prepared, if necessary, to go upon his own knees to crave the interview.
It was not necessary. Honeybone shrugged his shoulders, and left the room with Daintree sitting very still in his chair; he was not so still when the door shut, however. He sprang up and looked in a glass; he sat down again, wiping his forehead and his lips, and shrinking from what he courted, like a swain. He had taken deep note of Erichsen at his trial. That honest, fearless, guiltless gaze, he could see it still; yet he had sought it in vain half an hour since in the iron-gang.
A soldier entered with a lighted lamp. Daintree pushed back his chair a little, and was kept waiting no longer. Chains jingled outside, and in another moment the convict was ushered in by a sentry under arms, followed by the major, who shut the door.
“Was this necessary?” whispered Daintree, glancing at the fixed bayonet with a shudder.
“Quite,” replied the major aloud. “You don’t know your man.”
He did not indeed: the fearlessness remained, and that was all.
Daintree was speaking nervously, forcibly, with none of his habitual affectations, with little of his customary flow. He was saying he had taken an interest in the case at home in England, and had all along believed in the prisoner’s innocence. The prisoner stopped him at that word.
“There’s only one man living who thinks so,” said he. “I know now where I’ve seen you before. It was at my trial. You are the man.”
“What man?”
