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The Pilot emptied his pockets of all the money that Rose had handed him, and placed it on the Judge’s table, and Sartoris contributed his quota to the pile.

“There you are, Judge,” said the Pilot, pushing all the money towards the legal magnate, “that should be enough to bail out a Member of the Legislative Council, or even the Governor himself. That should fix it. But don’t think, Judge, that me and Cap’n Sartoris is doing this thing. No, sir, it’s my dar’ter. She supplies the motive-power that works the machinery. All this money belongs to her. She it is that wishes to bail out this young man who, we believe, has been falsely accused.”

“Ah – really,” said the good old Judge, “I must say – now listen to this: I have here the newest edition.” He took another and bulkier volume from his table. “Page 66, section 176. Allow me to read. ‘The exercise of discretion with respect to taking of bail for the appearance of an accused person, where such discretion exists – namely, in all crimes except treason, being accessory after the fact to treason’ – ”

“Yes,” interrupted the Pilot, “that’s the Law, an’ very good it is, very good to them as understands it; but what Sartoris, my dar’ter, and me want is for you to let this young feller out of gaol till the trial, an’ we’ll be responsible.”

A perplexed look came over the Judge’s face. He took off his glasses, and wiped them; readjusted them; gave a bewildered look at the Pilot, and said, “Yes, yes; but listen to what I am reading. The first question is whether bail ought to be taken at all; the second, what the amount should be.”

“Place it high, Judge,” said the Pilot. “We’ve come prepared for that. We’ve come prepared with seven thousand.”

“Really, this is most irregular,” complained the Judge, his finger marking the place on the page from which he was reading. “The – ah – object of bail, that is the amount of bail should be sufficient to secure the appearance of the accused to answer the charge.” He had found his place, and read on determinedly, “‘And it may be remarked here, that it is not the practice in England, under any circumstances, to take bail on charges of murder.’”

“Jus’ so, Judge,” said the Pilot. “Jus’ so. It’s not the custom in England. That’s as I should ha’ thought. But here, where murders don’t occur every day, you may grant it if you like. That’s as I thought, just as I thought. What’s your opinion, Cap’n Sartoris?”

“Same here,” said Sartoris, tapping his chest. “I’m with you, Pilot; with you on every point.”

“Theoretically, that is so,” said the Judge, “but practically, how are you going to assess bail for a man who is to be tried for his life? What amount of money will guarantee his reappearance? Why, no sum, however great.”

The Judge shut his book with a snap, and set his mouth firmly as one who had made up his mind.

“This young man,” he continued, “whom I knew and respected as well as you yourselves, has been accused of most serious crimes. He is said, with the aid of other persons at present at large, to have murdered the members of a gold-escort and to have stolen gold to the value of something like twenty thousand pounds.”

The two seamen stood attentively, with their eyes fixed earnestly on the Judge, whilst Rose covered her face with her hands.

“Besides which,” – the Judge had now regained his judicial composure, and his words flowed smoothly, as though he were on the bench – “we must remember that the accused is reputed to be a wealthy man. Supposing him to have augmented his means by murder and malpractice, what would ten, twenty or even thirty thousand pounds be to him in comparison with his life? That is the question. There can be no guarantee of his reappearance. Bail is impossible. But I will do this: I will extend you the privilege – seeing your affection for this man, who, for your sakes as well as his own, I hope may be acquitted – I will allow you leave to visit him on certain days, between the hours of 10 a.m. and 12 noon, and I will write an order to that effect.”

He looked at Jack’s sympathisers, who remained dumb. Dipping his pen in the ink, he asked them their names in full, and wrote.

Handing each of them an order, he said, “You will present those to the gaoler when you desire to visit your friend. I may say that I very much admire the strong affection which you have shown towards one who is under such a serious charge as that made against the prisoner, John Scarlett. I wish you good morning.”

So saying, he rose from his chair, and, when they had gathered up their money, ushered them out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI

In Durance Vile

With a basket on her arm, Rose Summerhayes issued from the creeper-covered verandah of the many-gabled house, and stood in her garden of roses.

It was the time of the autumn blooms. With a pair of garden scissors she cut the choicest flowers, and placed them upon the snowy napkin which covered the contents of her basket. Then she tripped into the town.

She passed by Tresco’s shop, where Jake Ruggles, worried by the inquiries of the police, and overwhelmed with orders which he could not execute, strove to act the absent goldsmith’s part. At the door of The Lucky Digger, where stood a noisy throng of men from the gold-field, she heard the words, “It never was the work of one man. If he did it, he had accomplices. How could one man lug the four of ’em up that mountain-side,” and she hurried past, knowing too well to whom the talk referred.

As she passed the Kangaroo Bank, a florid man, wearing a white waistcoat, came out through the glass doors with a digger who had been selling gold.

“So you thought you’d bring your gold to town yourself?” said the florid man.

“After that, yes,” replied the digger. “I sold the nugget to Zahn for six-pound-ten, and, when next I see it, the Sergeant’s got it. There never was a clearer case. It’s a good thing they’ve got ’im safe in gaol.”

Rose hurried on, feeling that all the town, watching her with unsympathetic eyes, knew well where she was going. But at last she stood before the gate of the wooden prison. After ringing for admittance, she was ushered into a room, bare of furniture save for a pine table and a couple of chairs, where a warder read the Judge’s order, made some entries in a big book, and examined the contents of the basket.

She was next conducted through a species of hall which opened into a small, covered yard, on either side of which stood rows of white-washed, wooden cells.

Unlocking the second cell on the left-hand side, the warder said in a loud voice, as though he were speaking to some one who was either a long way off or very deaf, “Visitor to see you. Stand up, man. ’Tisn’t every day that a pris’ner has a young lady to see him.”

Rose entered the cell, and the door was closed behind her. The walls were white and bare. On a small bench at the further end sat a figure she saw but indistinctly until her eyes became accustomed to the dim light which crept through the grating in the door, against which she could observe the head of the watchful warder who stood inside the cell.

Jack rose slowly to his feet, and stood speechless, with his hand extended.

“I’ve brought you a couple of fowls and some fruit,” said Rose.

“Thank you.” Jack’s voice was very low, and his words came very slowly. “Do you know the crime I’m accused of?”

“Please don’t talk of that,” said Rose. “I know all about it.”

“I wonder you come to see me. No one else does.”

“Perhaps they’re not allowed to. But my father and Captain Sartoris will be here presently.”

“Indeed! It’s very kind of them.”

“But, you see, we don’t believe you’re guilty; we think you’ll be able to prove your innocence at the trial.”

Conversation goes but tamely when a prison warder dwells on every word. The two stood in the centre of the cell, Jack holding tightly the girl’s right hand, while with her left she held the basket. Withdrawing her hand from his ardent clasp, she placed the roses on the bench and uncovered the dainties which the basket contained. There being no table on which to place them, she spread the napkin on the bench, and laid the delicacies upon it.

“I am allowed to come every other day,” she said, “and next time I hope to bring my father with me. He’s engaged to-day with a ship.”

“I never saw the men after they passed me on the track. I never did this thing.”

Rose took his hand in hers, and gently pressed it. “If you don’t wish to hurt me, you will not speak about it. At home we agree to say nothing. We hear all sorts of things, but we keep silent – it makes it hurt less.”

“You still have faith in me?”

“Why not?”

“Do others take that view?”

“I hope so.”

“But I’m afraid the men on the diggings think hardly of me.”

“Why should they? They are all coming to town, I am told, in order to attend the trial.”

“So much the greater will be my degradation, if I am found guilty.”

“On the other hand, so much greater will be your triumph, when you prove your innocence.”

The conversation had got thus far, when voices were heard without, the door of the cell opened, and the Pilot and Captain Sartoris entered.

“Well, lad,” exclaimed old Summerhayes, as he vigorously shook Jack’s hand. “Keeping her head well to the wind, eh? That’s the style, lad. You’ll find she’ll weather the storm.”

“Aye, aye,” said Sartoris. “If she goes down with all hands it’s not the fault of the skipper, providing he’s steered his true course.”

“That’s so,” said the Pilot; “providing he’s steered his true course. We were thinking o’ bail, Jack. We thought to make you comfortable till you’d proved they’d arrested the wrong man; but that old barnacle of a Judge wouldn’t budge an inch. He consulted his log, and neither Sartoris, nor me, nor my dar’ter, could drive any sense into him. So we gave it up: we intend to do our best to make you happy here.”

“Lord bless you,” said Sartoris, “it won’t seem no time at all before you are out an’ about. Then the whole affair will be but an episode,” – he dwelt on the word, which he had been treasuring in his mind for hours past – “simply an episode, only made to be forgotten.” This speech was a great effort of oratory, and the Captain drew a long breath, looking sideways at the Pilot, as though he had given a cue.

“Luck goes in streaks, lad,” said Captain Summerhayes. “You struck a bad one when you set sail with Sartoris here. I don’t mean no offence to you, Captain; but I do not, never did, and never shall, admire the way you handled The Mersey Witch.”

“Go on,” remarked Sartoris; “rub it in. I can bear it.”

“Having got into a bad streak, Jack, you must expect it to stick to you for a time. I did think as how you’d lost it when you come home with all that gold. But, you see, I was right at first; you’re in it yet. There’s no cure but to bear it. An’ that you will, lad, like the man you are.”

“We’ve come to cheer you up, Jack,” said Sartoris, “an’ I hope we’ve done it. But there’s one thing that I believe is usual in these cases, an’ that’s a sky-pilot. I have heard as how a sky-pilot’s more comfortin’ to a man in gaol than anything else. What’s your special brand? What kind do you fancy? I’m ashamed to say we’ve talked so little religion, Jack, that I don’t know what religious crew you signed on with when you was young, but if there’s any special breed o’ parson you fancy, you’ve only got to give him a name, and if he lives in this town or within a radius of ten miles, he shall come an’ minister to you reg’lar, or I’ll know the reason why.”

During this remarkable speech, Rose had quietly slipped out of the cell and, with her empty basket on her arm, had turned her steps homeward.

On rounding a corner of a street in the centre of the town, she almost ran into Rachel Varnhagen.

“Well, well, well, where have you been?” was the Jewess’s greeting, as she stopped to talk to Rose.

“I’ve been to the gaol.”

“To the gaol! Goodness, what for?”

Rose did not reply.

“I do believe you’ve been to see that contemptible murderer.”

“If you mean a friend of mine, who was also a friend of yours who did you a great service, I beg you to stop.”

“I mean that man Scarlett.”

“And so do I.”

“What! you’ve been speaking to him? You must be mad. The man’s a murderer. It’s awful!”

“You shouldn’t judge him before he has been tried.”

“The evidence is the same now as it will be then. There was a nugget of a strange shape, which a digger sold to poor Isaac Zahn, and it was found on your precious Scarlett when he was arrested.”

Rose made no answer.

“And to think,” Rachel continued, “that I was almost engaged to him.”

“I never heard that,” said Rose, coldly.

“My dear, I’m thankful to say nobody did, but he used to come regularly to our house when he was in town, and my stupid old father used to encourage him. Such an escape I never had. Fancy being married to a murderer. Ugh!”

“There’s no need to fancy anything of the sort. You couldn’t have married him till he asked you.”

“But, dear, if he had, I should have accepted him. You know, he is so handsome. And he is awfully rich. My father wouldn’t have heard of my refusing him. Certainly, he’s not of our religion, but then we’re not very orthodox. I’m afraid I should have accepted him: I’m sure I should. And then, think of poor Isaac. I really was fond of him. I know it now; but he was so slow in making money – I couldn’t waste all my life in waiting.”

“You must feel his death dreadfully,” said Rose.

“But it doesn’t comfort me very much, when my friends go to see his murderer.”

“I haven’t been to see a murderer.”

“Good gracious! If that awful Scarlett didn’t murder him, who did?”

“I haven’t the least idea, but I feel sure there’s been a mistake on the part of the police.”

“There’s no mistake: they found the bodies yesterday in the bush.”

As Rachel spoke, the two girls saw a strange procession coming down the street.

“Look!” cried Rachel, seizing Rose’s arm for support. “Look what is coming.”

In single file, slowly the searchers were carrying the bodies of the murdered men, wrapped in canvas and strapped to poles cut from the forest trees. As they advanced, a crowd, bare-headed and at every step increasing, accompanied the doleful procession. They passed the spot where stood the two girls, the one supporting the other, and so disappeared out of sight.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Benjamin’s Redemption

The Supreme Court sat in the large hall of the wooden building, ornate with all the decorations of the Elizabethan style, which has been referred to in these pages as the Red Tape Office.

The hall was divided by a barrier, on one side of which were arranged the bench, dock, jury-box, and everything else appertaining to the functions of Justice; and on the other side stood the general public. But as yet the Court was not assembled, save for half-a-dozen be-wigged barristers and a few policemen; and the public, crowded like cattle in a pen, discussed in suppressed tones such matters as seemed good.

Presently, a door beside the bench opened, and a very fat bailiff, preceding the Judge himself, who was followed by many minions of the law, advanced into the body of the court, and cried, “Silence for His Honor the Queen’s Judge!” struck the butt of his long staff upon the floor, and proceeded to deliver a long rigmarole, couched in early English, the tenor of which was that the proceedings about to take place were most solemn and dignified, and all men must keep silence in order that His Honour the Judge might hear himself speak.

Then the Judge seated himself on the bench, nodded to all the barristers, who thereupon immediately sat down likewise, and then the policemen, looking fiercely at the harmless, herded public, cried in angry tones for “Silence! Silence! Silence!” though not a man had so much as coughed since the great Judge had entered.

There seeming to be no fear of a demonstration against Law, Order, and Justice, a be-wigged gentleman who sat immediately in front of the Judge, in the manner that the clerk used to sit before the parson in the days of the three-decker pulpit, stood up, and after consulting various little bits of paper, called and empanelled the Grand Jury, a most important body of men, comprising all that was substantial and wealthy in Timber Town – short, fat men; tall, thin men; men of medium height; bullet-headed men, long-headed men, bald-headed men, and one man who was known to dye his hair; men whose stomachs rested on their knees as they sat; men who looked as though they had not had a full meal for a month; men dressed in tweeds; men dressed in black broad-cloth as if for a funeral; men with gay flowers in the button-holes of their coats; bearded men, and shorn men; as varied an assortment of men as could pronounce opinion on any case.

Each member of this queer company having been furnished with a little testament, the legal luminary administered the oath, and they kissed the book literally like one man, and sat down with a shuffling of feet that was truly disgraceful in so sedate an assembly.

They having chosen the fattest man of them all as their foreman, the Judge addressed them: “Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the Grand Jury,” he said, “give me your attention. Great crimes have been committed in your district,” – and not a man of them all but dropped his eyes and looked as if he felt himself guilty – “and great excitement has been caused in the public mind. But it is one of the highest triumphs of civilisation that we possess a wholesome system of procedure, whereby time is afforded to elapse for the abatement of popular excitement,” – here he glanced searchingly at the exemplary public on the other side of the barrier, as though he challenged one of them to move – “before such cases as those which will come before you, are heard.” Here the Judge paused, and the jurymen looked at each other, as much as to say that after all they might escape. “But,” continued His Honor, “we must take all proper precautions in such grave affairs as we are here to consider, lest the eye of reason should be jaundiced by prejudice, or become dazzled by passion, or lest the arm of Justice should smite wildly and without discrimination.” Every juryman looked at the Judge, to see if the state of his eye was clear and in keeping with this grave injunction. “The first case which will come before you is that of John Richard Scarlett, who is charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn and others. I am not sure as to what will be the form of the indictment, but I should suppose there will be four separate indictments, that is to say, the prisoner will be charged with the murder of each man killed. I now ask you to retire and consider this grave case with that perspicacity and unbiassed judgment which I feel sure you are capable of exercising in so large a degree.”

The Judge had made every juryman’s breast swell with pride, and from their box they poured in a long stream, and clattered over the floor of the Court to the jury-room, the door of which stood ajar, ready to receive them.

The public portion of the hall was now crowded to excess, and the gallery above the main entrance was quickly filling. The people maintained perfect order, but on every face was an eager look which showed the intense interest that was being taken in the proceedings. But when the Judge retired, pending the decision of the Grand Jury, there broke out a hum of conversation, subdued but incessant. On the public side of the barrier there was nothing to be seen but a sea of faces, the faces of all sorts of men, and of not a few women, all waiting for the appearance of the prisoner. Suddenly at the back of this tightly-packed throng there arose a slight commotion, caused by a wild, unkempt man pushing his way through the doorway into the middle of the crowd. His hair was long and matted, his clothes were torn and covered with clay, his face was anxious yet determined. Having wedged himself into the living mass, his identity soon became merged and lost in the multitude of men, work-stained and way-worn like himself. For almost the entire population of Canvas Town was assembled to hear the case against Scarlett; the aristocratic members of the League had come to see what fate awaited their president; solitary “hatters” had come to witness the discomfiture of “the boss of the toffs”; the female portion of the concourse had been attracted by the romance which was believed to underlie the tragedy; while the townsmen were there out of sympathy with the young banker whom they had all known. Filling all available space in the hall and overflowing into the great quadrangle outside, this motley crowd discussed the case against Scarlett in all its bearings, though there was a dense ignorance on the part of the critics as to the evidence that would be called. To everything he heard the wild, unkempt man turned a deaf ear; regarding, as he undoubtedly did, the self-appointed judges around him with silent contempt and some degree of amusement.

At length the door of the jury-room opened, and the head of a Grand Juror was thrust out. To him a constable immediately whispered. The Grand Jury had come to a decision, and the Judge was summoned from his room.

No sooner had the great man taken his seat, than amid a murmur of excitement the prisoner was placed in the dock. He looked thin and care-worn. On his legs were heavy irons, and handcuffs were upon his wrists. Otherwise he was as when first arrested; he wore the same riding-breeches and leggings, and the same tweed coat.

Then the Grand Jury filed solemnly in, and stood in a big semicircle between the barrier and the Court, the foreman standing a little in front of his fellows.

“Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the Grand Jury, how do you find in the case of John Richard Scarlett, charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“A true bill, Your Honour,” answered the foreman.

“How do you find in the case of John Richard Scarlett, charged with the murder of James Kettle?”

“A true bill, Your Honour.”

A like answer was returned in respect to the other three charges, and the Judge then discharged the Grand Jury, who promptly filed out of Court, only to reappear in the gallery above the Judge’s bench.

A Special Jury – which, the Judge was careful to tell Jack, was a great privilege extended to him by the Court – was empanelled to try the case, but not without a great deal of challenging on the part of the Crown Prosecutor and of Jack’s counsel.

“Prisoner at the bar, you are charged with the wilful murder of Isaac Zahn. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

“Not Guilty!”

Scarlett’s voice rang clear through the hall.

There was a shuffling amongst the barristers on the floor of the Court; papers were rustled, law-books were opened or placed neatly in rows, and a general air of business pervaded the scene.

Then the Crown Prosecutor rose and, after clearing his throat several times, declared that he would call certain witnesses to prove that the prisoner was on the road between Timber Town and Canvas Town on the day of the murder, that he was at open variance with the murdered man, Isaac Zahn, that he possessed when arrested certain property belonging to the murdered man, and certain other important facts, all of which went to prove the prisoner’s guilt.

First, he called a constable who deposed as to the finding of the bodies; next, a doctor, who gave evidence as to how Zahn met his death. Then followed a member of the search-committee, who supplied various details respecting the track, the position of the body of Zahn when found, and of the effects found upon it.

These three witnesses but fulfilled the formalities of the Law in proving that the dead man was murdered and robbed, but there was a great stir in the hall when the next witness entered the box.

This was a corn-stalk of a man who wore a long yellow beard, and seemed to consist of legs, arms, and head; his body being of such small importance in the scheme of his construction as to be hardly noticeable.

“John Rutherford,” said the Crown Prosecutor, “kindly tell the jury your trade or calling.”

“Digger,” answered the witness, as laconically as possible.

“The witness means,” said the barrister, turning to the jury, “that he mines for gold,” an explanation which nobody needed. “But be so good as to inform the Court if you know a hostelry named The Lucky Digger.”

A smile stole over the lean witness’s face. “I reckon I’ve bin there,” he said.

“Were you there on the afternoon of Saturday, the 25th of February, last?”

“I might ha’ bin.”

“You can’t be certain?”

“You’ve hit it, mister – I can’t be certain.”

“Then we’ll try to assist your memory. Do you know the prisoner at the bar?”

The witness looked at Scarlett with a grin. Then he turned, and confronted the lawyer. “I know him,” he said. “He was boss of the gentlemen diggers.”

“Did you know the deceased, Isaac Zahn, with whose murder the prisoner is charged?”

“I did – he bought gold of me.”

“Did you ever know the two men, John Scarlett and Isaac Zahn, to quarrel?”

“I did.”

“Please be so good as to describe to the jury the nature of the quarrel.”

“I was standin’ in the bar of The Lucky Digger, havin’ a pint with a friend,” said the long, thin witness, “when I heard the prisoner exchangin’ words with Zahn.”

“Ah! a very important matter,” said the counsel for the Crown. “What was the subject of their conversation?”

“Seemed to me they were both sparkin’ up to the bar-maid,” said the digger, “an’ consequently there was bad blood between ’em, specially on the part of Scarlett.”

“Did he strike the deceased?”

“Certainly. Struck ’im in the bar, in the passage, an’ kicked ’im into the street.”

“You swear to that?”

“Decidedly. I seen ’im do it.”

“Thank you. You may stand down – unless, of course, my friend the counsel for the defence would like to ask a question.”

Scarlett’s barrister, a man of jovial countenance, smiled, and shook his head.

“Call Rachel Varnhagen.”

The pretty Jewess, dressed in black, walked modestly into the Court, mounted the step or two which led to the witness-box, and bowed to the Judge and jury.

“I should be pleased to spare you the pain of appearing as a witness in this case,” said the barrister for the Crown, looking his softest at the lovely Rachel, “but the importance I attach to the evidence I believe you will give, is so great that I am forced to sacrifice my private feelings upon the altar of Justice. I believe you know the prisoner at the bar?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Rachel, in a very low voice.

“Did you know Isaac Zahn, with whose murder he is charged?”

“I did.”

“Is it a fact that you were engaged in marriage to Isaac Zahn?”

“I was, but the engagement was broken off some six weeks before his death.”

“And that you afterwards became engaged to John Scarlett?”

“I was never engaged to marry the prisoner.”

“Ah, then I have been misinformed. Were not the prisoner and the deceased rivals for your hand?”

“I believed them to be so.”

“Did you ever know them to quarrel?”

“I once saw the prisoner throw Isaac Zahn out of a house.”

“What house?”

“I was passing along the street, when through the door of a public-house I saw the prisoner throw or kick Isaac Zahn into the street, and he fell on the pavement at my feet.”

“Can you remember the name of the public-house?”

“It was The Lucky Digger.”

The barrister sat down, and looked at the ceiling of the Court – he had finished his examination – and the Judge motioned the fair Rachel to stand down.

The next witness to be sworn was Amiria.

“Do you remember the 3rd of March last?” asked the Crown Prosecutor.

The brown eyes of the Maori girl flashed, and, drawing herself up with dignity, she said, “Of course, I do. Why should I forget it?”

“What did you do on that day – where did you go?”

“I went for a ride, though I can’t see how that can interest you?”

“Did you go alone?”

“No.”

“Who accompanied you?”

“Mr. Scarlett.”

“Indeed. Where did you ride to?”

“In the direction of Canvas Town.”

“Well, well. This is most important. Did you accompany the prisoner all the way?”

“No. We parted at the last ford before you come to the mountains, and I returned alone to Timber Town.”

“What time of day was that?”

“Between nine and ten in the morning.”

“And which way did the prisoner take after leaving you?”

“He crossed over the ford, and went towards Canvas Town.”

“Thank you.” Then the counsel for the Crown turned to the Judge. “I have finished with the witness, Your Honour,” he said.

“But I have not finished,” cried Amiria, lifting her voice so that it rang through the Court. “There were others on the road that day.”

“Ah!” said the Judge. “I understand you desire to make a statement?”

“I desire to say that at the ford were four horrible-looking men.”

The Crown Prosecutor laughed. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You would tell the Court that there were others on the road besides yourself and the prisoner. What were the names of the men to whom you refer?”

“I don’t know. How should I know their names?”

Again the Crown Prosecutor laughed. But Scarlett’s counsel was on his feet in a moment.

“Would you recognise them, if you saw them again?” he asked.

“I think so,” answered the Maori girl.

“What should you say was their occupation?”

“I don’t know, but they looked much more like murderers than Mr. Scarlett did.”

“Look if you can see the men you speak of, in Court.”

The dark girl glanced at the sea of faces on the further side of the barrier.

“They may be here, but I can’t see them,” she said.

“Just so. But do you see any persons like them?”

“In dress, yes. In face, no.”

“Very good, don’t trouble yourself further. That will suffice.”