doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands—as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story—whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands—the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this—if you like— reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and—they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility —I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.]     

CONTENTS

         COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him.       

       FROME. What is your name?     

       COKESON. Robert Cokeson.     

       FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner?     

       COKESON. Ye-es.     

       FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ?     

       COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there—all but seventeen days.     

       FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time?     

       COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays.     

       FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years.     

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