“And what do you think they will do?”
“Oh, they will, most probably, let him go on for the present; but, of course, if he is made accountable for the diamonds there will be nothing for it but to ‘go through the hoop,’ as the sporting financier expresses it.”
“The diamonds were of considerable value, then?”
“From twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds’ worth vanished with that parcel.”
I whistled. This was a much bigger affair than I had imagined, and I was wondering if Thorndyke had realised the magnitude of the robbery, when we arrived at the police court.
“I suppose our friends have gone inside,” said Walter. “They must have got here before us.”
This supposition was confirmed by a constable of whom we made inquiry, and who directed us to the entrance to the court. Passing down a passage and elbowing our way through the throng of idlers, we made for the solicitor’s box, where we had barely taken our seats when the case was called.
Unspeakably dreary and depressing were the brief proceedings that followed, and dreadfully suggestive of the helplessness of even an innocent man on whom the law has laid its hand and in whose behalf its inexorable machinery has been set in motion.
The presiding magistrate, emotionless and dry, dipped his pen while Reuben, who had surrendered to his bail, was placed in the dock and the charge read over to him. The counsel representing the police gave an abstract of the case with the matter-of-fact air of a house-agent describing an eligible property. Then, when the plea of “not guilty” had been entered, the witnesses were called. There were only two, and when the name of the first, John Hornby, was called, I glanced towards the witness-box with no little curiosity.
I had not hitherto met Mr. Hornby, and as he now entered the box, I saw an elderly man, tall, florid, and well-preserved, but strained and wild in expression and displaying his uncontrollable agitation by continual nervous movements which contrasted curiously with the composed demeanour of the accused man. Nevertheless, he gave his evidence in a perfectly connected manner, recounting the events connected with the discovery of the crime in much the same words as I had heard Mr. Lawley use, though, indeed, he was a good deal more emphatic than that gentleman had been in regard to the excellent character borne by the prisoner.
After him came Mr. Singleton, of the fingerprint department at Scotland Yard, to whose evidence I listened with close attention. He produced the paper which bore the thumbprint in blood (which had previously been identified by Mr. Hornby) and a paper bearing the print, taken by himself, of the prisoner’s left thumb. These two thumbprints, he stated, were identical in every respect.
“And you are of opinion that the mark on the paper that was found in Mr. Hornby’s safe, was made by the prisoner’s left thumb?” the magistrate asked in dry and businesslike tones.
“I am certain of it.”
“You are of opinion that no mistake is possible?”
“No mistake is possible, your worship. It is a certainty.”
The magistrate looked at Anstey inquiringly, whereupon the barrister rose.
“We reserve our defence, your worship.”
The magistrate then, in the same placid, businesslike manner, committed the prisoner for trial at the Central Criminal Court, refusing to accept bail for his appearance, and, as Reuben was led forth from the dock, the next case was called.
By special favour of the authorities, Reuben was to be allowed to make his journey to Holloway in a cab, thus escaping the horrors of the filthy and verminous prison van, and while this was being procured, his friends were permitted to wish him farewell.
“This is a hard experience, Hornby,” said Thorndyke, when we three were, for a few moments, left apart from the others; and as he spoke the warmth of a really sympathetic nature broke through his habitual impassivity. “But be of good cheer; I have convinced myself of your innocence and have good hopes of convincing the world—though this is for your private ear, you understand, to be mentioned to no one.”
Reuben wrung the hand of this “friend in need,” but was unable, for the moment, to speak; and, as his self-control was evidently strained to the breaking point, Thorndyke, with a man’s natural instinct, wished him a hasty goodbye, and passing his hand through my arm, turned away.
“I wish it had been possible to save the poor fellow from this delay, and especially from the degradation of being locked up in a jail,” he exclaimed regretfully as we walked down the street.
“There is surely no degradation in being merely accused of a crime,” I answered, without much conviction, however. “It may happen to the best of us; and he is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”
“That, my dear Jervis, you know, as well as I do, to be mere casuistry,” he rejoined. “The law professes to regard the unconvicted man as innocent; but how does it treat him? You heard how the magistrate addressed our friend; outside the court he would have called him Mr. Hornby. You know what will happen to Reuben at Holloway. He will be ordered about by warders, will have a number label fastened on to his coat, he will be locked in a cell with a spyhole in the door, through which any passing stranger may watch him; his food will be handed to him in a tin pan with a tin knife and spoon; and he will be periodically called out of his cell and driven round the exercise yard with a mob composed, for the most part, of the sweepings of the London slums. If he is acquitted, he will be turned loose without a suggestion of compensation or apology for these indignities or the losses he may have sustained through his detention.”
“Still I suppose these evils are unavoidable,” I said.
“That may or may not be,” he retorted. “My point is that the presumption of innocence is a pure fiction;
