t Devizes, should or should not be on
the jury. The man himself objected that, being a butcher, he was, by
reason of the second nature acquired in his business, too cruel, and
bloody-minded to be entrusted with an affair of life and death. To a
proposition in itself so reasonable no direct answer was made; but it
was argued with great power on behalf of the crown, which seemed to
think at the time that the whole case depended on getting this one
particular man into the jury box, that the recalcitrant juryman
was not in truth a butcher, that he was only a dealer in meat, and
that though the stain of the blood descended the cruelty did not.
Fenwick remained there till he heard the case given against the
pseudo-butcher, and then retired from the court. He had, however,
just seen Carry Brattle and her father seated side by side on a bench
in a little outside room appropriated to the witnesses, and there
had been a constable there seeming to stand on guard over them. The
miller was sitting, leaning on his stick, with his eyes fixed upon
the ground, and Carry was pale, wretched, and draggled. Sam had not
yet made his appearance.

"I'm afeard, sir, he'll be in trouble," said Carry to the Vicar.

"Let 'un alone," said the miller; "when they wants 'im he'll be here.
He know'd more about it nor I did."

That afternoon Fenwick went to the club of which he and Gilmore were
both members, and found that his friend was in London. He had been
so, at least, that morning at nine o'clock. According to the porter
at the club door, Mr. Gilmore called there every morning for his
letters as soon as the club was open. He did not eat his breakfast
in the house, nor, as far as the porter's memory went, did he even
enter the club. Fenwick had lodged himself at an hotel in the
immediate neighbourhood of Pall-Mall, and he made up his mind that
his only chance of catching his friend was to be at the steps of
the club door when it was opened at nine o'clock. So he eat his
dinner,--very much in solitude, for on the 28th of August it is not
often that the coffee rooms of clubs are full,--and in the evening
took himself to one of the theatres which was still open. His club
had been deserted, and it had seemed to him that the streets also
were empty. One old gentleman, who, together with himself, had
employed the forces of the establishment that evening, had told him
that there wasn't a single soul left in London. He had gone to his
tailor's and had