At that moment she turned. Her eyes fell upon his. Charles paused for a second and looked faltering. There was in those eyes just the faintest gleam of pleading recognition, but not a trace of the old saucy, defiant vivacity. Charles framed his lips to words, but without uttering a sound. Unless I greatly mistake, the words he framed on his lips were these: 'I will do my best for him.'
We pushed our way in, assisted by the police. Inside the court we saw a lady seated, in a quiet black dress, with a becoming bonnet. A moment passed before I knew—it was Césarine. 'Who is—that person?' Charles asked once more of the nearest inspector, desiring to see in what way he would describe her.
And once more the answer came, 'That's the prisoner's wife, sir.'
Charles started back, surprised. 'But—I was told—a lady outside was Mrs. Paul Finglemore,' he broke in, much puzzled.
'Very likely,' the inspector replied, unmoved. 'We have plenty that way. When a gentleman has as many aliases as Colonel Clay, you can hardly expect him to be over particular about having only one wife between them, can you?'
'Ah, I see,' Charles muttered, in a shocked voice. 'Bigamy!'
The inspector looked stony. 'Well, not exactly that,' he replied, 'occasional marriage.'
Mr. Justice Rhadamanth tried the case. 'I'm sorry
