Explore "The Ends of Justice" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The hoarse voice of the commissioner coming like the croak of a raven out of the foggy gloom had signified the hour of adjournment but the prisoner in the dock had heard nothing strange. He was too deeply wrapped up in the amazing drama that had been played to himself as the sole audience. But others had not failed to heed.
The bar had noticed it, and were discussing the matter eagerly. A few of the more thoughtful spectators marvelled as they took their way home-wards. And Lockwood Mostyn smiled as he shuffled out of court in his peculiar cat-like fashion. Men made way for him, others touched their hats to the capitalist, but he pushed by all of them. The smile on his dark features deepened. A little way down sleepy High-street a seedy-looking man, who might have been a broken-down professional man of some kind, was lounging. As Mostyn passed, the seedy man looked up with an inquiring eye.