“I am certain of it.”

“You are of opinion that no mistake is possible?”

“No mistake is possible, your worship.  It is a certainty.”

The magistrate looked at Anstey inquiringly, whereupon the barrister rose.  “We reserve our defence, your worship.”

The magistrate then, in the same placid, business-like manner, committed the prisoner for trial at the Central Criminal Court, refusing to accept bail for his appearance, and, as Reuben was led forth from the dock, the next case was called.

By special favour of the authorities, Reuben was to be allowed to make his journey to Holloway in a cab, thus escaping the horrors of the filthy and verminous prison van, and while this was being procured, his friends were permitted to wish him farewell.

“This is a hard experience, Hornby,” said Thorndyke, when we three were, for a few moments, left apart from the others; and as he spoke the warmth of a really sympathetic nature broke through his habitual impassivity.  “But be of good cheer; I have convinced myself of your innocence and have good hopes of convincing the world—­though this is for your private ear, you understand, to be mentioned to no one.”

Reuben wrung the hand of this “friend in need,” but was unable, for the moment, to speak; and, as his self-control was evidently strained to the breaking point, Thorndyke, with a man’s natural instinct, wished him a hasty good-bye, and passing his hand through my arm, turned away.

“I wish it had been possible to save the poor fellow from this delay, and especially from the degradation of being locked up in a jail,” he exclaimed regretfully as we walked down the street.

“There is surely no degradation in being merely accused of a crime,” I answered, without much conviction, however.  “It may happen to the best of us; and he is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”

“That, my dear Jervis, you know, as well as I do, to be mere casuistry,” he rejoined.  “The law professes to regard the unconvicted man as innocent; but how does it treat him?  You heard how the magistrate addressed our friend; outside the court he would have called him Mr.  Hornby.  You know what will happen to Reuben at Holloway.  He will be ordered about by warders, will have a number label fastened on to his coat, he will be locked in a cell with a spy-hole in the door, through which any passing stranger may watch him; his food will be handed to him in a tin pan with a tin knife and spoon; and he will be periodically called out of his cell and driven round the exercise yard with a mob composed, for the most part, of the sweepings of the London slums.  If he is acquitted, he will be turned loose without a suggestion of compensation or apology for these indignities or the losses he may have sustained through his detention.”

“Still I suppose these evils are unavoidable,” I said.

“That may or may not be,” he retorted.  “My point is that the presumption of innocence is a pure fiction; that the treatment of an accused man, from the moment of his arrest, is that of a criminal.  However,” he concluded, hailing a passing hansom, “this discussion must be adjourned or I shall be late at the hospital.  What are you going to do?”