our to create prejudice against a man
because of his own evidence given with great frankness. Not one single
word of evidence had the defence brought to discredit Crozier, save by
Crozier's own word of mouth; and if Crozier had cared to commit perjury,
the defence could not have proved him guilty of it. Even if Crozier had
not told the truth as it was, counsel for the defence would have found
it impossible to convict him of falsehood. But even if Crozier was a
perjurer, justice demanded that his evidence should be weighed as truth
from its own inherent probability and supported by surrounding facts.
In a long experience he had never seen animus against a witness so
recklessly exhibited as by counsel in this case.

The judge was not quite so severe in his summing up, but he did say of
Crozier that his direct replies to Burlingame's questions, intended
to prejudice him in the eyes of the community into which he had come a
stranger, bore undoubted evidence of truth; for if he had chosen to say
what might have saved him from the suspicions, ill or well founded, of
his present fellow-citizens, he might have done so with impunity, save
for the reproach of his own conscience. On the whole, the judge summed
up powerfully against the prisoner Logan, with the result that the jury
were not out for more than a half-hour. Their verdict was, guilty of
murder.

In the scene which followed, Crozier dropped his head into his hand and
sat immovable as the judge put on the black cap and delivered sentence.
When the prisoner left the dock, and the crowd began to disperse,
satisfied that justice had been done--save in that small circle where
the M'Mahons were supreme--Crozier rose with other witnesses to leave.
As he looked ahead of him the first face he saw was that of Kitty Tynan,
and something in it startled him. Where had he seen that look before?
Yes, he remembered. It was when he was twenty-one and had been sent away
to Algiers because he was falling in love with a farmer's daughter. As
he drove down a lane with his father towards the railway station, those
long years ago, he had seen the girl's face looking at him from the
window of a labourer's cottage at the crossroads; and its stupefied
desolation haunted him for many years, even after the girl had married
and gone to live in Scotland--that place of torment for an Irish soul.

The look in Kitty Tynan's face reminded him of that farmer's lass in his
boyhood's history. He was to b