The reputation of Loftus, which left rather a little to be desired; the coupling of his name with that of Annandale’s wife; the report that for his sake the latter had been preparing to leave her husband; the further report that for the convenience of both Marie Leroy had been shipped abroad; these things reduced the case in the minds of the indulgent to what the French call a crime passionnel , and which, as such, is psychologically and even legally defensible.
But French views are not our views. Besides, admitting their validity, that validity was impaired by the attitude which Annandale assumed. He omitted to admit, and thereby for the time being waived the right to plead, the circumstances advanced in his justification. When charged had he said, “Oh, yes, I did it, and so would you or any other man,” there, don’t you see, might have been an excuse. But not a bit of it. Up and down he denied that he was the culprit.
A denial such as that has, though, its merits. It puts on the prosecution the burden of proof. Moreover, if you have done anything you should not have it is only common sense to say that you have not done it, to say it in spite of facts, in spite of evidence, in spite of everything and everybody. For if you own up, there you are, while if you don’t then no matter what is advanced you may succeed in raising a doubt and in planting it among the jury. But in this case the denial was more serviceable than ordinarily it might have been for the reason that thus far no one had been produced who could say they had been about while Annandale was at it.
These points Orr set before Sylvia. The sophistry of them displeased her. She did not like it, and said so.
“It will get him off, though,” Orr confidently replied. “Unless,” he hastened to add, “a witness to the act itself should pop up. Then, barring a miracle, he is a goner. But otherwise I will get him off. It may take a year or two, but I’ll do it.”