“Oh, dash it all!” cried Malone, “we can’t give it up so easily. We know the man is an honest man.”
Mailey turned and grasped Malone’s hand.
“I don’t know if you call yourself a Spiritualist yet,” he said, “but you are the kind of chap we want. There are too many white-livered folk in our movement who fawn on a medium when all is well, and desert him at the first breath of an accusation. But, thank God! there are a few stalwarts. There is Brookes and Rodwin and Sir James Smith. We can put up a hundred or two among us.”
“Right-o!” said the solicitor, cheerily. “If you feel like that we will give you a run for your money.”
“How about a K.C.?”
“Well, they don’t plead in police courts. If you’ll leave it in my hands I fancy I can do as well as anyone, for I’ve had a lot of these cases. It will keep the costs down, too.”
“Well, we are with you. And we will have a few good men at our back.”
“If we do nothing else we shall ventilate it,” said Malone. “I believe in the good old British public. Slow and stupid, but sound at the core. They will not stand for injustice if you can get the truth into their heads.”
“They damned well need trepanning before you can get it there,” said the solicitor. “Well, you do your bit and I’ll do mine and we will see what comes of it.”
The fateful morning arrived and Linden found himself in the dock facing a spruce, middle-aged man with rat-trap jaws, Mr. Melrose, the redoubtable police magistrate. Mr. Melrose had a reputation for severity with fortune-tellers and all who foretold the future, though he spent the intervals in his court by reading up the sporting prophets, for he was an ardent follower of the Turf, and his trim, fawn-coloured coat and rakish hat were familiar objects at every race meeting which was within his reach. He was in no particularly good humour this morning as he glanced at the charge-sheet and then surveyed the prisoner. Mrs. Linden had secured a position below the dock, and occasionally extended her hand to pat that of the prisoner which rested on the edge. The court was crowded and many of the prisoner’s clients had attended to show their sympathy.
“Is this case defended?” asked Mr. Melrose.
“Yes, your worship,” said Summerway Jones. “May I, before it opens, make an objection?”
“If you think it worth while, Mr. Jones.”
“I beg to respectfully request your ruling before the case is proceeded with. My client is not a vagrant, but a respectable member of the community, living in his own house, paying rates and taxes, and on the same footing as every other citizen. He is now prosecuted under the fourth section of the Vagrancy Act of 1824, which is styled, ‘An Act for punishing idle and disorderly persons, and rogues and vagabonds.’ The Act was intended, as the words imply, to restrain lawless gipsies and others, who at that time infested the country. I ask your worship to rule that my client is clearly not a person within the purview of this Act or liable to its penalties.”
The Magistrate shook his head.
“I fear, Mr. Jones, that there have been too many precedents for the Act to be now interpreted in this limited fashion. I will ask the solicitor prosecuting on behalf of the Commissioner of Police to put forward his evidence.”
A little bull of a man with side-whiskers and a raucous voice sprang to his feet.
“I call Henrietta Dresser.”
The elder policewoman popped up in the box with the alacrity of one who is used to it. She held an open notebook in her hand.
“You are a policewoman, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand that you watched the prisoner’s home the day before you called on him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many people went in?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Fourteen people. And I believe the prisoner’s average fee is ten and sixpence.”
“Yes.”
“Seven pounds in one day! Pretty good wages when many an honest
man is content with five shillings.”
“These were the tradespeople!” cried Linden.