Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his
leader's lead, examined the patriot: John Barsad,
gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul
was exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had
described it to be—perhaps, if it had a fault, a little
too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn
himself, but that the wigged gentleman with the
papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry,
begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged
gentleman sitting opposite, still looked at the
ceiling of the court.

Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he
scorned the base insinuation. What did he live
upon? His property. Where was his property?
He didn't precisely remember where it was.
What was it? No business of anybody's. Had
he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom?
Distant relation. Very distant? Rather. Ever
been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a
debtors' prison? Didn't see what that had to do
with it. Never in a debtors' prison?—Come,
once again. Never? Yes. How many times?
Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps.
Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been
kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No.
Ever kicked down stairs? Decidedly not; once
received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
down stairs of his own accord. Kicked on that
occasion for cheating at dice? Something to
that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
committed the assault, but it was not true.
Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live
by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by
play? Not more than other gentlemen do.
Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever
pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the
prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon
the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No.
Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists?
Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No.
Had not procured them himself, for instance?
No. Expect to get anything by this evidence?
No. Not in regular government pay and
employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do
anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over
and over again. No motives but motives of
sheer patriotism? None whatever.

The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way
through the case at a great rate. He had
taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the
prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted
a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged
him. He had not asked the prisoner to take the
handy fellow as an act of charity—never thought
of such a thing. He began to have suspicions
of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him,
soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while
travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in
the prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He
had taken these lists from the drawer of the
prisoner's desk. He had not put them there
first. He had seen the prisoner show these
identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and
similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais
and Boulogne. He loved his country, and
couldn't bear it, and had given information. He
had never been suspected of stealing a silver
teapot; he had been maligned respecting a
mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated
one. He had known the last witness seven or
eight years; that was merely a coincidence.
He didn't call it a particularly curious
coincidence; most coincidences were curious.
Neither did he call it a curious coincidence
that true patriotism was his only motive too. He
was a true Briton, and hoped there were many
like him.

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-
General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry.

"Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's
bank?"

"I am."

"On a certain Friday night in November one
thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, did
business occasion you to travel between London and
Dover by the mail?"

"It did."

"Were there any other passengers in the
mail?"

"Two."

"Did they alight on the road in the course of
the night?"

"They did."

"Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was
he one of those two passengers?"

"I cannot undertake to say that he was."

"Does he resemble either of those two
passengers?"

"Both were so wrapped up, and the night was
so dark, and we were all so reserved, that I
cannot undertake to say even that."

"Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner.
Supposing him wrapped up as those two
passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and
stature to render it unlikely that he was one of
them?"

"No."

"You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was
not one of them?"

"No."

"So at least you say he may have been
one of them?"

"Yes. Except that I remember them both to
have been—like myself—timorous of highwaymen,
and the prisoner has not a timorous air."

"Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity,
Mr. Lorry?"

"I certainly have seen that."

"Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner.
Have you seen him, to your certain
knowledge, before?"

"I have."

"When?"

"I was returning from France a few days
afterwards, and, at Calais, the prisoner came on
board the packet-ship in which I returned, and
made the voyage with me."

"At what hour did he come on board?"

"At a little after midnight."

"In the dead of the night. Was he the only
passenger who came on board at that untimely
hour?"