“Is Jemima the girl?”
“Yes. She’s stepdaughter to the tailor at the corner of Cricket’s Row. He’s got a fine family of his own, and Jemima feels herself one too many. She’s a hard working honest-minded girl, though she isn’t much to look at. Her father was in the public line; he was barman at the Prince of Wales, and the stepfather throws it at her sometimes when he’s in drink.”
“Never mind Jemima’s biography,” said Gerard. “Get your neighbour to fetch her, and in the meantime I’ll help you to make up the bed.”
“Lor’, Mr. Gerard, you haven’t had your tea. Your chop will be stone cold.”
“My chop must wait,” said Gerard, cheerily. And then, with all the handiness of a woman, and more than the kindness of an ordinary woman, the young surgeon helped to transform the first floor sitting-room into a comfortable bedchamber. By the time this was done Jemima had arrived upon the scene, carrying all her worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief. She was a rawboned, angular girl, deeply marked with the smallpox. Her scanty hair was twisted into a knot like a ball of cotton at the back of her head; her elbows were preternaturally red, her wrists were bound up with rusty black ribbon; but she had a good-natured grin that atoned for everything. She was as patient as a beast of burden, contented with the scantiest fare, invariably cheerful. She was so accustomed to harsh words and hard usage that she thought people who did not bully or maltreat her the quintessence of kindness.
It was on the evening when Mrs. Evitt took to her bed, and the house was entrusted to the care of Jemima, that Mr. Leopold and Mr. Sampson came to make their inquiries at the house in Cibber Street. George Gerard saw them, and heard of John Treverton’s arrest, with considerable surprise and some indignation. He felt assured that Edward Clare must have given the information upon which the police had acted; and he felt angry with himself for having been in some wise a catspaw to serve the young man’s malice. He remembered Laura’s lovely face, with its expression of perfect purity and truth; and he hated himself for having helped to bring this terrible grief upon her.
“There was a time when I believed John Treverton guilty,” he told Mr. Leopold, “but I have wavered in my opinion ever since last Sunday week, when he and I talked together.”
“You never would have thought badly of him if you had known him as well as I do,” said the faithful Sampson. “He has stayed for a week at a stretch in my house, you know. We have been like brothers. This is an awkward business, and of course it’s very painful for that sweet young wife of his. But Mr. Leopold means to pull him through.”
“I do,” assented the famous lawyer.
“Mr. Leopold has pulled a great many through, innocent and guilty.”
“And guilty,” assented the lawyer, with quiet self-approval.
He was disappointed at not being able to see Mrs. Evitt.
“I should like to have asked her a few questions,” he said.
“She is much too ill tonight for that kind of thing,” answered Gerard. “Her only chance of recovery is to be kept quiet; and I don’t think she can tell you any more about the murder than she stated at the inquest.”
“Oh, yes, she could,” said Mr. Leopold. “She would tell me a great deal more.”
“Do you think she kept anything back?”
“Not intentionally perhaps, but there is always something untold; some small detail, which to your mind might mean nothing, but which might mean a great deal to me. Please let me know directly I can see your landlady.”
Gerard promised, and then Mr. Leopold, instead of taking his departure, made himself quite at home in the surgeon’s armchair, and stirred the small fire with so reckless a hand that poor Gerard trembled for his weekly hundred of coals. The solicitor seemed in an idle humour, and inclined to waste time. Honest Tom Sampson wondered at his frivolity.
The conversation naturally turned upon the deed which had given that house a sinister notoriety. Gerard found himself talking freely of Madame Chicot and her husband; and it was only after Mr. Leopold and his companion had gone that he perceived how cleverly the experienced lawyer had contrived to cross-question him, without his being aware of the process.
After this evening Gerard watched the newspapers for any report of the Chicot case. He read of John Treverton’s appearance at Bow Street, and saw that the inquiry had been adjourned for a week. At Mrs. Evitt’s particular request he read the report of the case in the evening papers on the night after the inquiry. She seemed full of anxiety about the business.
“Do you think they’ll hang him?” she asked, eagerly.
“My good soul, they’ve a long way to go before they get to hanging. He is not even committed for trial.”
“But it looks black against him, doesn’t it?”
“Circumstances certainly appear to point to him as the murderer. You see there seems to be no one else who could have had any motive for such an act.”
“And you say he has got a sweet young wife.”
“One of the loveliest women I ever saw; I feel very sorry for her, poor soul.”
“If you was on the jury, would you bring him in guilty?” asked Mrs. Evitt.
“I should be sorely perplexed. You see, I should be called upon to find my verdict according to the evidence, and the evidence against him is very strong.”
Mrs. Evitt sighed, and turned her weary head upon her pillow.
“Poor young man,” she murmured, “he was always affable—not very free-spoken, but always affable. I should feel sorry if it went against him. It would be awful, wouldn’t it,” she exclaimed, with sudden agitation, lifting herself up from her pillow, and gazing fixedly at the surgeon; “it would be awful for
