possibility could the most malicious of opponents have selected a surer
means of torturing him.

"Is this legal?" asked Erica, lifting to him eyes that flashed with
righteous indignation.

"Oh, it is legal," he replied bitterly "the pound of flesh was legal. A
wife need not appear against her husband, but a daughter may be dragged
into court and forced to give evidence against her father."

As he spoke, such anger flashed from his eyes that the clerk shivered
all down his backbone. He thought he would take his departure as quickly
as might be, and drawing a little nearer, put down a coin upon the table
beside Erica.

"This fee is to cover your expenses, madame," he said.

"What!" exclaimed Erica, her anger leaping up into a sudden flame, "do
you think I shall take money from that man?"

She had an insane desire to snatch up the sovereign and fling it at the
clerk's head, but restraining herself merely flicked it back across the
table to him, just touching it with the back of her hand as though it
had been polluted.

"You can take that back again," she said, a look of scorn sweeping over
her face. "Tell Mr. Pogson that, when he martyrs people he need not say:
'The martyrdom will make you hungry here is luncheon money,' or 'The
torture will tire you here is your cab fare!'"

"But, madame, excuse me," said the clerk, looking much embarrassed. "I
must leave the money, I am bound to leave it."

"If you leave it, I shall just throw it into the fireplace before your
eyes," said Erica. "But if indeed it can't be sent back, then give it to
the first gutter child you meet do anything you like with it! Hang it on
your watch chain as a memento of the most cruel case your firm every had
to do with!"

Her color had come back again, her cheeks were glowing, in her wrath she
looked most beautiful; the clerk would have been less than human if he
had not felt sorry for her. There was a moment's silence; he glanced
from the daughter to the father, whose face was still pale and rigid.
A great pity surged up in the clerk's heart. He was a father himself;
involuntarily his thoughts turned to the little home at Kilburn where
Mary and Kitty would be waiting for him that evening. What if they
should ever be forced into a witness box to confirm a libel on his
personal character? A sort of moisture came to his eyes at the bare
idea. The counsel for the defense, too, was that Cringer, Q. C., the
greatest bully that ever wore silk. Th