For the Defence, Dr. Thorndyke

His state of mind was very peculiar for that of a prisoner arraigned on such a charge. He realized it, himself, and was faintly surprised at it, particularly when he contrasted the abject panic of the terror-stricken wretch who had staggered away from the police bill at Crompton with the serenity of the prisoner at the bar who stood waiting to watch the throw of the dice in the game which was presently to be played between Thorndyke and his accusers; a game of which his life was the stake. The bare possibility that this thing might happen had then paralysed him with horror; and now that the reality was upon him, he seemed to face the terrible chances almost unmoved.

He looked about the court with somewhat of the interest of a spectator. He had never before been in a criminal court and the various objects and persons and the solemn procedure all had the attraction of novelty. He inspected the scarlet-robed judge approvingly, excepting as to his wig, which he found disappointing. Like most uninformed persons, he had supposed that judges wore full-bottomed wigs when they sat in court. He observed the Clerk of the Court sitting in wig and gown behind his desk below the judge's dais; he counted the jury, who were waiting to be sworn, and noted that two of them were women. Then his eye roamed along the counsels' seats, where Dr. Thorndyke sat placidly looking over his brief, and he endeavoured to pick out Sir Oliver Blizzard, who, he had been informed, was to lead for the prosecution; eventually fixing -- correctly, as it turned out -- upon a clerical-looking gentleman with a monocle firmly jammed in his eye unsecured by any cord or other support.