e did."

"And did you give any advice as to how she should proceed?"

"I told her to be on the look-out."

"No doubt you laid stress on the advantage, from a domestic point of
view, of securing this prisoner's detection?"

"Certainly I did, and I hoped and prayed as she might caught!"

Mrs. Sprowl was very shortly allowed to retire. For the defence there
was but one witness, and that was the laundress who had employed Ida.
Personal fault with Ida she had one at all to find; the sole cause of
her dismissal was the information given by Mrs. Sprowl. Perhaps she had
acted hastily and unkindly, but she had young girls working in the
laundry, and it behoved her to be careful of them.

Julian's part in the trial had been limited to an examination as to his
knowledge of Ida's alleged thefts. He declared that he knew nothing
save from his wife's statements to him. He had observed nothing in the
least suspicious.

A verdict was returned of "Guilty."

Had the prisoner anything to say? Nothing whatever. There was a pause,
a longer pause than seemed necessary. Then, without remark, she was
sentenced to be imprisoned for six months with hard labour.

Waymark had been drawn to the court in spite of himself. Strangely
quiet hitherto, a fear fell upon him the night be fore the trial. From
an early hour in the morning he walked about the streets, circling ever
nearer to the hateful place. All at once he found himself facing Mr.
Woodstock. The old man's face was darkly anxious, and he could not
change its expression quickly enough.

"Are you going in?" he said sharply.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall not," said Waymark. "I'll go to your place, and wait
there."

But when Abraham, whose eyes had not moved from the prisoner throughout
the proceedings, rose at length to leave, a step or two brought him to
a man who was leaning against the wall, powerless from conflicting
excitement, and deadly pale. It was Waymark. Mr. Woodstock took him by
the arm and led him out.

"Why couldn't you keep away?" the old man exclaimed hoarsely, and with
more of age in his voice than any one had ever yet heard in it.

Waymark shook himself free, and laughed as one laughs under torment.

CHAPTER XXV

ART AND MISERY

One Monday afternoon at the end of October--three months had gone by
since the trial--Waymark carried his rents to St. John Street Road as
usual.

"I'm going to Tottenham," said Mr. Woodstock. "You may as well co