ounded with trumpets, not as
yet perfect, not quite assured even in the mind of one man; but yet
assuring in the mind of that man,--and indeed of one other,--almost
to conviction. That man was Captain Yorke Clayton, and that other man
was only poor Hunter, the wounded policeman. For such triumph as was
theirs a victim is needed; and in this case the victim, the hoped-for
victim, was Mr. Lax.

Nothing had ever been made out in regard to the murder of Terry
Carroll in the Court House at Galway. Irish mysteries are coming to
be unriddled now, but there will be no unriddling of that. Yorke
Clayton, together with Hunter and all the police of County Galway,
could do nothing in regard to that mystery. They had struggled their
very best, and, from the nature of the crime, had found themselves
almost obliged to discover the perpetrator. The press of the two
countries, the newspapers in other respects so hostile to each other,
had united in declaring that the police were bound to know all about
it. The police had determined to know nothing about it, because the
Government did not dare to bring forward such evidence. This was the
Irish Landleague view; and though it contained an accusation against
the Government for having contrived the murder itself, it was all
the better on that account. The English papers simply said that the
Galway police must be fast asleep. This man had been murdered when
in the very hands of the officers of justice. The judge had seen
the shots fired. The victim fell into the hands of four policemen.
The pistol was found at his feet. It was done in daylight, and all
Galway was looking on. The kind of things that were said by one set
of newspapers and another drove Yorke Clayton almost out of his wits.
He had to maintain a show of good humour, and he did maintain it
gallantly. "My hero is a hero still," whispered Edith to her own
pillow. But, in truth, nothing could be done as to that Galway case.
Mr. Lax was still in custody, and was advised by counsel not to give
any account of himself at that time. It was indecent on the part of
the prosecution that he should be asked to do so. So said the lawyers
on his side, but it was clear that nobody in the court and nobody in
Galway could be got to say that he or she had seen him do it. And
yet Yorke Clayton had himself seen the hip of the stooping man. "I
suppose I couldn't swear to it," he said to himself; and it would
be hard to see how he could swear to the man