he ground, with the intelligence fresh in my mind.

I felt confidence, on the whole, in Philippa's sense of humour.

Then rose the temptation.

Trust this man (William Evans, late the Sphynx) to the vaunted array of
justice!

Let him have a run for his money.

Nay, more.

Go down and see the fun!

Why hesitate? You cannot possibly be implicated in the deed. You will
enjoy a position nearly unique in human history. You will see the man,
of whose murder you thought you were guilty, tried for the offence which
you know was committed by your wife.

Every sin is not easy. My sense of honour arose against this temptation.
I struggled, but I was mastered. I _would_ go and see the trial. Home
I went and broached the subject to Philippa. The brave girl never
blenched. She had no hesitations, no scruples to conquer.

'Oh! Basil,' she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, 'wot larx! When do we
start?'

The reader will admit that I did myself no injustice when, at the
commencement of this tale, I said I had wallowed in crime.

CHAPTER XII.--Judge Juggins.

WE got down to Newnham, where the 'Sizes were held, on the morning
of September 20th. There we discovered that we had an hour or two for
refreshment, and I may say that both Philippa and I employed that time
to the best advantage. While at the hotel I tried to obtain the file of
the _Times_. I wanted to look back and see if I could find the account
of the magisterial proceedings against the truly unlucky William Evans.

After all, should I call him unlucky? He had escaped the snare I had
laid for him, and perhaps (such things have been) even a Newnham jury
might find him not guilty.

But the file of the _Times_ was not forthcoming.

I asked the sleepy-eyed Teutonic waiter for it. He merely answered, with
the fatuous patronising grin of the German _kellner_:--

'You vant?'

'I want the file of the Times!'

'I have the corkscrew of the good landlord; but the file of the _Times_
I have it not. Have you your boots, your fish-sauce, your currycomb?' he
went on. Then, lapsing into irrelevant local gossip, 'the granddaughter
of the blacksmith has the landing-net of the bad tailor.'

'I want my bill, my note, my _addition_, my _consommation_,' I answered
angrily.

'Very good bed, very good post-horse,' he replied at random, and I left
the County Hotel without being able to find out why suspicion had fallen
on "William Evans".

We hailed one of the cabs which s