“I did, some.”

“And did you make these payments?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be surprised to know, as I now tell the court, that since the first payment, made soon after the arrival in the country, not a dollar further had been paid?”

Rosenblatt was silent.

“Answer me!” roared the lawyer.  “Would you be surprised to know this?”

“Yes.”

“This surprise is waiting you.  Now then, who runs this house?”

“Paulina Koval.”

“Tell me the truth.  Who lets the rooms in this house, and who is responsible for the domestic arrangements of the house?  Tell me,” said O’Hara, bearing down upon the wretched Rosenblatt.

“I—­assist—­her—­sometimes.”

“Then you are responsible for the conditions under which Paulina Koval has been forced to live during these three years?”

Rosenblatt was silent.

“That will do,” said O’Hara with contempt unspeakable.

He could easily have made more out of his sweating process had not the prisoner resolutely forbidden any reference to Rosenblatt’s treatment of and relation to the unfortunate Paulina or the domestic arrangements that he had introduced into that unfortunate woman’s household.  Kalmar was rigid in his determination that no stain should come to his honour in this regard.

With the testimony of each succeeding witness the cloud overhanging the prisoner grew steadily blacker.  The first ray of light came from an unexpected quarter.  It was during the examination of Mrs. Fitzpatrick that O’Hara got his first opening.  It was a master stroke of strategy on his part that Mrs. Fitzpatrick was made to appear as a witness for the Crown, for the purpose of establishing the deplorable and culpable indifference to and neglect of his family on the part of the prisoner.

Day after day Mrs. Fitzpatrick had appeared in the court, following the evidence with rising wrath against the Crown, its witnesses, and all the machinery of prosecution.  All unwitting of this surging tide of indignation in the heart of his witness the Crown Counsel summoned her to the stand.  Mr. Staunton’s manner was exceedingly affable.

“Your name, Madam?” he enquired.

“Me name is it?” replied the witness.  “An’ don’t ye know me name as well as I do mesilf?”

Mr. Staunton smiled pleasantly.  “But the court desires to share that privilege with me, so perhaps you will be good enough to inform the court of your name.”

“If the court wants me name let the court ask it.  An’ if you want to tell the court me name ye can plaze yersilf, fer it’s little I think av a man that’ll sit in me house by the hour forninst mesilf an’ me husband there, and then let on before the court that he doesn’t know the name av me.”

“Why, my dear Madam,” said the lawyer soothingly, “it is a mere matter of form that you should tell the court your name.”

“A matter o’ form, is it?  Indade, an’ it’s mighty poor form it is, if ye ask my opinion, which ye don’t, an’ it’s mighty poor manners.”