“And from his appearance,” Wilmore remarked, as he called the waiter to bring some cigarettes, “I should never have imagined that he was anything else save a high-principled, well-born, straightforward sort of chap.  I never saw a less criminal type of face.”

They each in turn glanced at the subject of their discussion.  Oliver Hilditch’s good-looks had been the subject of many press comments during the last few days.  They were certainly undeniable.  His face was a little lined but his hair was thick and brown.  His features were regular, his forehead high and thoughtful, his mouth a trifle thin but straight and shapely.  Francis gazed at him like a man entranced.  The hours seemed to have slipped away.  He was back in the tea-shop, listening to the woman who spoke of terrible things.  He felt again his shivering abhorrence of her cold, clearly narrated story.  Again he shrank from the horrors from which with merciless fingers she had stripped the coverings.  He seemed to see once more the agony in her white face, to hear the eternal pain aching and throbbing in her monotonous tone.  He rose suddenly to his feet.

“Andrew,” he begged, “tell the fellow to bring the bill outside.  We’ll have our coffee and liqueurs there.”

Wilmore acquiesced willingly enough, but even as they turned towards the door Francis realised what was in store for him.  Oliver Hilditch had risen to his feet.  With a courteous little gesture he intercepted the passer-by.  Francis found himself standing side by side with the man for whose life he had pleaded that afternoon, within a few feet of the woman whose terrible story seemed to have poisoned the very atmosphere he breathed, to have shown him a new horror in life, to have temporarily, at any rate, undermined every joy and ambition he possessed.

“Mr. Ledsam,” Hilditch said, speaking with quiet dignity, “I hope that you will forgive the liberty I take in speaking to you here.  I looked for you the moment I was free this afternoon, but found that you had left the Court.  I owe you my good name, probably my life.  Thanks are poor things but they must be spoken.”

“You owe me nothing at all,” Francis replied, in a tone which even he found harsh.  “I had a brief before me and a cause to plead.  It was a chapter out of my daily work.”

“That work can be well done or ill,” the other reminded him gently.  “In your case, my presence here proves how well it was done.  I wish to present you to my wife, who shares my gratitude.”

Francis bowed to the woman, who now, at her husband’s words, raised her eyes.  For the first time he saw her smile.  It seemed to him that the effort made her less beautiful.

“Your pleading was very wonderful, Mr. Ledsam,” she said, a very subtle note of mockery faintly apparent in her tone.  “We poor mortals find it difficult to understand that with you all that show of passionate earnestness is merely—­what did you call it? —­a chapter in your day’s work?  It is a great gift to be able to argue from the brain and plead as though from the heart.”