Macfarlane,
sat with his eyes riveted on the prisoner's face, his own growing very
pale and anxious; then he wrote a little note, which he dispatched by a
messenger, who soon returned, accompanied by Mr. Forster, one of the
most celebrated lawyers in Lincoln's Inn.
He spoke a few words to Mr. Macfarlane.
"Nonsense!" he said; "the idea is incredible, impossible, even. What can
have made you think of such a thing?"
"Stand here in my place; you cannot see over all those heads. Now look
well at him. Am I right or wrong?"
A strange gray look came over Mr. Forster's face.
"I--I believe you are right," he said. "My God! what can this mean?"
"Look now! his face is turned this way! Look!" cried Mr. Macfarlane,
eagerly.
"It is he!" cried the lawyer, and he stood like one turned to stone,
then recovering himself, he said quickly:
"Why is he here? What is he charged with?"
Mr. Macfarlane whispered into the lawyer's ear:
"With stealing a watch and ring from the room of Count Jules St. Croix."
"Absurd!" was the reply, in accents of the deepest contempt; "what
idiotic nonsense! He steal a watch! I could believe myself mad or
dreaming."
"Then," said Mr. Macfarlane. "he has pleaded guilty; he has made no
defence, engaged no counsel."
"The boy is mad! completely mad!" cried the lawyer.
"Hush!" said the barrister; "the judge is speaking."
Mr. Forster stood in a most impatient mood, while the grave, clear voice
of the judge sentenced the prisoner.
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