Then Mr. Cobham, rising, put his handkerchief
down on his brief before him, and placing one
foot up on the seat, patting his knee now and
then, a favourite attitude, proceeded to address
the gentlemen of the jury.

Mr. Cobham said he would briefly show them
how the case stood. It was a simple case—"one
of the simplest, perhaps, that had ever come into
a court of justice." It lay in a nutshell, and if
they would let him "lead their minds," and if
they would "go with him for a short time," they
would have no difficulty at arriving at a true
apprehension of the point in dispute. It was,
as they had heard, a simple action of ejectment
as between one man and another. Both
parties were in the same station; both parties
came asking equal justice at their hands—a
justice, he was confident, they would obtain. For
he (Mr. Cobham) had had the honour of going
that circuit for many years, and of addressing
faces he had the privilege of seeing there before
him. His lordship, too, had come very often,
and knew what the juries of that county were.
Men more capable of dealing with the intricate
relations that arise between man and man, there
were nowhere, or men more likely to take a
good common-sense view of transactions. His
lordship on the bench knew them; his learned
friend there knew them; they all knew them.
They were now to deal with this important case,
the details of which he should now proceed to
lay before them.

"It would appear," as Mr. Cobham said,
putting his briefs further away from him, and
settling his bag and things as if he were laying
breakfast, "that about  the ye—ar" (Mr. Cobham
lengthened out this word as, with silver
glasses up, he looked for the date) "seventeen
hundred and ninety-seven, that a Mr. Oliver
Davis was possessed of certain estates known
as the 'Moore Hall' property, valued at the
time at about eighteen hundred to two
thousand a year. He was an old gentleman,
unmarried, and, I may say, of somewhat singular
and solitary tastes. He lived by himself, and
saw no company. About the year eighteen
hundred and one, or so, he fell in with an old
friend, who had newly come from India, where
he had been engaged fighting for his king and
country; a man of worth and courage; a man
of honour, a gentleman, a soldier, whose name
was—was Gen—er—al" (added  Mr. Cobham,
stooping down to refresh his memory, through
the silver glasses, as to the name of the man of
worth and honour), "yes, General Halton
Ross—General Halton Ross. Halton Ross,"
said Mr. Cobham, twisting his glasses by the
string, and now quite interested with the officer,
"was the father of my client here."

Ross, with a painfully eager face, had been
bent forward, with his fierce eyes devouring the
counsel. Every one now looked at him. The
heavy jury stooped over, as if to peer down
into a pond. Ladies in the gallery found him
out at once, and looked down also. He felt all
their eyes on him, and, with unconcealed
mutterings, flung himself back into his seat. Mr.
Cobham, with his knee up, had coughed and
spat into his India handkerchief, and was
abstractedly looking into its folds.

"It would seem that the old intimacy of the
two was renewed. They became firmer friends
than ever; and about the year eighteen
hundred and"—(a fresh search here)—"yes, and
ten, a draught-deed was prepared, virtually
conveying the whole of the Moore Hall estates to
his friend—(give me the draught-deed," he
called to his junior, who had it dragged out,
and opened in a second)—"under the following
remarkable limitations. First to trustees; in
trust for himself, for life; then——"

Serjeant Ryder was now standing up.

"What is that? What are you reading
from?" .

"The draught-deed of eighteen hundred and
ten."

"Which was never executed. I object to
that paper. No one knows better than my
learned friend that it is not evidence. Just
pass it up."

"I was reading this," said Mr. Cobham, " as
evidence of the disposition of Oliver Davis. My
learned friend will see I am quite regular."

"I object," said Serjeant Ryder, apparently
angry at this trifling, "to any paper of this
sort. Let's do things regularly."

"My brother Ryder," began the judge, with
enjoyment.

"We shall have to come on this later," said
Mr. Cobham.

"And we were going to enter it now, nunc pro
tunc, as part of the case," supplemented his
junior with mildness.

"My brother Ryder," said the judge, with
humour, "it seems, objects to take your
draught."

Again the waves of obsequious merriment
floated over the bar benches. The country
gentlemen in the grand jury boxes, indirectly
affiliated to the legal profession, relished it with
broader and more unrestrained mirth.

When the court had recovered from the effect
of this humour, his lordship said, with graduated
remonstrance,

"I think, brother Ryder, we must let in
this paper. Come, I don't see how we well
can't. It seems good evidence. Eh?"

"As good as ever was given," said Mr.
Cobham. "A draught-deed."

"Surely," said Serjeant Ryder, stooping over
earnestly, "your lordship can't be in earnest.
A draught-deed, unsigned, in God knows whose
handwriting! We may as well begin again at
our elementary books, if that be considered
evidence."

"I think I must let it in, Brother Ryder,"
said his lordship, gravely.

"Very well, my lord," said the serjeant,
looking to the right and left resignedly. "Just
as you please; with all my heart and soul. Go
on with the case."

"His lordship," went on Mr. Cobham,
"having ruled this piece of documentary
evidence to be admissible, I was going to say