The magistrates took their seats on the bench. The bench would not hold them. All in the commission of the peace flocked in. Any other day they would not have been at West Lynne. As to the room, the wonder was how it ever got emptied again, so densely was it packed. Sir Francis Levison’s friends were there in a body. They did not believe a word of the accusation. “A scandalous affair,” cried they, “got up, probably, by some sneak of the scarlet-and-purple party.” Lord Mount Severn, who chose to be present, had a place assigned him on the bench. Lord Vane got the best place he could fight for amid the crowd. Mr. Justice Hare sat as chairman, unusually stern, unbending, and grim. No favor would he show, but no unfairness. Had it been to save his son from hanging, he would not adjudge guilt to Francis Levison against his conscience. Colonel Bethel was likewise on the bench, stern also.

In that primitive place—primitive in what related to the justice-room and the justices—things were not conducted with the regularity of the law. The law there was often a dead letter. No very grave cases were decided there; they went to Lynneborough. A month at the treadmill, or a week’s imprisonment, or a bout of juvenile whipping, were pretty near the harshest sentences pronounced. Thus, in this examination, as in others, evidence was advanced that was inadmissible—at least, that would have been inadmissible in a more orthodox court—hearsay testimony, and irregularities of that nature. Mr. Rubiny watched the case on behalf of Sir Francis Levison.

Mr. Ball opened the proceedings, giving the account which had been imparted to him by Richard Hare, but not mentioning Richard as his informant. He was questioned as to whence he obtained his information, but replied that it was not convenient at present to disclose the source. The stumbling block of the magistrates appeared to be the identifying Levison with Thorn. Ebenezer James came forward to prove it.

“What do you know of the prisoner, Sir Francis Levison?” questioned Justice Herbert.

“Not much,” responded Mr. Ebenezer. “I used to know him as Captain Thorn.”

“Captain Thorn?”

“Afy Hallijohn called him captain; but I understood he was but a lieutenant.”

“From whom did you understand that?”

“From Afy. She was the only person I heard speak of him.”

“And you say you were in the habit of seeing him in the place mentioned, the Abbey Wood?”

“I saw him there repeatedly; also at Hallijohn’s cottage.”

“Did you speak with him as Thorn?”

“Two or three times. I addressed him as Thorn, and he answered to the name. I had no suspicion but that it was his name. Otway Bethel”—casting his eyes on Mr. Otway, who stood in his shaggy attire—“also knew him as Thorn, and so I have no doubt, did Locksley, for he was always in the wood.”

“Anybody else?”

“Poor Hallijohn himself knew him as Thorn. He said to Afy one day, in my presence, that he would not have that confounded dandy, Thorn, coming there.”

“Were those the words he used?”

“They were; ‘that confounded dandy Thorn.’ I remember Afy’s reply—it was rather insolent. She said Thorn was as free to come there as anybody else, and she would not be found fault with, as though she was not fit to take care of herself.”

“That is nothing to the purpose. Were any others acquainted with this Thorn?”

“I should imagine the elder sister, Joyce, was. And the one who knew him best of all of us was young Richard Hare.”

Old Richard Hare, from his place on the bench, frowned menacingly at an imaginary Richard.

“What took Thorn into the wood so often?”

“He was courting Afy.”

“With an intention of marrying her?”

“Well—no,” cried Mr. Ebenezer, with a twist of the mouth; “I should not suppose he entertained any intention of the sort. He used to come over from Swainson, or its neighborhood, riding a splendid horse.”

“Whom did you suppose him to be?”

“I supposed him to be moving in the upper ranks of life. There was no doubt of it. His dress, his manners, his tone, all proclaimed it. He appeared to wish to shun observation, and evidently did not care to be seen by any of us. He rarely arrived until twilight.”

“Did you see him there on the night of Hallijohn’s murder?”

“No. I was not there myself that evening, so could not have seen him.”

“Did a suspicion cross your mind at any time that he may have been guilty of the murder?”

“Never. Richard Hare was accused of it by universal belief, and it never occurred to me to suppose he had not done it.”

“Pray, how many years is this ago?” sharply interrupted Mr. Rubiny, perceiving that the witness was done with.

“Let’s see!” responded Mr. Ebenezer. “I can’t be sure as to a year without reckoning up. A dozen, if not more.”

“And you mean to say that you can swear to Sir Francis Levison being that man, with all these years intervening?”

“I swear that he is the man. I am as positive of his identity as I am of my own.”

“Without having seen him from that time to this?” derisively returned the lawyer. “Nonsense, witness.”

“I did not say that,” returned Mr. Ebenezer.

The court pricked up its ears. “Have you seen him between then and now?” asked one of them.

“Once.”

“Where and when?”

“It was in London, about eighteen months after the period of the trial!”

“What communication had you with him?”

“None at all. I only saw him—quite by chance.”

“And whom did you suppose him to be then—Thorn or Levison?”

“Thorn, certainly. I never dreamt of his being Levison until he appeared here, now, to oppose Mr. Carlyle.”

A wild, savage curse shot through Sir Francis’s heart as he heard the words. What demon had possessed him to venture his neck into the lion’s den? There had been a strong hidden power holding him back from it, independent of his dislike to face Mr. Carlyle; how could he be so mad as to disregard it? How? Could a man go from his doom? Can any?

“You may have been mistaken, witness, as to the identity of the man you saw in London. It may not have been the Thorn you had known here.”

Mr. Ebenezer James smiled a peculiar smile. “I was not mistaken,” he said, his tone sounding remarkably significant. “I am upon my oath.”

“Call Aphrodite Hallijohn.”

The lady appeared, supported by her friend, the policeman. And Mr. Ebenezer James was desired by Mr. Ball to leave the court while she gave her evidence. Doubtless he had his reasons.

“What is your name?”

“Afy,” replied she, looking daggers at everybody, and sedulously keeping her back turned upon Francis Levison and Otway Bethel.

“You name in full, if you please. You were not christened ‘Afy’?”

“Aphrodite Hallijohn. You all know my name as well as I do. Where’s the use of asking useless questions?”

“Swear the witness,” spoke up Mr. Justice Hare. The first word he had uttered.

“I won’t be sworn,” said Afy.

“You must be sworn,” said Mr. Justice Herbert.

“But I say I won’t,” repeated Afy.

“Then we must commit you to prison for contempt of court.”

There was no mercy in his tone, and Afy turned white. Sir John Dobede interposed.

“Young woman, had you a hand in the murder of your father?”

“I?” returned Afy, struggling with passion, temper, and excitement. “How dare you ask me such an unnatural question, sir? He was the kindest father,” she added, battling with her tears. “I loved him dearly. I would have saved his life with mine.”

“And yet you refuse to give evidence that may assist in bringing his destroyer to justice.”

“No; I don’t refuse on that score. I should like his destroyer to be hanged, and I’d go to see it. But who knows what other questions you may be asking me, about things that concerned neither you nor anybody else? That’s why I object.”

“We have only to deal with what bears upon the murder. The questions put to you will relate to that.”

Afy considered. “Well, you may swear me, then,” she said.

Little notion had she of the broad gauge those questions would run upon. And she was sworn accordingly. Very unwillingly yet; for Afy, who would have told lies by the bushel unsworn, did look upon an oath as a serious matter, and felt herself compelled to speak the truth when examined under it.

“How did you become acquainted with a gentleman you often saw in those days—Captain Thorn?”

“There,” uttered the dismayed Afy. “You are beginning already. He had nothing to do with it—he did not do the murder.”

“You have sworn to answer the questions put,” was the uncompromising rejoinder. “How did you become acquainted with Captain Thorn?”

“I met him at Swainson,” doggedly answered Afy. “I went over there one day, just for a spree, and I met him at a pastrycook’s.”

“And he fell in love with your pretty face?” said Lawyer Ball, taking up the examination.

In the incense to her vanity, Afy nearly forgot her scruples. “Yes, he did,” she answered, casting a smile of general satisfaction round upon the court.

“And got out of you where you lived, and entered upon his courting, riding over nearly every evening to see you?”

“Well,” acknowledged Afy, “there was no harm in it.”

“Oh, certainly not!” acquiesced the lawyer, in a pleasant, free tone, to put the witness at her ease. “Rather good, I should say: I wish I had had the like luck. Did you know him at the time by the name of Levison?”

“No! He said he was Captain Thorn, and I thought he was.”

“Did you know where he lived?”

“No! He never said that. I thought he was stopping temporarily at Swainson.”

“And—dear me! what a sweet bonnet that is you have on!”

Afy, whose egregious vanity was her besetting sin—who possessed enough of it for any ten pretty women going—cast a glance out of the corners of her eyes at the admired bonnet, and became Mr. Ball’s entirely.

“And how long was it, after your first meeting with him, before you discovered his real name?”

“Not for a long time—several months.”

“Subsequent to the murder, I presume?”

“Oh, yes!”

Mr. Ball’s eyes gave a twinkle, and the unconscious Afy surreptitiously smoothed, with one finger, the glossy parting of her hair.

“Besides Captain Thorn, what gentlemen were in the wood the night of the murder?”

“Richard Hare was there. Otway Bethel and Locksley also. Those were all I saw until the crowd came.”

“Were Locksley and Mr. Otway Bethel martyrs to your charms, as the other two were?”

“No, indeed!” was the witness’s answer, with an indignant toss of the head. “A couple of poaching fellows like them! They had better have tried it on!”

“Which of the two, Hare or Thorn, was inside the cottage with you that evening?”

Afy came out of her vanity and hesitated. She was beginning to wonder where the questions would get to.

“You are upon your oath, witness!” thundered Mr. Justice Hare. “If it was my—if it was Richard Hare who was with you, say so. But there must be no equivocation here.”

Afy was startled. “It was Thorn,” she answered to Mr. Ball.

“And where was Richard Hare?”

“I don’t know. He came down, but I sent him away; I would not admit him. I dare say he lingered in the wood.”

“Did he leave a gun with you?”

“Yes. It was one he had promised to lend my father. I put it down just inside the door. He told me it was loaded.”

“How long after this was it, that your father interrupted you?”

“He didn’t interrupt us at all,” returned Afy. “I never saw my father until I saw him dead.”

“Were you not in the cottage all the time?”

“No; we went out for a stroll at the back. Captain Thorn wished me good-bye there, and I stayed out.”

“Did you hear the gun go off?”

“I heard a shot as I was sitting on the stump of a tree, and was thinking; but I attached no importance to it, never supposing it was in the cottage.”

“What was it that Captain Thorn had to get from the cottage after he quitted you? What had he left there?”

Now, this was a random shaft. Lawyer Ball, a keen man, who had well weighed all points in the tale imparted to him by Richard, as well as other points, had colored them with his own deductions, and spoke accordingly. Afy was taken in.

“He had left his hat there—nothing else. It was a warm evening, and he had gone out without it.”

“He told you, I believe, sufficient to convince you of the guilt of Richard Hare?” Another shaft thrown at random.

“I did not want convincing—I knew it without. Everybody else knew it.”

“To be sure,” equably returned Lawyer Ball. “Did Captain Thorn see it done—did he tell you that?”

“He had got his hat, and was away down the wood some little distance, when he heard voices in dispute in the cottage, and recognized one of them to be that of my father. The shot followed close upon it, and he guessed some mischief had been done, though he did not suspect its extent.”

“Thorn told you this—when?”

“The same night—much later.”

“How came you to see him?”

Afy hesitated; but she was sternly told to answer the question.

“A boy came up to the cottage and called me out, and said a strange gentleman wanted to see me in the wood, and had given him sixpence to come for me. I went, and found Captain Thorn. He asked me what the commotion was about, and I told him Richard Hare had killed my father. He said, that now I spoke of him, he could recognize Richard Hare’s as having been the other voice in the dispute.”

“What boy was that—the one who came for you?”

“It was Mother Whiteman’s little son.”

“And Captain Thorn then gave you this version of the tragedy?”

“It was the right version,” resentfully spoke Afy.

“How do you know that?”

“Oh! because I’m sure it was. Who else would kill him but Richard Hare? It is a scandalous shame, your wanting to put it upon Thorn!”

“Look at the prisoner, Sir Francis Levison. Is it he whom you knew as Thorn?”

“Yes; but that does not make him guilty of the murder.”

“Of course it does not,” complacently assented Lawyer Ball. “How long did you remain with Captain Thorn in London—upon that little visit, you know?”

Afy started like anybody moonstruck.

“When you quitted this place, after the tragedy, it was to join Captain Thorn in London. How long, I ask, did you remain with him?”

Entirely a random shaft, this. But Richard had totally denied to Lawyer Ball the popular assumption that Afy had been with him............