He flung out his hand toward the judge.
“You, my lord,” he cried, “can you order the flogging of a brute who has half killed one of his fellows, without incurring the bleating wrath of men and women, who put everything before physical pain—honour, patriotism, justice? Can you sentence a man to death for a cruel murder without a thousand shrieking products of our time rushing hither and thither like ants, striving to secure his release? Without a chorus of pity—that was unexcited by the mangled victim of his ferocity? ‘Killing, deliberate, wolfish killing by man,’ say they in effect, ‘is the act of God; but the legal punishment of death, is murder.’ That is why I expect no sympathy for the methods the Four Just Men adopted. We represented a law—we executed expeditiously. We murdered if you like. In the spirit and the letter of the laws of England, we did murder. I acknowledge the justice of my condemnation. I do not desire to extenuate the circumstances of my crime. Yet none the less the act I cannot justify to your satisfaction I justify to my own.”
He sat down.
A barrister, leaning over the public prosecutor’s back, asked:
“What do you think of that?”
Sir William shook his head.
“Bewildering,” he said in despair.
The judge’s summing up was one of the briefest on record.
The jury had to satisfy their minds that the prisoner committed the crime with which he was charged, and must not trouble themselves with any other aspect of the case but that part plainly before them. Was the man in the dock responsible for the killing of Lipski?
Without leaving the box, the jury returned its verdict.
“Guilty!”
Those used to such scenes noticed that the judge in passing sentence of death omitted the striking and sombre words that usually accompany the last sentence of the law, and that he spoke, too, without emotion.
“Either he’s going to get a reprieve or else the judge is certain he’ll escape,” said Garrett, “and the last explanation seems ridiculous.”
“By the way,” said his companion as they passed slowly with the crowd into the roadway, “who was that swell that came late and sat on the bench?”
“That was his Highness the Prince of the Escorial,” said Charles, “he’s in London just now on his honeymoon.”
“I know all about that,” said Jimmy, “but I heard him speaking to the sheriff just before we came out, and it struck me that I’d heard his voice before.”
“It seemed to me,” said the discreet Charles—so discreet indeed that he never even suggested to his editor that the mysterious mask who gave evidence on behalf of George Manfred was none other than his Royal Highness.
XV
Chelmsford
They took Manfred back to Wandsworth Gaol on the night of the trial. The governor, standing in the gloomy courtyard as the van drove in with its clanking escort, received him gravely.
“Is there anything you want?” he asked when he visited the cell that night.
“A cigar,” said Manfred, and the governor handed him the case. Manfred selected with care, the prison-master watching him wonderingly.
“You’re an extraordinary man,” he said.
“And I need to be,” was the reply, “for I have before me an ordeal which is only relieved of its gruesomeness by its uniqueness.”
“There will be a petition for reprieve, of course,” said the governor.
“Oh, I’ve killed that,” laughed Manfred, “killed it with icy blast of satire—although I trust I haven’t discouraged the ‘Rational Faithers’ for whom I have made such handsome posthumous provision.”
“You are an extraordinary man,” mused the governor again. “By the way, Manfred, what part does the lady play in your escape?”
“The lady?” Manfred was genuinely astonished.
“Yes, the woman who haunts the outside of this prison; a lady in black, and my chief warder tells me singularly beautiful.”
“Ah, the woman,” said Manfred, and his face clouded. “I had hoped she had gone.”
He sat thinking.
“If she is a friend of yours, an interview would not be difficult to obtain,” said the governor.
“No, no, no,” said Manfred hastily, “there must be no interview—at any rate here.”
The governor thought that the interview “here” was very unlikely, for the Government had plans for the disposal of their prisoner, which he did not feel his duty to the State allowed him to communicate. He need not, had he known, have made a mystery of the scheme.
Manfred kicked off the clumsy shoes the prison authorities had provided him with—he had changed into convict dress on his return to the gaol—and laid himself down dressed as he was, pulling a blanket over him.
One of the watching warders suggested curtly that he should undress.
“It is hardly worth while,” he said, “for so brief a time.”
They thought he was referring again to the escape, and marvelled a little at his madness. Three hours later when the governor came to the cell, they were dumbfounded at his knowledge.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said the Major, “but you’re to be transferred to another prison—why, you aren’t undressed!”
“No,” said Manfred, lazily kicking off the cover, “but I thought the transfer would be earlier.”
“How did you know?”
“About the transfer—oh, a little bird told me,” said the prisoner, stretching himself. “Where is it to be—Pentonville?”
The governor looked at him a little strangely.
“No,” he said.
“Reading?”
“No,” said the governor shortly.
Manfred frowned.
“Wherever it is, I’m ready,” he said.
He nodded to the attendant warder as he left and took an informal but cheery farewell of the governor on the deserted railway station where a solitary engine with brake van attached stood waiting.
“A special, I perceive,” he said.
“Goodbye, Manfred,” said the governor and offered his hand.
Manfred did not take it—and the Major flushed in the dark.
“I cannot take your hand,” said Manfred, “for two reasons. The first is that your excellent chief warder has handcuffed me, behind—”
“Never mind about the other reason,” said the governor with a little laugh, and then as he squeezed the prisoner’s arm he added, “I don’t wish the
