well as the body.  But I hope—­I hope for the right verdict.  Anyhow I’ve done well, and shall get other cases out of this.  The odd thing is that Mrs. Clarke’s drained me dry of egoism.  I care only to win for her.  I couldn’t bear to see her go out of court with a ruined reputation.  My nerves are all on edge.  If Mrs. Clarke loses, how d’you think she’ll take it?”

“Standing up.”

“I expect you’re right.  But I don’t believe I shall take it standing.  Perhaps some women make us men feel for them more than they feel for themselves.  Don’t look at me in court whatever you do.”

They had arrived at the Law Courts.  He hurried away.

Dion’s place was again beside Mrs. Chetwinde, who looked unusually alive, and whose vagueness had been swept away by something—­anxiety for her friend, perhaps, or the excitement of following day after day an unusually emotional cause celebre.