Contents

1.   Court Selection

2.   Bogg, Tewkesbury & Co.

3.   A Glance at the Old Bailey

4.   Legal Aid

5.   Not Guilty

6.   On Obtaining Credit

7.   A Room for the Night

8.   A Sermon

9.   Justice at the Races

10. A Stroke

11. Painswick (Junior) v Gloster (First Round)

12. Master in Chambers

13. Caroline in Charge

14. Interlocutory Proceedings

15. Painswick (Junior) v Gloster (Last Round)

16. The System

17. Certainty

18. Generation Succeeds Generation

19. And So On

CHAPTER ONE

Court Selection

It would surprise many people to learn that a judge of the High Court of Justice had ever asked a clergyman of the Church of England what horse he fancied for the 2.30 on the following day. Still, it is not absolutely impossible, though it is most improbable, that such a question has been asked informally by the one of the other on a very few occasions. It must, however, be unique in the annals of legal history to find this question being asked by the judge from the bench of the clergyman as a witness. That, in fact, is what happened in Court I of the Old Bailey during the hearing of the case of Rex v Smith. If you could obtain access to the shorthand note of Lucy Meeson-Smith’s trial, you would find there recorded:

THE JUDGE: Surely this matter is capable of reasonable proof one way or the other. What do you say will win the 2.30 race tomorrow?

THE WITNESS: I am afraid I cannot tell your Lordship that, as I have not considered the race and, indeed, even if I had considered it, I might not be able to give the answer. There are many races of which I could not hope to find the winner except by luck.

THE JUDGE: That, I suppose, is the experience of most people with all races. Is there any race of which you can tell us the winner with reasonable certainty? Any race in the future, I mean.

THE WITNESS: Oh, yes, my Lord.

THE JUDGE: Tell us, then. No doubt the jury will make a note of your answer and profit by the information – or not – as the case may be.

THE WITNESS: My Lord, the Oaks will unquestionably be won by Sonata, and the Derby will almost as certainly be won by Intermezzo. I must make one qualification. Sonata has once been known to refuse to start. Of course, if she refuses again, my forecast will be wrong, but, if she starts, she will win.

THE JUDGE: Do these horses happen to be favourites for the respective races?

THE WITNESS: No, my Lord. At the moment the favourite for the Oaks is My Conscience and the betting on it is 2 to1 against. Your Lordship could obtain 12 to 1 against Sonata. Your Lordship will forgive me; I was not intending to be personal. Intermezzo is at present at 20 to 1, while the favourite Umbrella is at 3 to 1. So the double on Sonata and Intermezzo is worth 240 to 1. It should be 272 to 1, but no bookmaker will lay the odds.

THE JUDGE: I’m not sure that I understand your last remark, but never mind about that for the moment. When are these races being run?

THE WITNESS: The Oaks is on Thursday and the Derby on Saturday.

THE JUDGE: Very well then. Subject to anything which may be said by counsel on either side, I shall adjourn this trial until Monday next.

MR TRUMPER: Does your Lordship think a forecast of two races is sufficient? The witness might be lucky.

THE JUDGE: Well, Mr Meeson-Smith, you hear what counsel says. Can you make any other forecasts for races this week?

THE WITNESS: (after a pause): Yes, my Lord. Gorgonzola will win the Royal Stakes Handicap on Friday, and I shall be very surprised if Chirrup doesn’t win the first race at Epsom on Saturday.

THE JUDGE: At what price do these horses stand?

THE WITNESS: There is no betting on them yet, my Lord. The races are not big races and there is no ante-post betting, as it is called, on them. I should, however, anticipate that Gorgonzola will run as a complete outsider, while Chirrup should be third or fourth favourite. I must, however, make another qualification. Those horses are likely to win if they run, but naturally I cannot tell if the owners and trainers will run them.

THE JUDGE: Well, Mr Trumper, are four enough for you?

MR TRUMPER: Yes, I think so, my Lord – if they run.

THE JUDGE: Very well then. I take it, Mr Croft, you have no objection to this adjournment.

MR CROFT: None at all, my Lord, I welcome it.

THE JUDGE: Members of the jury, I am proposing to adjourn this trial until Monday to see whether the witness’s prophecies turn out to be accurate. Don’t talk about the case during the adjournment or try to come to any conclusion about it. You haven’t yet heard the whole of the evidence. Whether or not you avail yourselves of Mr Meeson-Smith’s hints is entirely a matter for you.

Adjourned until Monday, the 7th June, at 10.30 a.m.

In order to explain how such matters came to be considered in a Court of law, and a Criminal Court at that, it is necessary to go back some years and to trace the history of Lucy Meeson-Smith and her father, the Reverend Wellsby Meeson-Smith, from the time of her innocent childhood to the day when she came to stand in the dock at the Old Bailey. It can, however, be said at once that all four horses won at odds which were highly satisfactory from the point of view of those who backed them.

Lucy Meeson-Smith was the Reverend Wellsby Meeson-Smith’s only child. He was thirty when he married and his wife twenty, and it was shortly after he obtained the living at Tapworth Magna that Lucy was born. She was an attractive girl of a most enquiring turn of mind and she had difficulty in accepting anything which was not satisfactorily proved before her eyes. Her father had read Mathematics at Cambridge, and it may be that this trait was to some extent inherited from him. He delighted to play with figures, but, while she was more interested in less concrete matters, she required the same certainty as can be obtained with figures. She quickly learned that two and two made four, and seeing this clearly proved by the use of bricks in the nursery, she required the same standard of proof for the theory of the Universe. This her father and mother and teachers were wholly unable to provide. As she grew up she asked more and more awkward questions and received what she considered to be wholly unsatisfactory answers. At the age of thirteen, for instance, she asked her teacher to explain how it came about that the Almighty permitted cruelty to animals. She could, even at that age, understand the explanation given to her for the misery of many apparently deserving human beings. Man has to work out his salvation, she was told, the ways of God are inscrutable and mankind as a whole must go through the refining process which involves apparent unfairness to worthy individuals. She accepted the story of Job and, indeed, most of the cruelties revealed in the Old Testament, provided that men or women were the sufferers. The proposed sacrifice of Isaac – particularly as it was never carried out – she found easy to understand, but the ram caught in a thicket, which was slaughtered instead of Isaac, brought her to tears. ‘Poor ram,’ she used to say, ‘poor, poor ram. Why did it have to be killed, please? What had it done?’ ‘They were primitive men in those days and did barbarous things,’ she was told; ‘we know better today.’ ‘Does God approve of rabbits being caught in traps, then?’ she would ask. ‘Why does He allow it?’ ‘Now, don’t ask so many questions,’ she was told. Indeed, this seemed the only answer to many of her queries.

‘Is it good to be kind to animals?’ she asked at Sunday School one day.

‘Yes, of course, Lucy.’

‘Do caterpillars feel pain if they are stamped on?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘If they are left in the road will they be stamped on?’

‘Probably.’

‘I was picking them up and putting them on the side of the road when Daddy told me that we’d be late for church if I went on doing that, and that my hands would be all dirty.’

‘Your father knows best.’

‘Does God like caterpillars to be stamped on, then?’

‘Don’t ask so many questions.’

But although Lucy would sometimes stop asking, she did not stop thinking, and she returned to the subject time after time.

‘If animals have souls, why do we eat them and why can’t they come to church? If they haven’t souls, why does God let millions and millions of them die in torture every day? Why does He let the spider catch the fly in its web? Does He see it struggling? Doesn’t He mind? And if He does why doesn’t He do something about it?’

When she was fifteen she drew a picture of a cat about to kill a bird. She took considerable trouble over it and the look of cruel greed on the cat’s face and the sweet innocence of the bird were well depicted. In a corner of the picture was a similar bird calmly eating a worm which was wriggling in its beak. She gave the picture the title ‘God is Love.’ That was the only time she saw her father really angry. He tore up the picture and said she was a very wicked little girl. ‘For thinking of the picture or the title?’ she asked. ‘For blasphemy,’ he said. ‘Do you think God likes such things?’ ‘Then why doesn’t He stop them?’ she asked. ‘Never let me see you do that again,’ said her father, and walked away.

She was kind and generous and she could not believe that an almighty power, full of loving kindness, could permit animals to suffer as they do. Religion, therefore, meant little to her. Still, while she lived at home, she went to church and did all the things which the well-behaved daughter of a good vicar is expected to do. After a normal schooling, she took a secretarial course and eventually went to live in London on her own. Her parents were not at first happy about this, but there was nothing they could do to stop her and, as she used to stay with them for weekends and appeared to be coming to no harm, they eventually accepted the position. She took various jobs, picking and choosing as young ladies with Mrs Blankworthy’s certificate of efficiency always can. Some months before her trial she became employed by Vulgan’s, the big bookmakers. She chose the job because it was well paid and because she wanted to know what the inside of a bookmaker’s office was like. Her eventual prosecution at the Old Bailey arose from her employment there. She was employed as a clerk in the telephone room and among her duties was that of taking bets from the numerous clients of Messrs Vulgan who made their bets by telephone. She was, of course, one of many, and it was some time before the security department of her employers became interested in her. One day, however, the manager asked one of the security men to keep a watch on Miss Smith. (When applying for jobs she had dropped the Meeson as rather cumbersome.) The manager had noticed that a certain Mr Thompson, whose account had been dormant for a considerable time, had suddenly changed his address and started operating again with singular success. Messrs Vulgan were perfectly happy to pay out genuine winners; it did their business good by way of advertisement and, in any event, there were so few of them, compared with the number of losers, that they could well afford it. Not unnaturally, however, they had a serious objection to being cheated, and since a regular backer of horses, in spite of occasional runs of good luck, is usually a loser, repeated and consistent wins excite suspicion. The manager, noticing that Mr Thompson seemed to be winning too often, investigated his account and found to his astonishment that for the past three months he had rarely lost a bet. He did not bet in large amounts and the loss was nothing to Vulgan’s, but the consistency of the wins called for investigation. This revealed that the bets were always taken by Lucy Smith. That was certainly strange, as the chances of a client being put through to the same clerk each time were very small indeed in view of the number employed. Accordingly, Mr Grant, a member of the security department, interviewed Lucy.

‘We’ve noticed,’ he said, ‘that Mr Henry Thompson of 11 Pocket Lane, Streatham, is winning nearly all his bets.’

‘Nice for him,’ said Lucy.

‘Very,’ said Mr Grant. ‘Not a friend of yours, I suppose?’

‘Wish he were.’

‘Not a relative, I suppose? You know the rule about servants of the Company and their relatives not being accepted as clients.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘We’ve also noticed,’ said Mr Grant, ‘that you seem to take all his bets.’

‘I must bring him luck.’

‘Sure there’s nothing you’d like to tell me about him?’

‘Nothing at all, but I’d like to know why you’re asking me all these questions.’

‘Just a routine check up. We always keep an eye on winning accounts.’

‘That should be easy.’

The interview ended and Lucy went back to her work.

That evening, when Lucy with some misgivings called at 11 Pocket Lane to collect the money due from Vulgan’s to Mr Thompson for the previous week’s winnings, she was not pleased to find Mr Grant waiting for her.

‘Well,’ said Mr Grant, ‘it was easy, as you said.’

‘I can explain,’ said Lucy.

‘You need to,’ said Mr Grant.

‘Mr Thompson is a friend of mine, but I didn’t like to tell you before. I collect his letters for him.’

‘Why does he use an accommodation address?’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘Where does he live then?’

‘I’m not quite sure of his present address.’

‘How will you give him the money? I notice he likes it to be in cash.’

‘I shall see him some time.’

‘Where?’

‘Oh – somewhere or other.’

‘When?’

‘You do want to know a lot, don’t you. Well, there isn’t a Mr Thompson, anyway.’

‘You surprise me,’ said Mr Grant.

‘I can explain,’ said Lucy.

‘Don’t bother,’ said Mr Grant. ‘Keep it for the police. Your explanations bore me. They’re too easy. I like something a bit meatier.’

‘Oh, well, if you don’t want to know,’ said Lucy, ‘that’s your affair. Anyway, I’m resigning.’

‘That’s very decent of you. But you needn’t bother. You’re fired already.’

‘You can’t fire me.’

‘The Company will as soon as they have my report. If I were you, young lady, I should take it a bit more seriously. This is a police matter.’

‘I meant to ask you why you said that before. What have I done wrong?’

‘Well, you are a cool one. You ask the magistrate. He’ll tell you.’

‘I certainly will. Where is he?’

‘At Marlborough Street.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps you will.’

‘Who shall I ask for?’

‘They’ll tell you.’

‘Who d’you mean by “they”?’

‘Oh – you make me tired. See you in the morning. I shouldn’t do a bunk. They’ll find you and it only makes it worse. Good night.’

Some days later Lucy was called from her work to the manager’s office.

‘Sit down, Miss Smith, please,’ he said. ‘This is Sergeant Powell and this is Detective Holden of the Criminal Investigation Department,’ he added, indicating two strangers who were there with Mr Grant.

‘How d’you do?’ said Lucy.

‘Miss Smith,’ said the sergeant, ‘I have a warrant for your arrest. Messrs Vulgan have charged you with obtaining from them £75 by false pretences with intent to defraud. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

‘What was the fraud? I won the money.’

‘Now, Miss, it’s no business of mine to advise you, but you’re more likely to get off lightly if you make a clean breast of it. I don’t suppose it’s your fault. Who’s the man behind you?’

‘Mr Thompson of 11 Pocket Lane.’

‘He doesn’t exist.’

‘I daresay, but he’s the only man behind me.’

‘Oh, very well, Miss, have it your own way, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now d’you want to state how you inserted the bets? You needn’t if you don’t want to.’

The manager looked at Lucy. This was the question he really wanted answered. They had what they thought was a foolproof system at Vulgan’s, and none of them could think how Lucy could have broken it down. If she had only done it once, it would have been worrying enough, but that she had been able to do it for weeks, if not months, was a matter of great anxiety. If she could do it so easily, so could the others. The answer must be found. He had told the detective-sergeant that they would even be prepared to drop the charge if he could find out how she’d done it.

‘Inserted the bets? What do you mean?’

‘Now, look here,’ said the sergeant, ‘you don’t have to say anything at all if you don’t want to, but you know perfectly well those bets weren’t on the level and, if you tell us how you did it, your employers may – I don’t say they will – may drop the charge.’

‘Of course they were on the level. What rubbish you talk.’

‘Then why all the lies you told?’

‘How could I put a bet on any other way?’

‘Why not bet with someone else?’

‘How could I know the runners? or jockeys? or the prices?’

‘You can read the morning papers.’

‘Read the morning papers. It’s obvious you don’t bet, Sergeant. What you see in the morning papers is what are called ‘probables’. That doesn’t mean runners. It means what it says. Probables. Some of them don’t run and some improbables do. I can’t learn that until half an hour before the race, and then I’m on duty. Then the jockeys are changed too, with a possible change of weights involved. Then what about the prices? The forecasts in the morning papers are hopeless. I don’t back blindly like most of our clients. I want to know what I’m doing. The only way I could do it was by using a false name.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said the manager, ‘but how did you choose all those winners?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ added the sergeant, ‘how did you do that?’

Lucy hesitated. Then, ‘I won’t tell you,’ she said, ‘I chose them and they won. That’s enough for you.’

‘It just about is,’ said the manager. ‘No one could do it.’

‘Well, I did.’

‘How?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Then it’s our business if we choose to disbelieve you. All right, Sergeant, we’ll proceed with the charge.’ As Lucy said nothing to this, he added angrily: ‘You’re a very stupid young woman. If you’ll tell us how you did it, we’ll drop the whole thing.’

‘Well, I won’t. You just won’t believe anyone can beat you, that’s your trouble.’

‘Nor will you, young lady, but you’ll find you’re mistaken.’

Nothing more was to be obtained from Lucy and she was accordingly taken to the police station, charged and then released on her own bail.

CHAPTER TWO

Bogg, Tewkesbury & Co.

The next day she appeared at Marlborough Street Police Court, where the magistrate asked her if she had any money and, on being told that she had a little, suggested that she should take legal advice and remanded her on bail for the purpose. In consequence she eventually found herself in the offices of Bogg, Tewkesbury & Co., solicitors and commissioners for oaths. After a few words with a pert young lady who might have filled any position in the firm from office girl to cashier (and, in fact, combined them all), Lucy was shown in to Mr Tewkesbury himself. As it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, Mr Tewkesbury did not reek of whisky. He merely exuded that unpleasant smell of the previous week’s intake which Lucy, in her innocence, mistook for a lack of attention to his teeth.

‘Good morning, young lady,’ he said with half-closed eyes, and then, observing the form and fairness of Lucy, got up unsteadily and assisted her into a chair. She did not need the assistance, but Mr Tewkesbury, whose main pleasure in life was whisky, had not yet entirely lost other elementary feelings and liked touching pretty young women when he got the chance.

‘Well, what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?’

‘I’m in trouble.’

‘Trouble, young lady, can be of many kinds. It can range from a badly wanted affiliation order to murder, though, if I may say so, from the look of you, I should not imagine you have come to consult me about either of these matters.’

‘No.’

‘Then perhaps you would enlighten me, and don’t forget, time is money, and my time is represented by your money. Expensive business going to law. We take all your money, you know.’ He smiled as pleasantly as nature allowed him.

‘I’m charged with fraud.’

‘Oh dear. I hoped it was shoplifting. So much cheaper. Expensive business fraud. How much money have you got?’

‘Eight guineas.’

‘Eight guineas? Dear, dear dear, that won’t go very far. Can’t instruct counsel on eight guineas, Sure you haven’t any more?’

‘None at all.’

‘Can’t you sell something?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, well, give me what you have and I’ll do the best I can.’

‘You want the money now?’

‘Certainly, young lady. We’re not like taxi-drivers who get paid at the end of the journey. Sometimes, you see, our clients disappear for a time at the end of the journey. But don’t let’s talk about unpleasant things. Eight guineas, I think you said. They’ll give you a receipt in the office.’

Lucy counted out the money and handed it over.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘Now, when is the case coming on?’

‘At Marlborough Street in a week’s time.’

‘Very well, I shall be there.’ Mr Tewkesbury got up to indicate that the interview was closed.

‘But don’t you want to know about the case?’

‘Plenty of time for that. A week you said, I think. I’ll be outside the Court. Don’t you worry. Leave it all to me.’ He approached Lucy to assist her from the chair, but she was able to forestall him. He managed, however, to take her arm and hold it while he repeated: ‘Don’t you worry. Leave it to me,’ and to retain his grip while he showed her to the door. Fortunately for her and unfortunately for him the distances in the offices of Bogg, Tewkesbury & Co. were extremely small, and it was not long before Lucy was in the street again. As soon as she had gone, Mr Tewkesbury’s dying amatory instincts subsided and he sent for the pert young lady.

‘Go round to Roebucks, please, Nora,’ he said, handing her three pounds.

‘Same as usual, Mr Tewkesbury?’

‘Of course. Hurry up. I’ve a lot to do.’

He had, in fact, a certain amount to do, but the work he had in mind was the commencement of the day’s drinking, which Lucy’s eight guineas had conveniently accelerated.

It may surprise some people to know that there are firms like Bogg, Tewkesbury today, but, though there are very few of them, they have a real existence. Until they are actually proved to have misappropriated their clients’ monies they continue, not necessarily to flourish, but certainly to carry on business, disapproved of most strongly by the Law Society but otherwise not interfered with. Those who have had the misfortune to get into trouble of one kind or another and to have had their troubles increased by consulting a firm of this type will recognise only too well Lucy’s experiences already and to be related.

Lucy did not see Mr Tewkesbury again until just before the case was called on, when he walked unsteadily into the Court. He winked at Lucy, who was by that time in the dock, and sat down heavily at the solicitors’ table.

As the evidence of each witness was taken, Mr Tewkesbury informed the magistrate that he would reserve cross-examination. After half an hour the case was adjourned for a further week. Lucy saw Mr Tewkesbury outside the Court. This time she could smell whisky quite distinctly.

‘Don’t you worry, young lady,’ he said, somewhat thickly. ‘It’s going very nicely.’

‘But you haven’t heard my story yet.’

Mr Tewkesbury placed his finger against his nose, which, somewhat to his surprise, he had no difficulty in finding, and winked knowingly at Lucy.

‘You leave it to me, young lady. You wait and see. You’ll be surprised. See you next week,’ and he lurched away.

Lucy had no experience of the law or lawyers, but she began to have misgivings. The next week the same performance was repeated and the case was again adjourned for a week. At the end of the third hearing the case for the prosecution was closed.

The case made against Lucy was that she was employed as a clerk to accept telephoned bets; that she placed bets in a false name knowing that she was not allowed to bet with her employers; that when tackled with this, she lied about it, and that she told further lies later on to Mr Grant. It was shown that she had backed an exceptional number of winners, and the evidence was, that no client of her employers had ever enjoyed such continuous success. There was no direct evidence that she had made the bets after the result of the race was known, but the magistrate was asked to infer this from the other facts.

Then Mr Tewkesbury rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I submit,’ he said to the magistrate, ‘that my client has no case to answer – no case at all.’

He sat down again heavily.

‘Would you care to elaborate your submission, Mr Tewkesbury?’ said the magistrate.

Mr Tewkesbury rose.

‘Your Worship?’ he said.

‘Would you care to elaborate your submission?’ repeated the magistrate.

‘No case to answer,’ said Mr. Tewkesbury. ‘No case at all,’ he repeated, and sat down.

‘That isn’t very helpful, Mr. Tewkesbury,’ said the magistrate.

‘Not helpful?’ said Mr. Tewkesbury from where he sat. ‘Never been told that before.’

The magistrate turned to the solicitor for the prosecution with a slight sigh. ‘What evidence is there of intent to defraud, Mr Highly?’ he asked. ‘There’s no direct evidence that the bets were placed after the races were over, is there?’

‘No, your Worship, but I ask you to say that the defendant’s conduct is only consistent with an intent to defraud, or, at any rate, that that is a question for the jury to decide.’

The magistrate hesitated. Finally, ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think there is evidence to go before a jury.’

Lucy was accordingly committed to take her trial at the Old Bailey and was allowed bail as before. Outside the Court she saw Mr. Tewkesbury.

‘Well, young lady,’ he said, ‘we had a good try. Too bad we didn’t get away with it. Never mind. Better luck next time.’

‘What will happen now?’ said Lucy.

‘First of all,’ said Mr. Tewkesbury, ‘I shall want some more money.’

‘But I haven’t any.’

Mr Tewkesbury winked. ‘Find some.’

‘But I can’t.’

Mr Tewkesbury looked pained.

‘But I can’t do all this for nothing, you know. Not a charitable institution. You owe me five guineas already.’

‘Five guineas? But I gave you eight.’

‘All gone,’ said Mr Tewkesbury. ‘After all, I’ve appeared for you three times.’

‘You haven’t said very much.’

‘It’s quality,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘not quantity, that counts. I could have said a great deal if I’d just been a windbag, but that wouldn’t have done you any good. Well – well, can you find any more money, or can’t you?’

‘I can’t.’

‘In that case,’ said Mr Tewkesbury, ‘I’m afraid that I’ve done all I can for you. Very sorry, but not a charitable institution. Nice to have known you. Must be getting along now. You’ll be all right, don’t you worry. Send me the five guineas when you’ve got it. Good morning,’ and Mr Tewkesbury walked out of Lucy’s life.

CHAPTER THREE

A Glance at the Old Bailey

Lucy was now in a quandary. She had made up her mind that she would, if possible, prevent news of her prosecution from coming to the ears of her father. She hoped that, even if the case were reported, the name of Lucy Smith was so common that it would not attract his attention. She saw no reason whatever why he should be dragged into the proceedings, which would not only distress him but would undoubtedly cause gossip in the village. Now, however, that she had no legal adviser she did not quite know what to do. She was a resourceful young woman, however, and decided to go down to the Old Bailey to watch a trial so as to see whether she could conduct her own defence. So she went the next day, and watched for some hours from the public gallery. She was surprised to find that the people in the dock seemed far more respectable than her neighbours in the public gallery.

The first case which she saw was that of a handsome young man in a clean and well-pressed blue suit. Before the charge was read over to him, she wondered what it could be and imagined it must be some form of fraud. Next to her, on her right in the gallery, was a man who to her mind was an obvious burglar, while the man on her left was a gentleman with a receding forehead, near-set eyes, and a large ungainly body, who looked as though he were capable of committing any crime not requiring intelligence. Both these characters were so very different from the nice boy in the dock. To her amazement, however, when the charge was read out, she found that the nice boy was accused of robbery with violence; possessing house-breaking implements by night; and of larceny from a dwelling-house. She had yet to learn that the normal prisoner, particularly the man charged with crimes of violence, dresses himself as well as possible when standing his trial, while those who have already served their sentences go to the gallery, dressed in their everyday clothes, to observe with relish the same things happening to other people as happened to themselves.

The proceedings in the Court filled Lucy with awe, and she began to wonder how she would find her voice so as to enable her to put forward her defence. The judge in his imposing robes; the clerk and the bewigged barristers; the size of the Court; and the whole atmosphere made her feel very doubtful if she were capable of going through with it. She then realised with a sinking feeling that hers was no appointment that could be cancelled. It was while she was feeling in this mood that the trial of the handsome gentleman in the blue suit was postponed for a few minutes, while another gentleman was brought up from below. It appeared that the gentleman from below possessed £2 4s 6d and wished to have the services of learned counsel to defend him. The judge informed him of his right to choose any of the learned counsel sitting in Court.

Lucy had vaguely heard of a dock brief before, but did not know what it meant, but, as soon as she saw that she could have a complete barrister in a wig and gown for £2 4s 6d, she decided that this was the solution, and it made her much happier. She was consequently able to listen to the case of the gentleman in the blue suit with more interest. After he had been duly tried and convicted, it transpired that he had two previous convictions for robbery, and one for attempted murder, and, before he was sentenced, he asked for five other cases to be taken into consideration. The general opinion of the gallery was that he would be imprisoned for ten years, which showed the value of experience, for the judge thought likewise. It would indeed have been quite an interesting day for Lucy but for the reason which had prompted her to go there.