appeared, as usual, in an order in inverse ratio to the
interest and importance of their respective testimonies--the clerk of
the Miners' Bank into whose hands the notes had been paid, policemen,
Mr. Dodge, and others, who only repeated what we already know. Even the
appearance of Solomon Coe was marked by nothing especial, save to the
eyes of the accused. In the triumphant bearing of this witness, and in
the malignant glance which he had shot toward him ere he began his tale,
Richard read that the charge against him was to be pushed to the bitter
end. It was in this man's power, more than in any other's (save one), to
extenuate or to set down in malice; and there was no doubt in his
rival's mind (though his rancor took so blunt a form that it might well
have been mistaken by others for outspoken candor) which of the two
courses Solomon had chosen. He showed neither scruple nor hesitation;
every word was distinct and decisive, and on one occasion (though the
repetition of it was forbidden by the judge) even accompanied by a blow
with his sledge-hammer fist in the way of corroboration. It seemed that
the story he had to tell was, after all, a very plain one.

When John Trevethick, who was the last witness examined for the
prosecution, strode into the box, this feeling was intensified. His
giant frame and massive features seemed, somehow, to associate
themselves with a plain story; and his evidence was as much in
consonance with his counsel's speech as evidence could be with pleading.

But when he had quite done with his unvarnished tale, and when Mr.
Smoothbore had given him a parting nod in sign that _he_ had done with
him, Sergeant Balais rose, for the first time, with an uplifted finger,
as though, but for that signal of delay, the honest landlord would have
fled incontinently, and hanged himself, like another Judas.

"You have a daughter, I believe, Mr. Trevethick?" and the Sergeant
looked at the jury, with elevated eyebrows, as though he would have
said, "If we can get even that admission out of this hoary miscreant, we
may consider ourselves fortunate."

And indeed John Trevethick did hesitate for one instant ere he replied.
He had not even looked at the prisoner before, but at that question he
gave an involuntary glance toward him, and met Richard's answering look.
When two men are fighting, each with his hands upon the throat of the
other, not for dear life, but for the longed-for death of his foe, it is
possi