The Evil Shepherd | Page 2

in height, broad-shouldered and
powerfully made. His features were cast in a large mould, he was of
fair, almost sandy complexion, even his mouth was more humourous
than incisive. His eyes alone, grey and exceedingly magnetic,
suggested the gifts which without a doubt lay behind his massive
forehead.
"I am anxious to avoid any possible mistake," she began. "Your name
is Francis Ledsam?"
"It is," he admitted.
"You are the very successful criminal barrister," she continued, "who
has just been paid an extravagant fee to defend Oliver Hilditch."
"I might take exception to the term 'extravagant'," Ledsam observed
drily. "Otherwise, your information appears to be singularly correct. I
do not know whether you have heard the verdict. If not, you may be
interested to know that I succeeded in obtaining the man's acquittal."
"I know that you did," the woman replied. "I was in the Court when the
verdict was brought in. It has since occurred to me that I should like
you to understand exactly what you have done, the responsibility you
have incurred."
Ledsam raised his eyebrows.
"Responsibility?" he repeated. "What I have done is simple enough. I
have earned a very large fee and won my case."
"You have secured the acquittal of Oliver Hilditch," she persisted. "He
is by this time a free man. Now I am going to speak to you of that
responsibility. I am going to tell you a little about the man who owes
his freedom to your eloquence."

It was exactly twenty minutes after their entrance into the teashop when
the woman finished her monologue. She began to draw on her gloves
again. Before them were two untasted cups of tea and an untouched
plate of bread and butter. From a corner of the room the waitress was
watching them curiously.
"Good God!" Francis Ledsam exclaimed at last, suddenly realising his
whereabouts. "Do you mean to affirm solemnly that what you have
been telling me is the truth?"
The woman continued to button her gloves. "It is the truth," she said.
Ledsam sat up and looked around him. He was a little dazed. He had
almost the feeling of a man recovering from the influence of some
anaesthetic. Before his eyes were still passing visions of terrible deeds,
of naked, ugly passion, of man's unscrupulous savagery. During those
few minutes he had been transported to New York and Paris, London
and Rome. Crimes had been spoken of which made the murder for
which Oliver Hilditch had just been tried seem like a trifling
indiscretion. Hard though his mentality, sternly matter-of-fact as was
his outlook, he was still unable to fully believe in himself, his
surroundings, or in this woman who had just dropped a veil over her
ashen cheeks. Reason persisted in asserting itself.
"But if you knew all this," he demanded, "why on earth didn't you
come forward and give evidence?"
"Because," she answered calmly, as she rose to her feet, "my evidence
would not have been admissible. I am Oliver Hilditch's wife."
CHAPTER II
Francis Ledsam arrived at his club, the Sheridan, an hour later than he
had anticipated. He nodded to the veteran hall-porter, hung up his hat
and stick, and climbed the great staircase to the card-room without any
distinct recollection of performing any of these simple and reasonable
actions. In the cardroom he exchanged a few greetings with friends,
accepted without comment or without the slightest tinge of gratification

a little chorus of chafing congratulations upon his latest triumph, and
left the room without any inclination to play, although there was a
vacant place at his favourite table. From sheer purposelessness he
wandered back again into the hall, and here came his first gleam of
returning sensation. He came face to face with his most intimate friend,
Andrew Wilmore. The latter, who had just hung up his coat and hat,
greeted him with a growl of welcome.
"So you've brought it off again, Francis!"
"Touch and go," the barrister remarked. "I managed to squeak home."
Wilmore laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder and led the way
towards two easy-chairs in the lounge.
"I tell you what it is, old chap," he confided, "you'll be making yourself
unpopular before long. Another criminal at large, thanks to that glib
tongue and subtle brain of yours. The crooks of London will present
you with a testimonial when you're made a judge."
"So you think that Oliver Hilditch was guilty, then?" Francis asked
curiously.
"My dear fellow, how do I know or care?" was the indifferent reply. "I
shouldn't have thought that there had been any doubt about it. You
probably know, anyway."
"That's just what I didn't when I got up to make my speech," Francis
assured his friend emphatically. "The fellow was given an opportunity
of making a clean