Wilmore acquiesced willingly enough, but even as they turned
towards the door Francis realised what was in store for him.
Oliver Hilditch had risen to his feet. With a courteous little
gesture he intercepted the passer-by. Francis found himself
standing side by side with the man for whose life he had pleaded
that afternoon, within a few feet of the woman whose terrible
story seemed to have poisoned the very atmosphere he breathed,
to have shown him a new horror in life, to have temporarily,
at any rate, undermined every joy and ambition he possessed.

"Mr. Ledsam," Hilditch said, speaking with quiet dignity, "I hope
that you will forgive the liberty I take in speaking to you here.
I looked for you the moment I was free this afternoon, but found
that you had left the Court. I owe you my good name, probably my
life. Thanks are poor things but they must be spoken."

"You owe me nothing at all," Francis replied, in a tone which
even he found harsh. "I had a brief before me and a cause to
plead. It was a chapter out of my daily work."

"That work can be well done or ill," the other reminded him
gently. "In your case, my presence here proves how well it was
done. I wish to present you to my wife, who shares my
gratitude."

Francis bowed to the woman, who now, at her husband's words,
raised her eyes. For the first time he saw her smile. It seemed
to him that the effort made her less beautiful.