ent on
with hardly a pause.

'You have been told that this is a prosecution on behalf of the Crown.
I deny it. Technically it is so, of course; but who is the real
prosecutor? Who has been the moving spirit all along--if not the
prosecutor, then the persecutor? Who has lost, or professes to have
lost, his wretched jewels? Who, the moment he heard that the crime was
discovered, turned round and hurled his brutal accusation at this
helpless girl? Who rushed off to lodge his information, so as to be
beforehand in case any information were to be lodged against him? Who
instructed the solicitors at the inquest? Who gave evidence there and
at the police-court? Who has been hand in glove with the prosecuting
solicitors all along? Who is sitting by their side at this moment,
without a particle of decent shame?'

This furious burst of invective seemed to fairly overwhelm the subject
of it. He made a movement to go away, but the solicitor restrained him
by a whisper in his ear.

'Gentlemen, I am here to defend the prisoner. I am not here to attack
anyone else. I do not wish to do so. Would to God that I could shut my
eyes to the fact that a terrible murder has been done! But I cannot,
and you cannot. Someone did that deed. Someone who had a motive for
his act treacherously murdered and brutally mangled that old, feeble,
defenceless woman. I ask you to say it was not the prisoner. I ask no
more.

'In the old days it would have been different. It was once the law
that when a prisoner was accused of murder by a coroner's inquest,
then the jury in this court were not entitled to bring in a verdict of
acquittal unless they at the same time, and by the same verdict,
indicated the person who was really guilty. If that were still the
law--and I am glad it is not--but if it were, I should not hesitate
for one moment in pointing out to you at least one person who is more
likely to have been guilty of this crime than Eleanor Owen.

'I should ask you, in the famous Ciceronian phrase, _Cui bono_? For
whose profit was this murder? You have been told by a spiteful
servant-girl, whom you may believe for aught I care, that Miss Lewis
once promised to remember the prisoner in her will. But did she? In
the will which has been proved--and if there was any other will it has
been destroyed by the same criminal hands that dyed themselves in
blood--in a will dated two years ago, there is not one stiver, not one
half-farthing left to Eleanor Owen.