say you first met your husband outside St George's Hall?"
"Yes."
"Never seen him before?"
"No."
"How did you recognize him?"
"By his photograph."
"Oh, he'd sent you his photograph?"
"Yes."
"With a letter?"
"Yes."
"In what name was the letter signed?"
"Henry Leek."
"Was that before or after the death of the man who was buried in Westminster Abbey?"
"A day or two before." (Sensation in court.)
"So that your present husband was calling himself Henry Leek before the death?"
"No, he wasn't. That letter was written by the man that died. My husband found my reply to it, and my photograph, in the man's bag afterwards; and happening to be strolling past St. George's Hall just at the moment like--"
"Well, happening to be strolling past St. George's Hall just at the moment like--" (Titters.)
"I caught sight of him and spoke to him. You see, I thought then that he was the man who wrote the letter."
"What made you think so?"
"I had the photograph."
"So that the man who wrote the letter and died didn't send his own photograph. He sent another photograph--the photograph of your husband?"
"Yes, didn't you know that? I should have thought you'd have known that."
"Do you really expect the jury to believe that tale?"
Alice turned smiling to the jury. "No," she said, "I'm not sure as I do. I didn't believe it myself for a long time. But it's true."
"Then at first you didn't believe your husband was the real Priam Farll?"
"No. You see, he didn't exactly tell me like. He only sort of hinted."
"But you didn't believe?"
"No."
"You thought he was lying?"
"No, I thought it was just a kind of an idea he had. You know my husband isn't like other gentlemen."
"I imagine not," said Vodrey. "Now, when did you come to be perfectly sure that, your husband was the real Priam Farll?"
"It was the night of that day when Mr. Oxford came down to see him. He told me all about it then."
"Oh! That day when Mr. Oxford paid him five hundred pounds?"
"Yes."
"Immediately Mr. Oxford paid him five hundred pounds you were ready to believe that your husband was the real Priam Farll. Doesn't that strike you as excessively curious?"
"It's just how it happened," said Alice blandly.
"Now about these moles. You pointed to the right side of your neck. Are you sure they aren't on the left side?"
"Let me think now," said Alice, frowning. "When he's shaving in a morning--he get up earlier now than he used to--I can see his face in the looking-glass, and in the looking-glass the moles are on the left side. So on him they must be on the right side. Yes, the right side. That's it."
"Have you never seen them except in a mirror, my good woman?" interpolated the judge.
For some reason Alice flushed. "I suppose you think that's funny," she snapped, slightly tossing her head.
The audience expected the roof to fall. But the roof withstood the strain, thanks to a sagacious deafness on the part of the judge. If, indeed, he had not been visited by a sudden deafness, it is difficult to see how he would have handled the situation.
"Have you any idea," Vodrey inquired, "why your husband refuses to submit his neck to the inspection of the court?"
"I didn't know he had refused."
"But he has."
"Well," said Alice, "if you hadn't turned me out of the court while he was being examined, perhaps I could have told you. But I can't as it is. So it serves you right."
Thus ended Alice's performances.
The Public Captious
The court rose, and another six or seven hundred pounds was gone into the pockets of the celebrated artistes engaged. It became at once obvious, from the tone of the evening placards and the contents of evening papers, and the remarks in crowded suburban trains, that for the public the trial had resolved itself into an affair of moles. Nothing else now interested the great and intelligent public. If Priam had those moles on his neck, then he was the real Priam. If he had not, then he was a common cheat. The public had taken the matter into its own hands. The sturdy common sense of the public was being applied to the affair. On the whole it may be said that the sturdy common sense of the public was against Priam. For the majority, the entire story was fishily preposterous. It must surely be clear to the feeblest brain that if Priam possessed moles he would expose them. The minority, who talked of psychology and the artistic temperament, were regarded as the cousins of Little Englanders and the direct descendants of pro-Boers.
Still, the thing ought to be proved or disproved.
Why didn't the judge commit him for contempt of court? He would then be sent to Holloway and be compelled to strip--and there you were!
Or why didn't Oxford hire some one to pick a quarrel with him in the street and carry the quarrel to blows, with a view to raiment-tearing?
A nice thing, English justice--if it had no machinery to force a man to show his neck to a jury! But then English justice was notoriously comic.
And whole trainfuls of people sneered at their country's institution in a manner which, had it been adopted by a foreigner, would have plunged Europe into war and finally tested the blue-water theory. Undoubtedly the immemorial traditions of English justice came in for very severe handling, simply because Priam would not take his collar off.
And he would not.
The next morning there were consultations in counsel's rooms, and the common law of the realm was ransacked to find a legal method of inspecting Priam's moles, without success. Priam arrived safely at the courts with his usual high collar, and was photographed thirty times between the kerb and the entrance hall.
"He's slept in it!" cried wags.
"Bet yer two ter one it's a clean 'un!" cried other wags. "His missus gets his linen up."
It was subject to such indignities that
