ock on the Friday
morning. All London knew that his hanging would quickly follow its
decree, and all London, apparently, was determined to see, at least,
the first act in the melodrama. The court was crowded with society's
wits and beaux, with society's belles, many of the latter hooded and
masked, but many revealing to all the world their ardent sympathy for
the prisoner at the bar.

Lord Farquhart's habitual pose of indifference, of insolent
indifference to the world and its opinions, stood him in good stead on
that October morning. He had passed through moments of blackest agony,
of wild rebellion against the doom in store for him. He had gibed and
mocked and railed at fate, at the laws of his country that could
condemn an absolutely innocent man to so grewsome a death. He had
struggled and fought with his jailers; he had appealed in vain to man
and God, but now he sat quite calm and still, determined only that the
world that had so incomprehensibly turned from him should not gloat
over his despair. Only once had his lips twitched and his eyelids
contracted, and that was when he recognized in a figure hooded,
cloaked and masked in black, the Lady Barbara Gordon. He had turned
his eyes from her instantly, but not quickly enough to miss, the sight
of the pathetic white hands she'd stretched toward him. Was she asking
for pardon, he wondered. No word from Barbara had reached him in his
confinement.

A moment later a faint smile flickered across Lord Farquhart's face.
He had caught sight of Harry Ashley occupying a prominent place near
the judge's stand, and his conviction that Ashley was responsible for
his imprisonment and for the sentence that was so soon to be
pronounced strengthened his determination to hide his anguish from the
world. For the rest, his eyes traveled impersonally over the crowded
room. He would greet no one of the intimate friends who crowded as
close as they dared to the place where he sat.

Lord Grimsby had not yet entered the room, but from behind the
curtains that covered the door of Lord Grimsby's private apartment
rolled Lord Grimsby's sonorous voice. It reached the first circle of
inquisitive ears, and the meaning of his words slipped through the
courtroom.

"Ay, but I tell you it was the same. I've had dealings with the fellow
before. I've seen him at close quarters before. I know his voice and
his touch and his manner. He's like enough to Lord Farquhart in size
and build, but he's not