[She cannot understand why JOE should be so needlessly
    incensed at so innocent and opportune a suggestion.

* * * * *

THE “BEST EVIDENCE”—­HOW NOT TO GET IT.

Have been summoned to attend as a Witness in the trial of the six roughs who first drugged and then savagely ill-treated a foolishly convivial citizen in Whitechapel.  Don’t know if it was wise of me to tell the Police that I could identify the men.  Since my evidence before the Magistrate came out, I have had thirty-seven threatening letters, my front windows have been broken several times over, and a valuable dog poisoned.  Still, evidently a patriotic duty to “assist the course of Justice;” and no doubt I shall be compensated.

So this is the “Central Criminal Court,” is it?  Should hardly have believed it possible.  Outside mean and dirty.

Interior, meaner and much dirtier.  Speak to Usher.  Usher most polite.  Glad, that at any rate, they do know how to treat important Witnesses.  Am assured I shall have a seat “close to the Judge.”  Produce my witness-summons.  Demeanour of Usher suddenly changes.  I shall have to go to the “Witnesses’ Waiting-room in the old Court.”  Where’s that? He doesn’t know.  I’d better ask a Policeman.  It now flashes across me that Usher mistook me for a wealthy, and probably generous spectator, and thought when I was fumbling in my pocket for my summons, I was looking for half-a-crown for him!  Depressing.

Policeman leaves me in a dark, draughty passage, with a bench on each side.  “But where is the waiting-room?” I ask an attendant. “This is the waiting-room,” he replies.  More like the Black Hole. Was it wise of me to give information to the Police?

Two Days later.—­They crammed forty Witnesses into that passage!  No seats for half of them.  We had one chair, and Usher took it away “as a lady wanted it in Court.”  Lady no doubt a spectator—­did she hunt in her pocket for half-a-crown?  Anyhow, after two days in the passage, I have just given my evidence in Court, with fearful cold on my lungs, owing to the draught.  Very hoarse.  Ordered by Judge, sternly, to “speak up.”  Conscious that I looked a wretched object.  Jury regarded me with evident suspicion.  Severely cross-examined.  Mentioned to Judge about my windows being smashed, &c.; could I receive anything for it?  “Oh, dear no,” replied the Judge; “we never reward Witnesses.”  Amusement in Court—­at my expense.  In fact, the course of Justice generally seems to be altogether at my expense.  Home in a cab and a fever.  Find ten more threatening letters, and an infernal machine under area-steps.  Go to bed.  Doctor says I am in for pneumonia and bronchitis, he thinks.  Tells me I am thoroughly run down, and asks me, “What I’ve been doing to reduce myself to this state?” I reply that, “I have been assisting the course of Justice.”  Doctor shrugs his shoulders, and I hear him distinctly mutter, “More fool you!” I agree with Doctor, cordially.  Am quite certain now that it was unwise to tell Police that I could identify those criminals.  If this is the way in which Witnesses are treated, let Justice in future assist itself!