Bertram Mitford (continued 7)

The strangers were standing in the hall. With astonishment he recognised the men who had accosted him at Durnley Castle the day before.

“Your name is Roland Dorrien, I believe, sir?” began one of them, before he had time to ask a question.

“It is. Kindly walk in here and state your business with me.”

He held open the study door. The others, with a moment’s hesitation, accompanied him within. Then they turned.

“I have a most unpleasant duty to perform, sir,” said the spokesman of the pair.

“And that?” said Roland coolly, though conscious that his face was becoming white.

“Is to arrest you on the charge of murder. Here is the warrant,” said the other very gravely. “I must, as a matter of form, caution you against making any statement, though as a magistrate yourself, sir, you will be aware of this formality.”

“Yes, the warrant is all right,” he said, running his eye over it and noting idly that it was signed by a man with whom he had next to no personal acquaintance.

The sword had fallen at last. Was he dazed—was he dreaming—or was he really stunned? Was he, Roland Dorrien—one of the most influential men in the county, and lord of this noble patrimony whose limits he could not see from his highest window—was he, indeed, a prisoner, henceforth no longer master of the simplest of his own actions? Horror incredible!

Something of this must have appeared in his aspect as he turned away, for the detective watched him keenly.

“Let me see. I don’t know whether you will prevent my just saying a word to Mrs Dorrien before I go with you. She is rather unwell this morning, and this in addition will try her dreadfully.”

The officer shook his head.

“I’m extremely sorry, sir, but it can’t be done. You see I’m bound not to lose sight of you, and if I were to go with you it would frighten the lady still more.”

Roland faced round upon him.

“Listen. What if I were to pledge you my word of honour to return to you here in ten minutes?”

For half a moment the detective wavered. Then he shook his head very gravely.

“Can’t do it, sir!”

“No! Hang it! I suppose it wasn’t fair of me to put you into such a position. And you’ve been very good in managing so quietly. Of course—one would have time to do all manner of queer things in ten minutes. I’ll order the brougham at once. It’ll be thought I’ve gone gaol-visiting, ha-ha?”

Again the officer eyed him very curiously. That strange laugh, teeming with a subtle irony, the queer carelessness of his tone, put the detectives thoroughly upon their guard, and caused them to determine that there was something about this case that was decidedly “fishy.” They were fully alive, too, to the importance of their errand. It was not every day that their duty required them to arrest a gentleman, a squire and a J.P., for murder.

Roland rang the bell and gave the necessary orders. In a few minutes the brougham came round. The officers had declined all offers of refreshment, and became very impatient to start. Sophie was passing through the hall as they came out.

“Why, where are you going, Roland?” she asked in astonishment.

“Got to go to Battisford on business. Take care of yourselves till I come back. Bye-bye?”

The girl looked puzzled, but there was no time for further explanations, and the three men, getting into the brougham, were driven off. And Barnby, the principal detective, still continued to watch his prisoner closely, and drew his own conclusions. In his heart of hearts he was thoroughly convinced of the other’s guilt; but the pluck and coolness displayed by Roland under the circumstances of his arrest filled him with admiration, for it was unparalleled, even in that astute officer’s experience.

But oh, the torture of the breaking heart which could smile, and even half jest, at that awful moment! Even at the time when life was at its very sweetest to him, had the sword fallen—and yet not; for had he not been torn away at a moment’s notice, nor allowed even a glance of farewell at the sweet face of her who constituted all his world? But for that horrible, jarring calm which he had assumed as a mask, his self-control would have been nowhere.

They reached Battisford, and drew up at the gaol. As a magistrate it had frequently been Roland’s duty to visit it; consequently his entrance into the gloomy building caused no comment among those who witnessed it now. Even the stolid turnkey was awed on receiving into his keeping one so high among the great ones of the land. To the last the prisoner’s coolness did not desert him. He scribbled off a short note.

“Watts. Drive round by Wandsborough on your way back and give this to Dr Ingelow; and if he isn’t in wait till he is. You needn’t call for me, as I shall be engaged here for some hours.” And again that mocking laugh lurked in his face.

The coachman touched his hat and drove off. Roland Dorrien followed the turnkey to the cell appointed to him. He needed nothing for the present, he said, and so that vigilant guardian, closing the door on him, retired, having respectfully hoped and trusted that he would soon be able to clear himself, as, of course, he easily could.

Clear himself? Not he. This was the fate awaiting him, and from it there would be no escape. The wraith on The Skegs had never been known to appear in vain.

Here for the first time he dared to think—here, where no eye was upon him. Yesterday, love, happiness, peace—to-day, this! Yesterday, powerful, wealthy, free—the envied of all; to-day, not the meanest loafer in Battisford market-place would change with him. Ah, good God! why had he escaped by a hairsbreadth, as it were, from the deadliest of perils that night on the seashore! Was it for this? Better a thousand times that the wild waves had been his grave—both their graves then. And the cold walls of his stone cell echoed such an anguished and despairing groan as is seldom wrung from the breast of mortal man.

It was not until late in the day that Olive awoke. Quickwitted Sophie had not been deceived by her brother-in-law’s assumed coolness, and though absolutely in the dark as to the real facts, she could not help fearing that something had gone very wrong. As the day wore on, and he did not come, this feeling increased, and when at length the brougham returned, it was with a feeling of vast relief that she ran to the door. But it contained only her father.

It happened that when, in pursuance of his orders, Watts called at the Rectory, the old priest had just started on his rounds, and was not to be found anywhere. There was a great deal of sickness in Wandsborough at the time, and no one could say exactly where he was. As a matter of fact he had been called over to Minchkil Bay to attend the dying bed of one of the old seafarers. But the coachman’s orders were positive. He was to wait for him, and wait he did, and so it was not until late in the afternoon that the brougham started to return to Cranston.

All used as he was to strange and startling revelations, the rector could not repress a start of astonishment as he rapidly scanned the contents of the note which old Watts handed to him. But his normal calm soon returned, and, entering the carriage there and then, he was driven rapidly away to Cranston.

There was time in the interval to think over the situation, but he was grateful for every moment of it. His unfortunate friend was called upon to satisfy human justice after all, and he, Dr Ingelow, was required to break the terrible news to his daughter. Yet it might be the barest suspicion—two years and a half was a long time. It would be difficult to convict. But then the prosecution must be in possession of very strong evidence indeed to move it to such a step as the arrest of a man of Roland Dorrien’s status.

In all his experience—large as it was—the rector could not call to mind a more painful case. What frightful ruin the conviction of this man would entail! How much better, for every reason, that the terrible secret should remain buried—a turned-down page of the past! Thus musing, he arrived at Cranston.

“Oh, father. What has gone wrong?” cried Sophie affrightedly, reading the worst in his grave face.

Enjoining silence, her father took her apart, and in a few words communicated the fact of the arrest. The whole countryside would be ringing with it by then, and it was just as well that those most concerned should learn it at first-hand. The girl, though very shocked and awed, was quite self-possessed. Her first thought was for her sister.

“Can we not keep it from her a little longer?” she asked.

“Impossible. She will hear it by chance from others, and then think of the result. You had better leave us alone together, dear, but remain within call.”

It was well for Olive that her father was the one upon whom it devolved to soften the terrible weight of the blow. But though she listened with livid face and ashy lips, she was calmer than he had dared to hope. Roland was alive and unharmed—that was relief. But in prison—in a cold, hard cell—and on a charge of murder! It was frightful. He a murderer! No, she would never believe that. Some absurd mistake had been made, and he would soon be released. Why, it was too ridiculous, and she almost laughed aloud at the bare idea.

Then Memory, like a mocking fiend, started up to dash even that consolation from her grasp. For it suddenly carried her back over the lapse of years to the chance meeting with her lover on the beach, that lowering afternoon when the tide overtook them. His words, spoken then, now darted in characters of fire before her mental gaze.

“The trammelled imagination of a canting world reads crime into what is no crime at all.”

He had been urging a secret barrier existing between them—one that she, in common with society at large, would recognise as irrefragable. And she, mistaking the drift of the plea, had answered bravely that nothing would cause her to shrink from him.

They had talked at cross-purposes. Now—the whole mystery stood explained. By the light of this dénouement the scales fell from her eyes—even the intervening events were clear as daylight to her now. But could she now answer as bravely as then upon the lone seashore?

Every whit.

Looking up, she met her father’s eyes steadily and without speaking. And the flash of meaning in that glance revealed to him that she was no longer a blind believer in her husband’s innocence. Looking back in after years to this moment, the old priest was conscious of a distinct satisfaction at the time in making the discovery. It would save all danger of cross-purposes, though no word on the certainty could be exchanged between them.

“Oh, father! you don’t believe in—in this accusation!”

“I don’t believe that Roland is a murderer,” was the answer; straight, unhesitating, and in tones of conviction. “Men have been arrested on suspicion before to-day and honourably acquitted. Keep your wholesome, loving belief in him firm and unshaken, Olive my pet, and be strong for his sake.”

The old man’s voice shook as he strove to comfort this his best-loved child, but he mastered himself. Her faith in the accused man must be kept up at all hazards, nothing must dim that bright, pure flame. It had been his safeguard hitherto; it must not fail him now.

“I will indeed be strong. And now—I must go to him at once.”

“Not to-night, darling. Indeed, it will be impossible. To-morrow, we can procure the necessary order, the first thing. His first thought was of you—and—again I say it—you must be brave and strong for his sake.”

It was indeed well for Olive that her father’s loving and clear-sighted wisdom was with her in the dark hour of her affliction. Already she felt soothed and hopeful. Yet there flashed across her mind the similarity between this parting and that other one in Wandsborough street, nearly three years ago. Then they had expected to meet again in a few hours, and lo! a very lifetime of separation had been theirs ere they met again. This time he had merely left her by the breadth of a few rooms, and now the gloomy walls of a prison separated them. The parallel was ominous.

In due course, the preliminary examination was held, and the magistrates had no alternative but to commit Roland Dorrien for trial at the ensuing Battisford assizes on the capital charge. Further, the Bench intimated, with infinite regret, that no question of bail could by any possibility be entertained.

Chapter Forty Two.

“Guilty or Not Guilty?”

To describe the state of excitement into which Wandsborough was thrown, when the tidings of Roland Dorrien’s arrest were bruited about—as they very soon were—would battle the most graphic pen. Why, nothing approaching to this had ever befallen in their midst. The Squire of Cranston, the most influential of local magnates, greater even in point of possessions than Colonel Neville, the chairman of Petty Sessions, to be arrested on a criminal charge—one, too, for which, if convicted, he would inevitably suffer the death of a common malefactor. No, Wandsborough had, assuredly, never experienced the like of this.

To most of the accused’s brother magistrates, the case was a painful affair. There was sufficient prima facie evidence to send it for trial, so for trial it went, and their responsibility ended. But the police court was crammed during the examinations, and all Wandsborough was making up its mind as to whether the accused was guilty or not, the balance of opinion leaning, if anything, to the former.

Needless to say, no expense was spared to secure the very best legal talent. That done, there was nothing left for all concerned, but to possess their souls in patience. The accused, in the bitter solitude of his prison cell, set his teeth grimly, and muttered twenty times a day, “Let them fight it out.” But his legal advisers found him anything but a satisfactory client.

The time between the committal and the opening of the assizes was not unduly long, and during it Olive had visited him once. But the galling restrictions imposed upon the visit by gaol regulations, and the immense strain upon the self-control of both, had rendered the interview too trying altogether. Outwardly Olive was calmness itself, cheerful too, and making plans for the future, affecting to treat the whole thing as an absurd mistake; yet her demeanour did not deceive him, although he was willing she should believe it did.

At length the momentous day dawned. The Battisford assizes had been duly opened, and the grand jury had returned a true bill against Roland Dorrien for the wilful murder of his brother Hubert.

The Court-house at Battisford was large and spacious, but not large enough for one half of those who would fain have gained admission. As the accused entered the dock, the sea of faces craned forward, white with excitement and eagerness, was bewildering at first, but only at first. There was a slight frown and contraction of the brows, and a pallor which might have been the result of an anxious period of close confinement; otherwise the prisoner’s face was cold, impassive, almost haughty, as he swept one glance around the Court. The wooden-faced judge, in crimson and ermine, the rows of wigged and gowned counsel—these he felt were scrutinising him keenly. The High Sheriff, too—why, he had narrowly escaped being pricked for that office himself, this very year. Then he became aware that he was being called upon to listen to an indictment couched in rolling legal phraseology, and to plead accordingly.

“Not Guilty!”

The tone, firm, indifferent, might have been ventriloquised out of an ice-block. He was not there to waste emotion, thought the prisoner grimly.

Then the prosecuting counsel proceeded to open his case on behalf of the Crown. Concisely he went over the facts connected with Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance two years and a half previously, with the subsequent search and its result, or rather, want of result; upon the subsequent finding of a body upon the seashore, which, although the face was unrecognisable, the clothing, and its marks, watch, etc, were amply sufficient to identify as that of the missing man, and the inquest immediately held upon it had decided accordingly. But circumstances had come to light, which went to show that what had been regarded as a lamentable accident there was reason to believe was nothing less than a deliberate, vindictive and cold-blooded murder, committed by the prisoner who stood before them to take his trial, and the very fact that he stood there showed that there was sufficient evidence to justify that belief. Whether that belief were turned into a certainty would rest with the twelve honourable and intelligent gentlemen who were there to try the case.

The jury liked this opening. They had always heard of Benham, Q.C., as a very big gun indeed, now they were going to have a chance of hearing his oratorical gifts. Outwardly he was a tall, pleasant-voiced man, in the prime of life, and he had a persuasive way with him.

He should show, he went on, how prisoner had come to Battisford disguised, how he had put up at “The Silver Fleece Inn” in that town, under the pseudonym of Robert Durnford, and had laid his plans and watched his opportunity, and having lured his brother to a lonely spot upon the cliffs between that town and Wandsborough, had there done him to death in the darkness of night, as he thought, unseen by human eye.

Then counsel proceeded to call his first evidence. This was given, in succession, by those who had found the body, two or three fishermen from Minchkil. These were examined by Benham’s junior, and their evidence being purely technical, they were soon disposed of. They were followed by the medical man who had testified at the inquest, and who declared now, as he had declared then, and unhesitatingly, that death was due to drowning. There were marks of bruises on the body, but not such as would cause death, or even contribute to that result.

There was a stir of sensation among the densely-packed crowd as Mr Benham called for his next witness, for this was no other than Mrs Dorrien, the General’s widow. A tall figure in deep black made its way to the witness-box with rapid, but firm, steps. A chair was placed for her by direction of the judge.

Then, as Mrs Dorrien slowly removed her heavy veil, her glance fell upon her surviving son; that son, whom she had never seen since he left his father’s house those years ago. Then they had parted in coldness, if not in anger. Now they met again thus, the mother and the son.

Roland met her eyes firmly, and there was no sign of shrinking in his mien. Her face was pale as death, but stern, impassive and determined as his own. In it there appeared not a trace of pity.

“Pray be seated, Mrs Dorrien,” said Mr Benham in his suavest tone, when the witness had been sworn. “We shall endeavour to spare you unnecessary pain. All we want you to tell us are the circumstances under which your son Hubert was first missed.”

Concisely, in a low, set tone, the widow complied. Aided now and again by a question from the judge, she stated how Hubert had left home to attend evening service at Cranston, how he had not returned, and how, on the following morning, being alarmed, she had told her husband, who had at once instituted a search, heading it in person—but without effect.

“One thing more, Mrs Dorrien,” said Mr Benham, “and we shall have done. Had you any reason to suspect your eldest son, the accused, was anywhere in the neighbourhood?”

“None whatever.”

“Any questions, Mr Windgate?” asked the judge sharply.

“N-no, m’lord,” replied the prisoner’s advocate. “At least, yes,” jumping up. “Just one. Will you kindly tell us, Mrs Dorrien, were your two sons, Roland and Hubert, on good terms?”

“They had never quarrelled.”

“They had never quarrelled,” making a note. “That is to say, they were on good terms.”

“They were not very cordial,” said the witness in the same slow, monotonous voice in which her evidence had been given.

“Ah! They were not very cordial. Different temperaments, no doubt. Thank you, Mrs Dorrien. That will do,” said Mr Windgate blandly, making another note.

As different as possible from his opponent was Mr Windgate, Q.C., the prisoner’s advocate. A little man, with bushy black whiskers, round in person, brisk and smiling in manner—he was sharp as a needle. Yet the way in which he extracted admissions from an unwilling witness left an impression on that uncomfortable personage that was soothing, not to say flattering. Mr Benham, on the other hand, was apt to wax stern and slightly supercilious when on his mettle.

The next witness called was the Rev. Charles Curtis, the vicar of Cranston. He gave a more or less succinct account of the search in which he had taken part, up to the time of meeting with Eustace Ingelow at the bottom of Smugglers’ Ladder.

“This article was handed to you by young Mr Ingelow?” asked Mr Benham, holding up the silver matchbox which Eustace had picked up.

“It was.”

“Had you ever seen it before?”

“Never.”

“Nothing else was found at the time?”

“Not down below. I believe something was found above.”

“Ah, we shall come to that presently. Thank you, Mr Curtis. That will do.”

Mr Windgate, having no question to ask beyond that concerning the terms on which the two young gentlemen stood with each other, the vicar was soon released.

Then was taken the evidence of Thomas Platt, labourer, and afterwards, that of his wife—the pair who had last seen Hubert Dorrien alive on the fatal Sunday evening. The honest couple, who resided on the Cranston estate and looked up to the accused as their feudal lord, were mightily overcome by the awe of the situation, and the woeful perplexity with which they made their statements convulsed the audience, vastly tickled the Bar, and enraged the judge to the last degree.

But the evidence of the rustic pair was straightforward enough, and tallied exactly, nor was it to be shaken by all the silky cross-questionings of the prisoner’s counsel. Might they not have been mistaken about the direction the deceased was taking, or about the time? No—on all these points they were sure. They were of the soil born and bred, and on matters local like this were sharp enough. They had no feeling against the accused, quite the reverse. He was a kind master, although some folks were a bit afraid of him.

“We are not taking evidence as to the character of the prisoner, Mr Windgate,” reminded the judge crustily, drawing a suave apology from that eminent counsel, and the prompt bundling out of the box of the latter of the two rustic witnesses.

“I shall call Eustace Ingelow,” said the Crown Counsel on the return of the Court after a short adjournment for lunch.

Poor Eustace was in a woeful state of nervousness and genuine grief on behalf of his relative, as he took the oath. Indeed, it seemed as if he would hardly be able to deliver his evidence coherently.

“Take time, Mr Ingelow,” said Mr Benham kindly. “There’s no hurry—none whatever. You are, I believe, the prisoner’s brother-in-law?”

“Yes.”

“In a double sense?”

“I—I don’t quite understand.”

“What do you mean by ‘a double sense,’ Mr Benham?” snapped the judge.

“We mean, m’lord, that they married each others’ sisters.” Here it became necessary to explain that the learned counsel was forging ahead too fast, and that at least half of his statement dealt with future contingencies instead of with actual facts. Which explanation tickled the audience and reduced the witness to a red-hot degree of nervousness. “And now, Mr Ingelow,” he went on, when the joke had subsided, “just tell the gentlemen of the jury what happened during the search you took part in. Were you asked to join in that search?”

“No. I did not even know what had happened until I saw Mr Curtis and General Dorrien arrive on the beach. I was there at the time talking with Matt and Jem Pollock.”

“And then you learned that Hubert Dorrien was missing?”

“Yes. I volunteered at once to join in the search.”

“Were you acquainted with the deceased?”

“Very slightly. In fact, hardly at all.”

“But you were acquainted with General Dorrien?”

A flush rose to Eustace’s face, and he hesitated.

“I can’t exactly say that. But—but—of course I knew him well by sight—and—”

“I can’t hear a word the witness says,” snapped the judge, “and I’m sure the jury can’t.”

“A little louder please, Mr Ingelow. Did you find anything anywhere near the Smugglers’ Ladder?”

“Yes. A piece of silk cord, such as might be used for an eyeglass.”

“The deceased wore an eyeglass?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do with this cord?”

“I took it to General Dorrien. He seemed to recognise it—but said nothing.”

“Is this the cord?” handing it to the witness.

“I think so.”

“How did you find it?”

“It was hanging on a tuft of grass on the brink.”

“Now, what was your idea when you found this cord?”

“I thought it a very important trace. It seemed to point to the poor fellow having fallen in.”

“Quite so. Were there any other traces?”

“The grass around the brink was crushed.”

“Crushed and trampled?”

“M’lord, the witness said ‘crushed,’” objected Mr

Windgate. “I must really object—”

“Well, ‘crushed’ then,” went on Mr Benham suavely. “My learned friend shall have no reason to complain of undue pressure on our part. Well, and what did you think then, Mr Ingelow?”

“I thought there was no doubt about his having fallen into the chasm.”

“Fallen in?”

“Yes.”

“You had no suspicion then of foul play?”

“Not the slightest. I never heard that anyone had.”

“Oh, you never heard that anyone had!” said Mr Benham quickly, catching up the statement in just the way to embarrass and disconcert a nervous witness. And Eustace, remembering sundry cautions he had received in private about volunteering evidence, felt disconcerted accordingly.

His narrative of the descent of Smugglers’ Ladder evoked considerable applause, for the ill-omened chasm was well known by reputation. He stated how he had found nothing on reaching the bottom.

“Nothing, Mr Ingelow? Come, just cast your memory back.”

“Well, I mean I found nothing of importance, only a little matchbox,” “Ah-h! Two years and a half is a long time to look back across at your age,” said Mr Benham kindly, hitching his thumbs into the shoulders of his gown and looking smilingly superior. “Now, what did you do with this little matchbox?”

“I handed it to Mr Curtis.”

“Is this it?”

“Yes.”

There was a visible cloud on Eustace’s face as he held the silver matchbox in his hand, as if it would burn him. Heads craned forward to catch a glimpse of the article.

“Had you ever seen that matchbox before you found it at the bottom of—er—Smugglers’ Ladder,” asked Mr Benham impressively.

“I think so.”

“Where did you see it?”

“I had seen it—er—I had seen Roland use it.”

“You had see Roland Dorrien use it. How many times? Once—twice—perhaps?”

“I can’t remember exactly how many times.”

“No? You used often to—well—to have a pipe together, no doubt?”

“Yes.”

“And Roland Dorrien was in the habit of using that matchbox?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you are under the impression it belonged to him?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Mr Ingelow—you are on your oath, mind. Is this, or is it not, the same matchbox which you saw in the prisoner’s possession?”

“I can’t positively swear to it. It is like it, certainly.”

“Yet it is of very peculiar make.”

“The witness says he can’t swear to it, Mr Benham,” interposed the judge. “Don’t you think we might drop the matchbox now?”

“Certainly, my lord. I have nothing further to ask.”

“Nor I, my lord,” said Windgate. And Eustace, to his unspeakable relief, was told to stand down, which relief was dashed by a miserable misgiving that he had somehow or other materially damaged his relative’s chances.

Chapter Forty Three.

Darker and Darker.

To Eustace succeeded his father, and the appearance of Dr Ingelow in the witness-box gave rise to not a little expectation on the part of many. They wondered what card the prosecution held up its sleeve, and although outwardly calmness and composure, so did he.

Beginning at his earliest acquaintance with Roland Dorrien, Mr Benham put the rector through a long, minute, and tiresome examination, repeatedly challenged as irrelevant by the opposing counsel, as to his relations with the Dorrien family at that time. On these points the judge supported Mr Windgate, and the queries were waived or put less pointedly.

“You recollect Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance, Dr Ingelow?” continued the prosecution, having brought the examination down to that stage. “Perfectly.”

“That was nearly five months after the prisoner had left Wandsborough, was it not?”

“About that time.”

“And you had seen nothing of him since?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Did you know his whereabouts at that time?”

“I had not an idea of it.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“Emphatically.”

“When did you see him next?”

“Not till the following June.”

“That is to say, from August of the previous year till June of the actual year in which the deceased met his death, you did not set eyes on Roland Dorrien?”

“You have my exact meaning.”

“Did any of your family?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Will you repeat that statement?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Here Mr Windgate made a careful note. Then followed a great deal of questioning as to the prisoner’s marriage and the terms upon which he and the witness had always stood.

“Now, Dr Ingelow,” went on the Crown counsel, waxing impressive. “Kindly give me your closest attention. You have always been on the most intimate terms with the prisoner.”

“Always.”

“Should you call him a man of a cheerful disposition!”

“Well—no.”

“Ah! Now did not that ever strike you as a little strange in a man of his age and position in life?”

“I really can’t say that it ever did.” Mr Benham’s face and attitude formed a study. He threw himself back and, with half-closed eyes, looking now at the ceiling, now at the witness, shook his head gently with the blandest of deprecatory smiles.

“Will you kindly tell the Court how long you have been in Holy Orders?”

“Thirty-three years.”

“You have had great experience during that time?”

“I think I may say I have.”

“Varied experience?”

“Decidedly varied experience.”

“At Wandsborough and elsewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Experience of character, human nature, and so forth?”

“Yes.”

“Is it not a fact, Dr Ingelow, that one of your daughters met with a narrow escape from drowning some time ago? Was cut off by the tide?”

“That is so.”

“When did this occur?”

“About two years and a half ago.”

“Was it anywhere near the time of Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”

“It was.”

“Before or after?”

“Just after.”

“Just after. How long after?”

“As far as I can remember, about a fortnight after.”

“The lady who met with that adventure is your second daughter, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“And is now Mrs Dorrien, the wife of the prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! And now will you kindly tell the Court the circumstances of that—er—adventure?”

This the witness did, as briefly as possible. The tale was not new to the audience, few of whom, however, had heard it at first-hand. It was listened to with vivid interest, particularly the facts relating to the rescue by the mysterious stranger. Him—being asked to do so—the witness described to the best of his ability.

“This stranger—this Mr Robert Durnford—gave you an address, you say—a London address? Did you ever apply at that address?”

“It was only a post-office address. I lost no time in writing to him at it.”

“What was the address?”

“It was some London post office. The name of the post office has clean escaped my memory.”

“You wrote to him. And you received no reply?”

“Pardon me. I did receive one.”

“May I ask to what effect?”

“To the effect that the writer was on the eve of departure to New South Wales, and regretting that therefore our further acquaintance must remain in abeyance perhaps for years—also expressing gratification at having been instrumental in my daughter’s escape. It was a courteous and kindly letter. I have heard nothing of him since.”

“Quite so, Dr Ingelow—quite so. Have you still that letter in your possession?”

“No. I have destroyed it, among other old papers.”

“Lately?”

“N-no. It must be quite a year ago.”

“Now, you are on your oath, Dr Ingelow. You have not destroyed that letter since your son-in-law’s arrest?”

“Your reminder is needless, sir. Nevertheless, for your greater satisfaction I will reiterate that the letter was destroyed quite a year ago.”

“Well, well. Now did it strike you at the time that any similarity existed between that stranger and the prisoner, Roland Dorrien?”

“It did not.”

“No resemblance whatever? Voice—walk—manner? Come. Think again, my dear sir.”

“Unnecessary. I saw no such resemblance.”

“Has it ever struck you since?”

“It has not.”

“You have never had reason to suspect that Robert Durnford, the rescuer of your daughter on that occasion, might have been Roland Dorrien in disguise?”

“I never have.”

“You distinctly swear to that?”

“Distinctly.”

“Don’t you think, Mr Benham, you’ve got out of this witness all you’re likely to get?” said the judge snappishly.

“I have just put my last question, m’lord,” was the suave reply. “Thank you, Dr Ingelow.” And Mr Benham sat down, more nonplussed than he cared to show.

Mr Windgate rose.

“I should be glad, my lord, if you would kindly make a note of the fact that this witness has three times distinctly sworn that no identity existed between the stranger, Robert Durnford, and my client, Roland Dorrien.”

“Er—twice I think, Mr Windgate,” said the judge.

“Pardon me, my lord. Three times. If your lordship will glance back a few folios. This gentleman stated earlier in his evidence that from August till the following June he had not set eyes on the prisoner. Now, the young lady’s adventure befel in February, between those months. Therefore the statement amounts to a denial of the identity.”

“Very well, Mr Windgate.”

“Thank you, m’lord. I do not require to cross-examine.”

So the rector stood down. Mr Windgate was jubilant. The evidence just heard was all in his client’s favour.

Considerable disappointment prevailed among the audience at the conclusion to which Dr Ingelow’s examination had been so abruptly brought. They looked for something far more exciting. Meanwhile, another witness was being sworn.

“Your name is George Newton?” queried Mr Benham, “and you are a waiter at Welbrook’s Tavern, in the Strand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you been long in that situation?”

“About nine years.”

“Now, look at the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”

“Yes,” replied the witness unhesitatingly.

“When?”

“Well, that I can’t exactly say, sir. It might be a year or two ago. He came in one night to have some dinner—and seemed a bit flurried like. The first thing he did was to ask for an A.B.C. time-table. We ’adn’t got one in the ’ouse, and the gentleman seemed rather put out about it.”

“And then?”

“Well then, sir, we sent out and got him one.”

“Now, just cast your memory back and see if you can tell us what day it was.”

But this the witness could not do. He could swear most decidedly to the accused’s identity, but for dates he had no recollection. The month on the A.B.C. was January.

“The gentleman seemed a bit queer,” he went on. “He seemed to make a great point about getting the A.B.C., and then when he goes out what does he do but leave it behind!”

“Did you examine it?”

“Yes, sir. One of the pages had a corner turned down, and it was marked at Wandsborough Road station.”

“You have it with you?”

“Yes, sir. Here it is.” And the witness, fumbling in his pocket, produced the time-table which Roland Dorrien had forgotten and left behind him at the tavern in the Strand, on the night of his chance meeting with his brother.

It was even as the man had said—turned down and marked at Wandsborough Road station.

“Did you draw anyone else’s attention to this circumstance?”

“Yes, sir. One of the other waiters, Tom Short.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s been dead these six or eight months.”

“And you are ready to swear that the prisoner is the gentleman who left this with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Benham sat down, and Mr Windgate rose to cross-examine. He seemed determined to make up for having hitherto been debarred his privilege in that line, for he assailed the witness in the most pitiless manner. But it was of no use. The man’s evidence was straightforward enough, and he stuck to it, especially the identity—as to which he was calm certainty itself. All present felt that its burden was of damning import.

The next to enter the box was Johnston, the ex-Cranston gardener. His testimony went to show that the prisoner was identical with Robert Durnford, so-called, the mysterious guest at “The Silver Fleece Inn.” He swore positively to having recognised his late master in the disguised stranger, when the latter had passed him in the street at Battisford. He further deposed to having taken subsequent opportunities of observing the pseudo-Durnford unknown to the subject of his observation, and was quite satisfied on the point of the identity between the two. Things began to look dark for the prisoner, but they were destined to look darker still.

When he had satisfied himself as to the identity of the accused with the stranger staying at “The Silver Fleece” in Battisford—he said—suspicion first entered his mind, and it grew stronger and stronger. Nor was it difficult to account for the fact that the one should be in the neighbourhood disguised at the very time the other met his death; the more so as the prisoner would be the gainer by his brother’s death, and in fact was the gainer. From that time, he had laid himself out to watch the prisoner—and once had overheard some fragments of the tatter’s conversation with Dr Ingelow, which had more than ever convinced him of the truth of his suspicions. Then Devine had begun to let fall hints as if he knew something about the matter, and, finally, the two of them had concluded to wait upon Mr Forsyth, one of the county justices, and get his advice. In the result each made a statement.

That of Johnston was now put in, and read nut. He had nothing to withdraw or add to it, he said; and then Mr Benham eat down.

But the revengeful half-grin on the face of the witness turned to rather a blank look as the defence began upon him in cross-examination.

Beginning with the subject of identity, Mr Windgate tried all he knew to make Johnston own to a possibility of mistake. Then he went on the “bewilderment” plan, but the long-headed Scot was not to be floored in that way, nor could he be made to contradict himself. The vindictive rascal was precision personified. But when it came to the eavesdropping story, Mr Windgate’s tone was magnificent in its scathing contempt.

“Kindly tell the Court the date of your going to Mr—er—Forsyth—the magistrate?”

“It was last month. About the 15th.”

“About the 15th of last month.”

“Yes.”

“You had then left Mr Dorrien’s service?”

“I had.”

“How long had you left it?”

“About six weeks.”

“Why did you leave it?”

“Mr Roland turned me off.”

“Oh! Mr Roland turned you off, did he? Now have the goodness to tell us why?”

“Well, it was just this way. He thocht I wasn’t speaking respectfully to Madam. So he turned me off.”

“Now, be very careful. You are on your oath, mind. Penal servitude is among the consequences of perjury.” Mr Benham to the rescue.

“Really, this is a most unwarrantable aspersion of the witness’ veracity, which my learned friend is hardly justified in making.”

“We shall see,” uncompromisingly retorted the other. “Now, Mr Johnston, let me assist your memory. Did you not on the day you were dismissed accost Mrs Dorrien in the conservatory, and ask for a certain situation for your son?”

“Yes.”

“And hint that it was in your power to injure your mister, if it was refused?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. I did no such thing,” replied Johnston composedly.

Mr Windgate was nonplussed. He stared at the witness in amazement.

“You did no such thing? Kindly repeat that?”

“I did no such thing.”

“Very good. Remember you were warned what a false statement involved,” said Mr Windgate severely, making a voluminous note to conceal his chagrin. For the astute Q.C. had been completely foiled by the canny Scot. That worthy knew that his master’s lips were sealed, and that even if his mistress could give evidence against himself it would merely be oath against oath. So having decided that he could commit perjury with impunity, he at least had the merit of doing it thoroughly.

“Well, the fact remains that Mr Dorrien discharged you summarily. Now, did you threaten him on that occasion?”

“I may have.”

“Answer my question. Did you?”

“Well, yes, I did.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Again let me refresh your memory. Did you say—‘You will come to a noose for this day’s work’?”

“I may have said so.”

“That won’t do. Did you say that? Be careful now.”

“M’lord, the witness says he can’t remember,” objected Mr Benham. “He was angry at the time—under the circumstances, naturally so. We can’t always remember words uttered in anger.”

“It’s of no consequence, m’lord. We can prove that he used the words. It would save time—and, perhaps, be better for himself—if he admitted it, though,” said Mr Windgate significantly.

“Well, I did say that,” said Johnston sullenly.

“We know you did. Now, to what did you refer when you said that? Was it to this charge of murder?”

“It may have been.”

“Answer the learned counsel properly, sir,” blazed forth the judge. “You are an impertinent fellow, to come here and play the fool in Court. Just be careful what you are about.”

“I mean it was,” answered Johnston, overawed.

“Quite so. In a word, you suspected that there had been foul play, and that your master was at the bottom of it?”

“Yes.”

“Only a suspicion, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Now, what gave rise to that suspicion?”

“Well, it seemed strange that Mr Roland should be down at Battisford in disguise just at the time Mr Hubert disappeared.”

“Ah! How long were you in the service of the accused?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Nearly two years in the service of a man you suspected of murder. I should say you had a most elastic conscience, Mr Johnston, were it not that your conduct looks very like an attempt to extract hush money. Now, has your master ever had occasion to find fault with you previously?”

“He has once or twice said I must be more ceevil. He was a mighty partecklar gentleman.”

“Quite so. And did you not, on a former occasion, attempt to take legal proceedings against the accused, because his dog bit you?”

“I did. But that was in the late General Dorrien’s time.”

“And you were not a favourite with the accused at any time?”

“Well—no.”

“That I can easily understand,” rejoined Mr Windgate, with bitter significance. “The marvel is that he kept you for a single day.”

“My learned friend is not justified in making such reflections on the witness,” objected Mr Benham.

“My learned friend need not mind. I have now done with this witness, and I devoutly thank Heaven for it,” retorted Mr Windgate.

“One moment, Johnston,” said the Crown counsel.

“Have you ever in any way traded upon your suspicions to obtain money or favours from your employer?”

“Never. I solemnly swear.”

There was a low hiss at the back of the room as Johnston left the box, which even the judge pretended not to hear.

Chapter Forty Four.

A Scrap of Paper.

In answer to a call for Mrs Eliza Clack, a hatchet-faced harpy entered the box, and, the first diffidence over, tried all she knew to justify her patronymic. From this propensity, however, Mr Benham managed to pick out the facts that she knew the prisoner, could swear to him anywhere, that he had lodged with her a couple of months two and a half years ago, and had left at a date which would be but the day before the deceased’s disappearance. He owned a large red and white dog then, which he had disposed of while in her house. She had always thought him a strangely-mannered gentleman, and was not altogether sorry to see the last of him. He looked somewhat different then to what he did now, he wore a beard—and yes, now it was put to her, she thought he was getting a little grey at that time.

How could she remember the date? insisted Mr Windgate, when his turn came. Well, she did remember it. Could swear to it, in fact. But two and a half years was a long time. Well, yes it was, but she remembered it by several things. It was the same night that the boy next door had blinded her tortoiseshell cat with a catapult. And it was the day before her daughter was turned away from her situation, well, never mind why—it wasn’t true; an answer which sent a ripple of mirth through the room. However, the woman could swear to the prisoner, and swore tenaciously to the date, which was all the prosecution wanted.

Two maid-servants from “The Silver Fleece Inn” were the next witnesses. These testified to the time when Robert Durnford had gone out on the Sunday night, but were unable to state the hour of his return. One of them declared she had heard the stranger talking to the waiter in the hall at a quarter-past ten, and that she thought she had heard the front door close just before. Upon her Mr Windgate pounced.

“Your bed-room is at the top of the house?”

“Yes, sir. But the ’ouse isn’t an ’igh one.”

“I didn’t ask you that. Now, how do you know it was a quarter-past ten? Had you a watch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you looked at it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it keeping the right time?”

“Yes, sir. That is, I set it by the large clock in the passage.”

“When?”

“The day before.”

“Oh! You did, did you?”—making a note. “Now, had you been asleep at the time?”

“No, sir. I was just goin’ to drop off when I heard gentlemen’s voices in the passage.”

“And who were the ‘gentlemen’?”

“They was Mr Durnford and Grainger, the waiter.”

“Now you are on your oath,” said Mr Windgate impressively, fixing the witness with a stern look that nearly drove the luckless young woman wild with terror and apprehension. “Are you ready to swear that the voice you heard talking to—a—Grainger was that of Mr Durnford?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know about swearing, but I’m positive it was.”

“Indeed. You are singularly confident, young woman,” sarcastically. “But no matter. We shall soon show that, like most positive people, this witness is quite at fault. You are quite right not to swear. You may go.”

“Stephen Devine.”

There was a stir among the audience, and interest, which had begun to flag, now revived, as the hulking form of the ex-poacher appeared in the box. There was a decidedly hang-dog look on his swarthy face, not unmixed with fear, and he took the Book as if it would burn him. But his evidence was straightforward enough. In the examination he stated how, while returning home from Wandsborough on the night in question, he had unexpectedly caught sight of Hubert Dorrien hurrying in a direction which could have led him nowhere in particular. This, added to the fact that it was a Sunday evening, rendered the young man’s movements not a little suspicious, and the witness determined to watch him. Accordingly he followed him at a distance to the brow of the cliff above Smugglers’ Ladder. It must have been a little after nine, for he distinctly heard the hour strike from Wandsborough steeple—to that he could positively swear. To his surprise he heard another man’s voice, and on stealing a little nearer he recognised it as that of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. So he hid behind a stone and waited. He was not quite near enough to catch what they said, but the deceased seemed rather frightened. But what puzzled the witness most was that although he could swear to the voice, no less than to the figure, the face was strange to him. It was bright moonlight at the time. At last the prisoner turned to the light, and his brother, recognising him, at once exclaimed “Roland!” and then the witness was able to see that he seemed in a manner disguised. He, Devine, afterwards saw him twice in Battisford—once from the window of a public-house and once from a shop door, and easily recognised him.

When the deceased had identified his brother he seemed less frightened, and soon they got to high words. Then there was a struggle, and in a moment the prisoner had thrown the deceased into the chasm. The witness lay quite still, and saw the prisoner go and look down into the chasm for a moment, after which he went away in the direction of Battisford. Then his statement before the magistrate, Mr Forsyth, was put in as in Johnston’s case.

Great sensation prevailed during this narrative. Those who had been consulting their watches with an eye to dinner—for it was getting late—elected to stay. The case might be finished to-night.

Then came Mr Windgate’s turn. His cross-examination was perfect. Every point in the witness’ past life, which he could colourably touch upon—and several which he could not—was raised. He made him admit—notwithstanding continued objections from the prosecution—that his own daughter would not live with him, even if the unfortunate girl had not been fairly driven from her home. He brought up against him former convictions for acts of ruffianism, and for poaching; and on the score of character, and by way of proving animus, he forced the witness to own that he had more than once expressed hatred of the accused, thus making him prove himself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, in that his situation with Colonel Neville had been procured through the prisoner’s good offices. But clever as he was, Mr Windgate could not get him to contradict himself or to swerve by a word from the main details of his story.

“Well, now,” he continued. “This took place two years and a half ago. That is to say, Mr Stephen Devine, that by witnessing this deed and not preventing it you made yourself an accessory after the fact? An accomplice—in short.”

The man looked rather scared.

“Please, sir, it was all done too quickly.”

“But why did you keep silence all this time?”

“Well, sir, you see, it was no affair of mine, and I was afraid I might get into trouble.”

“Indeed! Suspicious, to say the least of it. And how is it that, having held your tongue for so long, you should at last see fit to let it wag?”

“Well, sir, you see Johnston, he knew about it too, and he kep’ on a lettin’ me know that he did. At last he said that we should both get into trouble if we kep’ it dark any longer.”

“Quite so. When was this?”

“About five weeks ago.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Why, we went to Mr Forsyth and asked his advice, and he said we’d better make sure of our fax, and then we must make a—a—a—aspersion.”

“A what?”

“No, sir, that wasn’t it—it was a disposition.”

“Oh! A deposition?”

“Yes, sir, and we made it. And the next thing we heard was that Squire Dorrien was in gaol.”

“Where I trust those who richly deserve it will soon be in his place,” rejoined Mr Windgate significantly. “And I hope I shall be instrumental in bringing about this pleasant little change. And now, do we understand you to say you would have kept silence about this if Johnston had not known it too?”

“Well, sir, yes. It warn’t no business of mine.”

“Well!” said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, “Alter that—anything.”

“A very natural fear, my lord,” explained Mr Benham. “A poor man like the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner’s position.”

“Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?” asked the judge. “It’s getting very late.”

“Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn.”

But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his client’s interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge ordered lights to be brought in—for it was becoming dark—and then Jem Pollock was recalled.

There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer’s weatherbeaten face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will. Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers’ Ladder a man passed him walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something familiar about the stranger’s figure and gait, and when he, the witness, wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.

A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on it—“Roland Dor— —don, W.,” but the address was almost entirely gone. The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest interest in the proceedings.

This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance soon quieted down, and he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting event—the rector’s daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.

This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow’s narrow escape was well known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel’s inexorable voice recalled to prose again.

“Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss Ingelow?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the witness firmly, but very reluctantly.

“You saw his face distinctly?”

“Yes, sir. The lanterns was full upon it.”

“And you knew his voice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, how is it you kept silence about your suspicions?”

“Well, sir, I’m not one o’ them as talks a lot. And then, I had no suspicions until the idea cropped up that Mr Hubert had met wi’ foul play. And I didn’t want to injure Mr Roland, and especially Madam,” he added with feeling; “but that there detective chap he seemed to get it all out o’ me like a blessed babby,” concluded he resentfully.

“Quite so. Very natural. That will do,” and Mr Benham sat down.

But the prisoner’s counsel realised that this witness was the most dangerous one of all. Any attempt to browbeat a man of Pollock’s known respectability could not but damage his cause in the eyes of the jury. So he assumed a tone at once conciliatory and deprecatory, as though he would convey the idea that Pollock, though incapable of a false statement, might be mistaken in his inferences throughout.

“Of course, Pollock, you know Mr Dorrien well now, but at that time you didn’t know him very well, did you?”

“Well, I’d often seen him, sir, and I knew him well enough by sight. There was something about his walk, too, that I couldn’t mistake.”

“Indeed? But that is not a very sure point to go upon, is it?”

“That’s as may be, sir.”

“Now, Pollock, you are on good terms with Mr Dorrien, are you not? You would not wish to injure him?”

“No, indeed, sir,” answered the witness earnestly. “He’s a kind landlord to us, is the Squire—and as for Madam, I’ve known her since she was a little maid not much higher nor my knee—bless her sweet face.”

Great applause. Mr Windgate began to look more and more confident.

“Quite so. Now, don’t you think you may be mistaken in identifying the man who saved Miss Ingelow with the one you met on the cliff on the night of the disappearance of Hubert Dorrien?”

“M’lord, I must take exception most strongly to my learned brother’s mode of cross-examination,” said Mr Benham. “He appeals most powerfully to the feelings of the witness, and then does what is tantamount to begging him to unsay what he has already stated on oath.”

“Hardly that, I submit,” rejoined the other. “My unfortunate client is placed in a very grave position. Surely then it behoves us to make certain as to our facts.”

“But the witness had already stated on oath his certitude as to the identity of the men.”

“A man may excusably think twice when such grave issues are at stake, Mr Benham,” said the judge.

“With the greatest respect I would submit that your lordship is laying down a somewhat dangerous precedent,” answered Mr Benham, undaunted.

Then the judge retorted, and after some triangular sparring between his lordship and the two counsel, Mr Windgate went on.

“What time would it have been when you met the stranger on the cliff that evening?”

“It was after nine, sir. Indeed, it was nearly half-past—for very soon after I heard the clock strike.”

“What clock?”

“The Wandsborough clock.”

“How far from—er—Smugglers’ Ladder was the stranger when you met him?”

“Maybe half a mile, sir.”

“How long would it take to walk from Smugglers’ Ladder to Battisford? Walking at one’s fastest?”

“About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes—not in less.”

“Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?”

“Not possible, sir—even if he ran all the way,” repeated the witness firmly.

“Quite so, thank you,” said Mr Windgate. “A—one more question. Did you ever mention to anyone—any of your neighbours, for instance—having recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?”

“Not a word of it, sir.”

“That’s the case for the Crown, my lord,” said Mr Benham, rising as the witness left the box.

With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable, for judges are mortal—very much so too.

The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet to be heard.

And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell, another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.

Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog—his head in the air and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.

“Dear old dog,” he murmured to himself. “Dear, faithful old Roy!”

Chapter Forty Five.

“Is he Robert Durnford?”

When the Court met again next morning there was no abatement in the attendance of the public; if anything, it was increased, for it was pretty well known that the verdict would be given to-day.

Mr Windgate was in his place, smiling, cheerful, and cracking small jokes with the juniors, as if he would convince everybody—judge, jury, audience, and prisoner—that he considered his case already won and the remainder of the proceedings a mere formality, unhappily necessary to ensure his client an honourable acquittal.

As for the case for the Crown, he said, it was fortunate they had come to an end of it at last—but fortunate in this sense only, that from beginning to end it had been a sheer wasting of the time of the Court, and specially of the valuable time of the twelve intelligent gentlemen before him. That being so, he proposed, himself, to be as brief as possible. His defence would be very short, so short indeed as at first blush to appear inadequate. But what could be more inadequate than the case for the prosecution! He would simply remind the jury of two things. One was that his unfortunate client, actuated by the most considerate of motives—the delicacy of character of a true gentleman—had chosen rather to impair his defence than to drag into this Court friends or relatives to whom such an attendance must necessarily be most painful. The other was that the whole case turned simply upon a question of identity. He would hardly so much as mention such trumpery points, which were not even circumstantial, though they might seem to be. What are they? A matchbox, a time-table, and a bit of paper. However, to put such trivialities out of the account, we have left only this question of identity, and that I shall have no difficulty in disposing of, entirely to your satisfaction. I shall call—

“Joseph Grainger.”

The public, unaccustomed to the persuasive powers and self-confidence of forensic eloquence, began to think at the conclusion of Mr Windgate’s speech that the result of the trial was not such a foregone thing after all, and there was yet more exciting uncertainty in store for it. It, therefore, prepared itself to listen eagerly.

“You are head waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece Inn,’ at Battisford?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you held that position?”

“Nigh upon seven year, sir.”

“Look at the prisoner. Do you know him?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Squire Dorrien.”

“When did you first see him?”

“Well, sir, I can’t exactly remember that. It was shortly after the General’s death. Lawyer Barnes, he comes to our place, and he says to my guv’nor, says he—”

“Tut-tut-tut. Not so fast, my good friend,” interrupted Mr Windgate smilingly, while a ripple of mirth ran through the public. “Never mind about Lawyer Barnes, but just tell us when you first saw Mr Dorrien?”

“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, it was soon after he was married—just about Christmas-time.”

“Ah!” said, Mr Windgate triumphantly, making a rapid note. “And you never saw him before he was married?”

“No, sir.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“To the best of my belief, sir.”

“Very good. And have you seen him often since?”

“Not very often, sir. You see, he don’t come much over to Battisford, and I don’t go much over to Cranston—”

“Quite so. Now, do you remember a Mr Robert Durnford coming to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”

“Yes, sir—well.”

“When did he come?”

“He came—let me see—it was on a Saturday evening. I remember it, because it was the day before Mr Hubert Dorrien was lost.”

“Now what sort of person was this Mr Durnford? Just describe him.”

“A very nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, and quite the gentleman,” and then the loquacious one launched into a voluminous description of the stranger, which made the audience laugh and the judge knit his brows and mutter impatiently.

“How long did he stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”

“Rather over a fortnight, sir.”

“Have you ever seen him since?”

“No, sir.”

“But if you did you would know him again—in a moment?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Now look at the accused.”

Grainger complied. The eyes of the witness and the prisoner met. In those of the latter there was indifference—in those of the former there was no recognition.

“Is he the same man as the man you knew as Robert Durnford?”

The loquacious one’s homely features expanded into a broad grin.

“Law bless you, no, sir. He ain’t in the least like him.”

Mr Windgate could have danced with relief.

“He isn’t in the least like him,” he repeated emphatically, for the benefit of the jury. As for Roland himself, the first gleam of light since his arrest a month ago now darted in upon the rayless gloom of his soul. “Except—” The witness checked himself suddenly and with an effort. He could have bitten his tongue out. For Mr Benham had looked up quickly and was now making a note. Mr Windgate thought it better to let him go on.

“Except what?” he said playfully.

“I was goin’ to say, sir, leastways I was only thinking, sir,” answered the witness, stammering with confusion, “except it might be the way in which he stands.”

Mr Benham went on making his notes. His opponent’s feeling of relief was dashed, and the prisoner could have groaned aloud in the revulsion.

Then the witness in his roundabout way gave a voluble account of how the stranger had gone over to attend Wandsborough church, and had returned earlier than he was expected; and how he had come in while he—Grainger—was dozing.

“What time did he return?”

“It was after half-past nine.”

“How much after?”

“Five minutes.”

“You are positive as to this?”

“Oh, yes, sir—I said to the gentleman as how he’d come back very quick, ’cos they don’t come out o’ church till after half-past eight, and it’s over an hour’s walk at least. I asked him if he’d come by the way of the cliffs, and he didn’t seem to know there was a way by the cliffs as was shorter.”

Mr Windgate frowned slightly, and internally anathematised the witness’ garrulity.

“Anyhow, you are ready to swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten when this Mr Durnford came in?”

“Yes, sir—quite certain. We both looked at the clock and remarked it.”

“But one of the servants, a”—consulting his notes—“a Jane Flinders, says it was later.”

The loquacious one shook his head with a smile of pitying superiority.

“Law bless you, sir! Them gals is always a-fancyin’ things. They ought to have bin a-bed and asleep. No, no, sir. It wasn’t any more than five-and-twenty to ten.”

“This gentleman stayed at ‘The Silver Fleece’ a fortnight, you say. Now, during all that time did you notice anything strange about him?”

“Well, sir, he used to go about with a little hammer, chippin’ off bits o’ stone from the cliffs and suchlike, and in the evenin’ he’d sit in his room and write a good deal.”

“Did you talk with him at all on the subject of Mr Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”

“Yes, sir. I was the first to tell him of it.”

“Oh! And how did he seem to take it?”

“Cool as a blessed cucumber, sir. And when I told him that the ghost had been seen on The Skegs, he laughed in my face outright and said it was all humbug.”

“Ha-ha! Of course. Thank you, Grainger. That’ll do. Er—one more question. Do you know the place called Smugglers’ Ladder?”

“Well, sir, I’ve been there.”

“How long does it take to walk there from Battisford?”

“Three-quarters of an hour.”

“Ah! Now, you mentioned a cliff path leading from Wandsborough. Would that lead one past Smugglers’ Ladder?”

“Oh, no, sir. Nowhere near it. Why, it turns inland before you come within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait a moment, please,” said Mr Benham suavely, as Grainger was about to leave the box. “You say this Robert Durnford came to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’ the day before Hubert Dorrien was lost. That was on a Saturday evening. Did you at any time between that and Sunday evening have any conversation with him about the Dorrien family?”

The prisoner’s head sank lower and lower. That devil of a counsel!

“Well sir, we did.”

“Kindly repeat it.”

“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, the gentleman said he’d known the old Squire, the General’s brother. First he asked whose the house was, an’ then we got talkin’, and I told him a little about the General—just quietly and between ourselves, like.”

“Quite so. And what else did you tell him?”

“Well, sir, I told him a little about the young Squire being in difficulties with his father—not meanin’ any ’arm to anybody,” went on the man piteously, and with a penitent glance towards the dock.

“No, no. Of course not. People do talk of these things,” said Mr Benham encouragingly—then waxing impressive. “Now, did you mention a girl named Lizzie Devine?”

“Oh Lord, sir,” cried poor Grainger, horror-stricken, staring open-mouthed at the placid face of the inquisitorial counsel and wondering how the deuce he had ferreted out all this. “I didn’t mean no harm, but we was just a-talkin’ quietly like.” Then little by little Mr Benham inexorably elicited from the unwilling and terrified witness, the whole of the conversation that had passed between himself and Robert Durnford on the subject, and how he had told the stranger that Hubert Dorrien had blackened his brother’s name for his own advantage.

“Now, when Mr Durnford returned from Wandsborough that evening, you were asleep?”

“Yes, sir. I had just dropped off.”

“Where?”

“In the coffee-room.”

“And where was Durnford standing when you woke up?”

“In the door.”

“The door of the coffee-room?”

“Yes.”

“You mention a clock in the passage. Where does it stand?”

“It stands—you’ve seen it, sir.”

“No matter, my friend. The jury haven’t.”

“Well, sir, it stands about half way between the front door and the door of the coffee-room.”

“So that Durnford, to reach the coffee-room door, would have to pass that clock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you did not wake till he was standing in the coffee-room door?”

“No, sir.”

“How high is the face of that clock from the ground? Can you reach it without standing on anything?”

“Oh, yes. Quite easily.”

“Was Durnford a taller man than yourself?”

“Yes, sir. At least a head taller.”

“Does the face of that clock open easily?”

“Quite easily. I open it every few days to wind it.”

“Did that clock keep good time after that evening?”

“I don’t remember, sir,” answered the witness, after a moment of earnest thought.

“No matter. Jane Flinders swears it was a quarter-past ten by her watch, when she heard Durnford come in. You swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten. How do you reconcile the difference?”

“I don’t know. She must be mistaken.”

“But so may you be.” The witness was silent.

“Now, has it never occurred to you that that clock may have been tampered with? The hands put back half an hour or so, while you were asleep?” asked Mr Benham, bending forward and fixing a piercing glance on the witness’ face.

“Oh Lord! sir. No, it never did.”

“But still the thing might have been done—while you were asleep?”

“It’s not impossible, sir.”

“It’s not impossible. And now—look at the prisoner.”

The light was full upon Roland’s face, and again his eyes met those of the witness. Grainger started and stared. His face was a study. He looked like a man upon whom a new and unexpected light had irresistibly dawned.

“Oh Lord?” he ejaculated dazedly.

“Now,” went on Mr Benham, in his most inquisitorial tone, “will you stand there and swear that the prisoner is not the man who was staying at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ under the name of Robert Durnford.”

“M’lord!” cried Mr Windgate, “I have made a special note of the fact that the witness has already distinctly sworn to that very thing. I must protest emphatically against my learned brother trying to intimidate the witness into making a most unwarrantable contradiction of his former statement.”

“And I must equally protest against these repeated imputations,” retorted Mr Benham.

“The prosecution is quite in order, Mr Windgate,” ruled the judge. “Let us continue.”

“There is—there is a look of Durnford about him,” blunderingly admitted the witness.

“A very similar look? On your oath, mind.”

“Well—he stands like him, and—and—his head—is like him,” stammered the unfortunate man.

“Will you swear that he is not the men that you knew as Robert Durnford? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you. By the bye, when did this Durnford leave ‘The Silver Fleece’?”

“It was the day after he and Miss Ingelow were cut off by the tide.”

“Did he leave suddenly?”

“Yes, quite suddenly. He just came in—packed up his things and caught the morning train for London.”

“Didn’t that strike you as rather strange?”

“Oh, no, sir. We didn’t know he had been out all night. It was only after he’d gone that we heard what happened. Dr Ingelow—that’s the rector o’ Wandsborough—he came over to ‘The Silver Fleece’ in the afternoon, and was in a great state because the gentleman had gone.”

“That’ll do, Grainger. You may stand down.”

Very black for the prisoner were things looking now. The jury wore an unusually grave expression of countenance, and even among the audience all levity was hushed in the intense anxiety attendant on the dread issue.

“Unless Windgate can prove an alibi, he’s done,” whispered a sporting junior to another. “Take you two to one on it in sovs if you like, Rogers.”

“Dunno. Think I won’t. Isn’t it rather queer form to bet on a fellow’s life,” was the reply.

Although the remark was unheard by him, it exactly rendered Mr Windgate’s reflections. That damning recognition—or half-recognition—of Grainger’s had simply lost the case, and he would have given much had it never been made. For he was on his mettle now. The case was a highly sensational one—just the thing to put a crowning point on his reputation if he had come out of it successfully, but now ‘that infernal Benham’ had been too sharp for him. Just one of his ferrety ideas, that about the clock being tampered with—and in this instance Windgate was shrewd enough to see that it had told with fatal effect. He wished again and again he had not been fool enough to undertake the defence of a man who would give him simply nothing to go upon. And he could not even prove an alibi.

The next witness was Brown, the verger of Wandsborough church. His evidence was short and straightforward. He had a recollection of a stranger coming into church on the evening in question, towards the middle of the service. He certainly never thought of recognising Mr Dorrien in him, nor had he since. He knew Mr Dorrien well, too—he often attended Wandsborough church. It must have been considerably earlier than half-past eight when the stranger came in, because the service on ordinary Sunday evenings was nearly always over by that time. As to distances and times, he, Brown, could not speak. He was an old man now, and never had been much of a walker. The only thing he could be positive about was that the stranger had left the church a little before half-past eight, and he certainly had no suspicion that it was Mr Dorrien, either at the time, or since.

Him the prosecution declined to cross-examine.

“I shall call the Rev. Laurence Turner,” said Mr Windgate.

The curate had not been at first subpoenaed. But so urgent had become the need of more testimony that the defence had decided at the last moment to put Turner into the box. The latter looked not a little nervous. Truth to tell, the situation was one of horror to his immaculate soul. He did not fancy being mixed up in criminal trials, as he subsequently put it.

“Now, Mr Turner,” went on Mr Windgate, after a few preliminary questions. “I believe you took part in the search for Miss Olive Ingelow, who was cut off by the tide on this coast some two-and-a-half years ago?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you found her?”

“We were so fortunate.”

“Kindly tell the Court how and where you found her.”

Turner complied in as few words as possible.

“Now, did it strike you that this stranger you mention—this person who rescued the young lady, might have been Mr Roland Dorrien disguised?”

“Never.”

“Never? Then or since?”

“Neither then nor since,” answered Turner decidedly.

“Did you ever hear that it struck anybody?”

“Never.”

“Yet you knew Roland Dorrien well?”

“Fairly well.”

“Dr Ingelow, the lady’s father, took part in the search, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“And he remarked no likeness?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“You saw a great deal of Dr Ingelow at that time?”

“Yes.”

“And he never mentioned any such suspicion?”

“Never.”

“One moment, Mr Turner,” said the Crown counsel, rising to cross-examine. “This lady is now the prisoner’s wife, is she not?”

“She is.”

“Didn’t it strike you as rather—well, queer—the stranger Durnford suddenly leaving you all in the way he did?”

“A little perhaps. But we supposed he knew his own business best. And some people are queer.”

“A—quite so—Mr Turner, I quite agree with you—they are,” said Mr Benham waggishly. “That will do, thank you.”

“That’s my defence, my lord,” said Mr Windgate.

Chapter Forty Six.

Life or Doom?

The prisoner, re-entering after the adjournment for lunch, found himself idly wondering whether, when next he should pass through the dock gate, it would be as a free man or as one whose days were numbered. Then, amid the intense hush that followed on his appearance, he heard his counsel opening his address to the jury, which, put into a good humour by a few deft if stereotyped compliments, began to think that after all there might be a good deal to be said on the side of the defence.

Before brushing aside the flimsy testimony which seemed to tell against the accused, for the prosecution had relied upon quantity to counterbalance an utter absence of quality, began Mr Windgate, he would show what manner of man it was whom they were asked to convict of the gravest crime known to the law. It was all very well for the prosecution to contend that a gentleman in his client’s position was as liable to commit crime as—say the historic Mr William Sikes. His own experience—perhaps fully equal to that of his learned brother opposite—was wholly against any such theory.

Then Mr Windgate launched forth into a brilliant panegyric of the accused, extolling his virtues in every capacity, public and private. Then he proceeded to deal with the evidence bit by bit, and as this involved a long repetition of all that has gone before, we shall not follow him through it. Suffice it to say that he handled his points with consummate skill.

When he came to Johnston his scorn was beautiful to behold. This fellow, who had eaten the bread of the accused and of his father before him for a number of years, had gone into the box with the most bare-faced and unblushing effrontery, and confessed to having played the part of a crawling serpent, a part whose loathsomeness, he, Mr Windgate, could find no terms adequately to stigmatise. What could the evidence of such a creature be worth? Why, nothing—less than nothing. But it was abundantly shown that the fellow harboured the greatest ill-will towards his master, who had frequently found fault with him for incivility, which, judging from his impudent demeanour in Court, was little to be wondered at. Then when he had grossly insulted his master’s wife, Mr Dorrien, very rightly in the speaker’s opinion, had discharged him summarily. So he swore to be revenged on his master—threatened him, as they had heard. A pretty witness this, to swear away a man’s life! Justice in England must be coming very low if such instruments as this could be capable of swaying her course. But, as a matter of fact, such was not the case. He could tell them that it was intended to institute proceedings against Johnston for wilful perjury, but that was by the way.

As for Devine, here, too, was a tainted witness, a corrupt witness, in fact. He, too, was known to bear a strong grudge against the accused, which, considering that he owed his comfortable place to Mr Dorrien’s influence—which his employer, it was to be hoped, would not suffer him to retain—was quite sufficient to show what sort of person he was. This precious rascal, then, had come into Court with a cock-and-bull story about witnessing a crime at Smugglers’ Ladder. Why, it was the most bare-faced, as well as clumsy, attempt at a diabolical conspiracy ever known—diabolical, because without motive, unless the motive were to shield himself, for if he, Devine, was there at all at that hour, his own presence needed explaining. It sickened him, Mr Windgate, to think that it was even necessary to defend such a case—a case bolstered up mainly by two witnesses of infamous character, whose evidence, even if true, was that of midnight spies. Who saw Devine at Smugglers’ Ladder at all that night, and what is the bare statement of a man of Devine’s record worth? Not the millionth fraction of a farthing.

After heaping up a good deal more denunciatory scorn upon these two and their testimony, he came to Pollock’s evidence. He had no wish to impute mala fides to a man of known honesty. Still, honest men were mistaken sometimes. This matter of identity rested upon evidence very shadowy. As to recognising the accused when he saw Durnford by lamplight on the beach, he, the speaker, prayed them to receive this statement with the greatest possible reserve. Here was the rector of Wandsborough and his curate, Mr Turner, both of whom were far better acquainted with the accused’s appearance than the witness Pollock, yet both these gentlemen had unhesitatingly sworn not only that they utterly failed to identify the prisoner in Robert Durnford, but that the barest suspicion as to such identity had never crossed their minds—and had not done so from that day to this. And further—here he begged the jury to give him all their attention—the lady rescued by Durnford was Dr Ingelow’s daughter. She was at that time, to her credit be it said, something more than interested in his client, whose wife she subsequently became, a fact which precluded her from giving valuable evidence on Mr Dorrien’s behalf. Was it likely then, he asked, that this estimable lady would have kept silence these two years and a half as to who her rescuer really was—that she should never have mentioned the fact to her own father, with whom she had ever been on the most dutiful and affectionate terms? Why, of course it was not. He put it to them as sensible men—fathers themselves, most probably—and so on.

“By Jove! Windgate’s scored a point there, Rogers,” whispered the sporting junior. “If only he can squash the envelope business!”

But this was just what he could not—and Mr Windgate knew it himself. He tried his best though, as also with the other damning points. At last his speech came near its close.

The evidence, he continued, consisted of a series of mere coincidences—one or two of them, it might be, a little remarkable, but—coincidences. The time had gone by in this country, he thanked Heaven, when men were convicted on purely circumstantial evidence. As for the motive which the prosecution had evolved, it was, he made bold to say, the veriest mare’s nest. Why, several of the most reliable witnesses had stated on oath that there wae no ill-will between the two brothers, and that on the whole they were on good terms. He wae not there to defend the absent Durnford, since it was abundantly proved that with that mysterious personage his client had nothing whatever to do, but he would just remark that in the conflicting evidence in the matter of the hall clock and the maid-servant’s watch, it was merely oath against oath—and that nothing was more confusing than differences in time. The witness Grainger had utterly failed to identify the accused. Under the prosecution’s very bewildering cross-examination he had, it was true, been afflicted with a temporary misgiving, but that was perfectly natural under the circumstances. So against two rogues, and one honest man, who could not be quite sure as to his statements, they had the positive evidence of Dr Ingelow and Mr Turner against the identity. That was to say, the two witnesses in this case to whom the accused had always been best known. And all the side evidence made for his client.

“Gentlemen,” he concluded, in his most impressive manner, “I now call upon you honourably to acquit my client. Remember, with you rests the most awful responsibility which can be laid upon the shoulders of mortal men—the life or death of a fellow creature. You must either honourably acquit him or doom him to an ignominious death. There is no middle course—absolutely none.”

“Good old phrase that,” muttered the sporting junior, chuckling inwardly over the scared look on the wooden faces of the twelve intelligent Englishmen.

”—Therefore, I call upon you to record your true sentiments, the sentiments of upright and true Englishmen, and to acquit with honour my client, to restore a wronged but high-minded gentleman to his family—to a fond wife, whose affliction during these terrible weeks I dare not imagine—to that neighbourhood which is anxiously waiting to receive him back with acclamation—to a long, benevolent, and useful life, which he has already begun most signally to adorn.

“Gentlemen, I leave my client in your hands with perfect confidence as to the result.”

A few moments of silence, and then the Crown counsel, who had been, to all outward appearance, intently studying his brief, rose.

The prisoner in the dock, he proceeded to say, was of a class whose members, happily, in this country, seldom filled that unfortunate position. He was a gentleman of affluence, more or less known to them all, and holding a high and influential station. They might reason that on that account, if any man was free from all temptation to such a crime as the one under their consideration, that man would be the prisoner before them. But this was precisely what they must not do. He, the learned counsel, could assure them that human nature in this respect was marvellously similar. All his experience—and it had not been inconsiderable—went to confirm him in that opinion.—And so on.

Then he proceeded to draw a graphic and rather harrowing picture of the disappearance of the deceased and the terrible blow to the feelings of his relatives which this re-opening of their grief must prove, going on to dissect the evidence bit by bit.

“The identity of the prisoner with the stranger known as Robert Durnford is as clear as daylight,” proceeded Mr Benham. “You will notice that the persons who saw through this disguise were those to whom he was or had been best known. Andrew Johnston, an old family servant, recognised him at once. Stephen Devine, formerly a labourer on the Cranston estate, and since gamekeeper to Colonel Neville—both these men had had abundant opportunities of being acquainted with the prisoner’s appearance. Their suspicions aroused, they took further occasion to observe the so-called Durnford, with the result that those suspicions were fully confirmed. To this they had sworn—again and again. Then there is James Pollock, a man of the greatest respectability—to him Roland Dorrien was not so well known as to the other witnesses mentioned, yet, being a man of keen perceptions, he had recognised him. Not the first time, indeed—though even then the voice had struck upon his ears as familiar. But on the second occasion of their being brought together, meeting with the so-called Durnford on the occasion of Miss Olive Ingelow’s rescue from drowning, he saw through his disguise at a glance, and in the man he had met coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, between nine and half-past on the evening of the murder, he recognised the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. Now here are three persons who distinctly swear to the identity between these two. Nor is that all. There is Joseph Grainger, the waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ at the time of Durnford’s stay at that inn. He comes here. He sees the prisoner in his normal costume and wearing his ordinary aspect, and he does not recognise him—at first. Indeed, he even goes so far as to emphasise the statement. But memory will not be cheated. As he stands there, the striking similarity of the accused to the pseudo-Durnford recalls itself to his mind, and he is dumbfounded. Gentlemen, you saw him—his air of utter astonishment, almost of awe, as he looked at the prisoner. You witnessed his refusal to swear to the two men being different. That is enough. Sensible men like yourselves can draw but one inference.

“Now as to the time at which Durnford returned to ‘The Silver Fleece,’ there is a conflict of testimony, but a perfectly reconcilable one. The waiter swears to the guest’s return at five-and-twenty minutes to ten. The maid-servant, Jane Flinders, swears with equal certitude to hearing Durnford come in at a quarter-past ten, and more than half the issue turns on this point. But, gentlemen, bear this in mind. The waiter Grainger was asleep. When he awoke, Durnford had already passed the hall clock, which then marked the hour of nine thirty-five. Durnford could reach the clock, be it remembered. But he could not reach Jane Flinders’ watch. Gentlemen, you will draw your own conclusions. One more point in connection with this. Pollock’s evidence proves that he met the stranger on the cliff, close to Smugglers’ Ladder, at half-past nine. But the stranger is back in his hotel at Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten. That is to say, he covers in five or ten minutes a distance which it has been proved by the most competent testimony could hardly be covered in five-and-thirty. And then, when Grainger asks him if he returned by way of the cliffs, he appears surprised, and would have the other believe him unaware of there being any way by the cliffs.

“My learned friend here has seen fit to make merry over the articles which infallibly connect the prisoner with this mournful tragedy, but these articles, small, trivial though they may be in themselves, are of the very last importance. First, there is the A.B.C. time-table. Roland Dorrien goes into a tavern in the Strand, looking very strange and excited, and asks for an A.B.C. It is purchased for him. He searches it, marks the Wandsborough train, turns down a corner of the page and—leaves the book behind him when he goes out. This is about a week before the murder—the waiter, Newton, cannot be sure of the date. But—and observe this—the very train marked in that time-table is the one by which Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. On the 21st January Roland Dorrien gives up his lodgings at Mrs Clack’s. He leaves London early in the morning. Late in the afternoon of that day Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. From that time until he leaves Wandsborough church on the night of the 22nd, Durnford’s movements are accounted for. Then, passing over for the moment Devine’s evidence, he is met by James Pollock coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, not many minutes after Hubert Dorrien is—well ‘falls’ into that chasm. And on the very scene of the tragedy James Pollock picks up this envelope which has been handed to you, directed—not to Robert Durnford but undoubtedly to Roland Dorrien. And where? At a London address incontestably. And the address subsequently given to Dr Ingelow by the pseudo-Durnford is a London postal address. Now for the matchbox. The day after the deceased’s disappearance, Eustace Ingelow, the prisoner’s brother-in-law, a young gentleman who by common knowledge is devoted to his relative, and not likely knowingly to injure him in any way, picks up this matchbox, which is of peculiar make, and to which he can swear as being the prisoner’s property. Where does he find this article! Why, at the bottom of this chasm, at the very spot where the deceased met his death.

“And now you will ask what motive could have been strong enough to lead this man to the black and abhorrent crime of fratricide. Well, even here the network of evidence is as complete as elsewhere. That motive, gentlemen, the prosecution has been able to supply. It has been shown that the prisoner had quarrelled with his father, and was in fact disinherited. Herein,” continued the learned counsel, putting on his most sad and sorrowful expression, “came the passion of jealousy. Furthermore, he had found reason to suppose, from some most deplorable and unguarded statements on the part of Grainger, that his brother had dealt him a blow which, if true, amounted to a stab in the dark—in that he had set to work to damage his reputation in Wandsborough and the neighbourhood. This being so, what more likely than that a man of the prisoner’s temper and character should at once seek to be revenged? How he and his brother had come together was just one of those unimportant links in the dark chain which it was beyond their power to connect. The important fact was that they had come together—the evidence of Stephen Devine and others was amply sufficient to establish that.”

Then Mr Benham proceeded to comment on the evidence of Devine, who with his own eyes had seen the deed done. He explained away the witness’ reluctance to divulge it during these years as a perfectly natural thing; laid stress on the straightforwardness and ring of truth which characterised the man’s statement, and how his tale in its plain, unvarnished simplicity had more than triumphantly stood the test of his learned brother’s most skilful cross-examination. In short, he drew the web of damning circumstances closer and closer around the accused, till there was not a flaw in the enthralling network. Then, with some conventional rhetoric about “terrible charge,” “man in prisoner’s position,” “truly painful duty which, painful as it was, he dared not shirk,” the heart-broken Mr Benham resumed his seat, complacently conscious of having earned his not unhandsome fee.