There was a dense crowd outside, but with the free use of his own elbows and Mr. Harding’s money, the Old Bailey lawyer fought and bought his way in. He was in time to witness the formal remand of Thomas Erichsen, and to draw his own conclusion from the bold fixed eyes and tremulously scornful lips behind the iron railing of the dock. That look was less for the magistrate than for the opera-glasses of the noble lord whom the magistrate had allowed upon the bench. But the Old Bailey lawyer read it his own way: here was a glaringly guilty man putting a face of brass upon a heart of putty: the very type with which he was best accustomed and most competent to deal. So the vulture took a pinch of snuff that resounded through the court, and, on the prisoner’s removal, squeezed out himself to make inquiries. It was as he expected. The prisoner would be conveyed immediately to the new prison at Clerkenwell. But the attorney managed to get away first through the swelling crowd now on tip-toe for the prison van; and in a neighbouring tavern he had his heartiest meal that year, also with Mr. Harding’s money.
Between three and four he presented himself, well primed, at Clerkenwell, and sent in a greasy card to the prisoner.
“He is much obliged, but he doesn’t want to see you,” said the turnkey, on his reappearance.
“Tell him I am commissioned by his friends to get up his defence. No expense to be spared. Tell him that.”
The turnkey was gone longer, but came back shaking his head.
“He says it is impossible. He has no friends. And you mention no name.”
