“I suppose I did—sometimes.”
“Sometimes? You belonged to the same party?”
“We didn’t sit in the same House.”
“I know that, my lord. I know very well what House you sat in. But I suppose you would condescend to be acquainted with even a commoner who held the very office which you hold now. You belonged to the same club with him.”
“I don’t go much to the clubs,” said Lord Fawn.
“But the quarrel of which we have heard so much took place at a club in your presence?” Lord Fawn assented. “In fact you cannot but have been intimately and accurately acquainted with the personal appearance of the gentleman who is now on his trial. Is that so?”
“I never was intimate with him.”
Mr. Chaffanbrass looked up at the jury and shook his head sadly. “I am not presuming, Lord Fawn, that you so far derogated as to be intimate with this gentleman—as to whom, however, I shall be able to show by and by that he was the chosen friend of the very man under whose mastership you now serve. I ask whether his appearance is not familiar to you?” Lord Fawn at last said that it was. “Do you know his height? What should you say was his height?” Lord Fawn altogether refused to give an opinion on such a subject, but acknowledged that he should not be surprised if he were told that Mr. Finn was over six feet high. “In fact you consider him a tall man, my lord? There he is, you can look at him. Is he a tall man?” Lord Fawn did look, but wouldn’t give an answer. “I’ll undertake to say, my lord, that there isn’t a person in the Court at this moment, except yourself, who wouldn’t be ready to express an opinion on his oath that Mr. Finn is a tall man. Mr. Chief Constable, just let the prisoner step out from the dock for a moment. He won’t run away. I must have his lordship’s opinion as to Mr. Finn’s height.” Poor Phineas, when this was said, clutched hold of the front of the dock, as though determined that nothing but main force should make him exhibit himself to the Court in the manner proposed.
But the need for exhibition passed away. “I know that he is a very tall man,” said Lord Fawn.
“You know that he is a very tall man. We all know it. There can be no doubt about it. He is, as you say, a very tall man—with whose personal appearance you have long been familiar? I ask again, my lord, whether you have not been long familiar with his personal appearance?” After some further agonising delay Lord Fawn at last acknowledged that it had been so. “Now we shall get on like a house on fire,” said Mr. Chaffanbrass.
But still the house did not burn very quickly. A string of questions was then asked as to the attitude of the man who had been seen coming out of the mews wearing a grey great coat—as to his attitude, and as to his general likeness to Phineas Finn. In answer to these Lord Fawn would only say that he had not observed the man’s attitude, and had certainly not thought of the prisoner when he saw the man. “My lord,” said Mr. Chaffanbrass, very solemnly, “look at your late friend and colleague, and remember that his life depends probably on the accuracy of your memory. The man you saw—murdered Mr. Bonteen. With all my experience in such matters—which is great; and with all my skill—which is something, I cannot stand against that fact. It is for me to show that that man and my client were not one and the same person, and I must do so by means of your evidence—by sifting what you say today, and by comparing it with what you have already said on other occasions. I understand you now to say that there is nothing in your remembrance of the man you saw, independently of the colour of the coat, to guide you to an opinion whether that man was or was not one and the same with the prisoner?”
In all the crowd then assembled there was no man more thoroughly under the influence of conscience as to his conduct than was Lord Fawn in reference to the evidence which he was called upon to give. Not only would the idea of endangering the life of a human being have been horrible to him, but the sanctity of an oath was imperative to him. He was essentially a truth-speaking man, if only he knew how to speak the truth. He would have sacrificed much to establish the innocence of Phineas Finn—not for the love of Phineas, but for the love of innocence;—but not even to do that would he have lied. But he was a bad witness, and by his slowness, and by a certain unsustained pomposity which was natural to him, had already taught the jury to think that he was anxious to convict the prisoner. Two men in the Court, and two only, thoroughly understood his condition. Mr. Chaffanbrass saw it all, and intended without the slightest scruple to take advantage of it. And the Chief Justice saw it all, and was already resolving how he could set the witness right with the jury.
“I didn’t think of Mr. Finn at the time,” said Lord Fawn in answer to the last question.
“So I understand. The man didn’t strike you as being tall.”
“I don’t think that he did.”
“But yet in the evidence you gave before the magistrate in Bow Street I think you expressed a very strong opinion that the man you saw running out of the mews was Mr. Finn?” Lord Fawn was again silent. “I am asking your lordship a question to which I must request an answer. Here is the Times report
