Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER XXII

"My name, sir, is Milford—John Milford. Up till nine months ago I was a steward in the employment of the Blue Star Line. That was how I first came to meet Mr. Northcote. He was one of the passengers in the Caledonia last October coming from New York."

"Was he travelling by himself?" asked the magistrate.

"Yes, sir; he came on board at the last moment. He had one of the deck cabins, and it was my duty to look after him."

"How did he come to offer you the position of being his butler?"

Milford hesitated for a moment. "It was after he had saved my life, sir. I was washed overboard by a big sea on the third day out, and Mr. Northcote, who was on deck, jumped into the water and held me up until they were able to get a boat launched. I was naturally very grateful, sir; and I think it was that which first gave him the idea. Having saved my life, he felt that he could trust me with his."

A little flutter of excitement ran round the court.

"What do you mean?" asked the magistrate, leaning forward. "Did he think that his life was in danger?"

"He knew it, sir. Mr. Northcote was Ignace Prado, the President of San Luca."

Milford's statement, which he made quite quietly, did not arouse anything like the sensation which I expected. I suppose the fact was that very few people in court knew anything about San Luca except that it was in South America, in which case Prado's name would convey to them nothing of its evil significance.

The magistrate, however, appeared to be better informed.

"That's rather an amazing statement," he said, looking keenly at Milford. "I thought Prado was killed in the last revolution."

"Yes, sir. That was the general impression. As a matter of fact, he escaped in a boat the night the palace was blown up, and boarded a steamer in the harbour which brought him to New York. No one knew this at the time; indeed, there was never any suspicion that he was still alive until a couple of months ago."

"Did he tell you all this on the ship?"

Milford shook his head. "No, sir; I knew nothing about it until the other day. When Mr. Northcote engaged me, he merely told me that he intended to take a house in London, and that he wanted a butler whom he could trust. I accepted the post, sir. I was glad of the chance to serve him and to show that I was grateful to him. Mr. Northcote lived in a pretty big way in London at first, as I dare say you know, sir. We used to entertain a goodish bit, and I had an establishment of ten or twelve servants under me. Then one day, about a couple of months ago, something seemed to happen that changed the master entirely. He broke off nearly all his engagements, shut himself up in the house, and began to get rid of the servants until there were only three of us left. It was quite impossible for us to look after the house properly, but he didn't seem to mind that. He doubled our wages, without our asking, and told us to do the best we could. We all thought he was ill; indeed, he looked so bad that once I went so far as to ask him if he wouldn't see the doctor. But it was no use, sir, no use at all. He just laughed, and said that he was doctoring himself."

"He gave you no reason for this change in his way of living?"

"Nothing definite, sir; but I knew that he fancied himself in danger. He gave me special instructions to let no one into the house without bringing up their names to him first. Things went on like this for several weeks—in fact, up to eight days ago. That was the third, if you remember, sir. Mr. Northcote came to me on that day and told me to order him a taxi-cab, because he was going out at six o'clock. He had a motor of his own, but of course it was not my place to ask questions. I ordered him the cab, and he went off. I never saw him again until the night he was murdered."

He paused and took a sip from the glass of water which was standing at the side of the box.

"According to the evidence of the police," said the magistrate, "Mr. John Burton returned to Park Lane in his place."

"Yes, sir."

"And do you mean to tell us you didn't notice the change?"

"No, sir. Mr. Burton is the exact double of Mr. Northcote. Even his voice is the same. He was wearing Mr. Northcote's clothes, and he seemed perfectly at home, sir. There was nothing to make me doubt that he was the master."

Every eye in court was now turned on me. Under ordinary circumstances, I might have found such a sudden scrutiny a trifle embarrassing; but I was so interested in Milford's revelation that I scarcely noticed it. I was waiting to see how much of our mutual adventure he intended to make public.

"And when did you first begin to have suspicions about this amazing deception?" asked the magistrate.

Milford paused for a moment, as though to make quite certain of his facts.

"It was the night of Lord Sangatte's dance, sir—the night of the murder. Mr. Burton went off about half-past ten, and he hadn't been gone a matter of a quarter of an hour when a boy came round to the house with a note for me. It was in the master's writing, sir, and it told me to come down in a taxi to 7 Baxter's Rents, Stepney, as quickly as possible. I couldn't make it out at all, having, as I thought, just seen Mr. Northcote out of the house. Still, there it was; there couldn't be no doubt about the signature, and it wasn't my place to fail the master if he might be wanting me. So I looked out Baxter's Rents in the Directory, and then rung up a cab and told the man to take me down as far as the corner of East Street It was a pretty rough neighbourhood, sir, just off the river, and seemingly fuller of foreigners than English people. Number seven turned out to be a sailors' lodging-house. I found the master there—he'd told me what name to ask for him under—but at first sight I shouldn't have known him. He'd always used to be most particular about his appearance, sir, but that night he was unshaved and dirty, and dressed in the roughest of clothes.

"Well, sir, he took me into the little room he'd got—like a pig-stye it was—and he shut the door tight and put the bed against it, as if he was afraid of something."

By this time the silence in court was so intense as to be almost painful. From the magistrate to the policeman at the door every soul present was drinking in Milford's story with a fascinated attention. His strangely simple, unaffected method of telling it seemed to add to its effect.

"You no longer thought that he and Mr. Burton were the same person?" interrupted the magistrate.

Milford passed his hand across his forehead. "I don't know, sir; I was that mazed I can't rightly say what I did think. I just stood there and stared at the master without saying nothing. So far as I can remember, it seemed to me I was dreaming."

"What did he do, then?"

"He told me to sit down on the bed, sir. Then he started talking very slow and quiet. First of all, he told me that he was Prado. From what he said, it seems that he'd gone out from England when he was almost a boy, and that everyone in San Luca believed him to be a South American. He'd escaped from the palace just before they'd blown it up, and he thought at the time he'd got away without being seen. Of course, me being a steward in the Blue Star, sir, I'd heard all about the way he'd made himself President, and I didn't need to be told that there were plenty of people ready to shove a knife into him if they had half an idea he was still alive. Well, that was what the trouble was, sir. Somehow or other, it had come out that he hadn't been killed in the explosion, and the San Luca people had got on his track. He wasn't a coward, the master wasn't,—he couldn't have made himself President, or saved my life as he did, if he had been,—but he knew well enough that he was done for unless he could manage to get out of London. The people who'd come after him belonged to some secret society that he'd pretty near wiped out, and so long as they could get even with him they weren't the sort to mind much what happened after."

Milford paused, and again took a brief sip from the glass of water. I stole a quick glance at Maurice's face. He was staring at the witness-box with an expression of nervous apprehension that pleased me intensely. I was not the only person who felt anxious as to what Milford might bring out next.

"Go on," said the magistrate.

"It was then, sir, quite by chance, that he'd come across Mr. Burton. It was that night he went out in the taxi, sir. He'd gone to sign some papers at his lawyer's, and coming back along the Embankment he passed Mr. Burton standing on the pavement. He saw the likeness at once, sir, and it suddenly struck him that this might be a way of escape if he could work it properly. Anyhow, it seemed a chance, so he stopped the cab and got out and spoke to Mr. Burton."

With the re-introduction of my interesting personality into the story, I again became the centre of attraction. Everyone present leaned forward to stare at me, one or two of the ladies going so far as to produce miniature opera-glasses. It was a trying business, but I put my hands in my pockets and bore it as serenely as I could.

"He asked Mr. Burton to supper with him at the Milan, sir. According to what Mr. Northcote told me, they had a private room. I suppose the hotel management can say whether that's correct, sir."

The magistrate nodded. "Yes, yes. It has already been confirmed in yesterday's evidence."

It was at this point that the counsel for the police jumped to his feet and began to protest against what he described "respectfully" as the "utter irregularity of the proceedings."

The magistrate, who seemed to be a delightfully independent gentleman, cut his eloquence short.

"You will oblige me by sitting down, Mr. Gunn," he observed coldly. "I have no intention of granting a further remand until I have heard everything that these witnesses have to say. Go on, Mr. Milford."

"Well, sir, when the master saw what sort of a gentleman Mr. Burton was, he made him an offer straight out to change places. Mr. Burton was to put on his clothes, and go back to Park Lane, and pretend for three weeks that he was Mr. Northcote."

A kind of half-delighted, half-incredulous gasp ran round the court. Whether Milford's evidence was legally permissible or not, there could be no doubt that the public were intensely satisfied.

"Really, this is most interesting," observed the magistrate dryly. "And the accused apparently accepted Mr. Northcote's enterprising offer? Was he aware of the latter's reasons for wishing to disappear?"

"According to what the master told me, sir, Mr. Burton knew that he might be murdered, but that was about all, sir. He was paid well, and he was prepared to take the risk."

"And what do you call being paid well?"

Milford shook his head. "I don't know, sir. The master didn't say. He only told me that he gave Mr. Burton some hints about the house and about the people he was likely to meet, and that they dressed up in each other's clothes, and Mr. Burton went back to Park Lane."

"And what did Mr. Northcote do?"

"He put up at Bruce House for the night, sir. The next morning he went down east, and bought some second-hand sailor's clothes. His idea was to get away quiet to Australia; but there wasn't any ship for four days, so he took the room in Baxter's Rents. He'd been lying up there ever since."

"What made him send for you?"

"Well, sir, there were several reasons. First of all, he wanted to know whether we'd noticed the difference between him and Mr. Burton, and whether Mr. Burton was playing the game like—doing what he'd agreed to. Then there was a paper he wanted me to sign and take to Mr. Horsfall, his lawyer."

"What was this paper?" inquired the magistrate sharply. "Have you got it?"

Milford put his hand in his inner pocket and pulled out a long blue envelope.

"This is it, sir. I don't know what's inside. I only wrote my name to say I'd seen the master sign it."

"Give it to me," said the magistrate. Then, raising his head and looking round, he added: "Is Mr. Horsfall in court?"

An elderly, clean-shaven man rose from his seat as the policeman handed up the envelope.

"I am Mr. Horsfall," he said, with a stiff little inclination of his head.

The magistrate put down the envelope beside his blotting-pad. "Very good," he replied. "I will ask you to look into this as soon as the evidence is completed." Then he turned to Milford. "Go on," he said: "what else did Mr. Northcote want you to do?"

"Please, sir, he wanted me to promise I'd write to him in Australia and let him know how things turned out. Also he wanted me to get him some more clothes, and to fix up about his ticket. It was too late to do anything that night, sir, of course, but I told him I'd find somewhere to sleep, and set about it first thing in the morning. I was knocked all of a heap, as you might say, sir, by what he'd told me."

"Why didn't you stay at Baxter's Rents?"

"The house was full, sir; there wasn't a bed to be had, and I didn't fancy sitting up the rest of the night. I hadn't been very well for a matter of a couple of days."

"Where did you sleep?"

"There was a lodging-house just round the corner, sir,—Number 10 Smith Street it was,—and I got a room there. I asked the landlord to give me a knock-up in the morning, for I was that tired I knew I'd sleep on late if he didn't. Well, sir, he came to me at seven o'clock, and the very first thing he said to me was that there'd been a murder in the night at Baxter's Rents. 'Done in a cove at number three,' he says. 'The police are round there now.' When I heard that, sir, my heart seemed to go all queer like. I felt certain it was the master, sir; and it come to me all of a sudden that perhaps one of them foreigners had followed me down and waited outside till I'd left him. I got up and dressed, and then I went round to the house. There was a big crowd outside, all pushing and shoving to get a look, and an inspector standing on the doorstep."

He paused for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts.

"Did you go in?" inquired the magistrate.

"No, sir. As soon as I heard the people talking, I knew it was Mr. Northcote. Some of them had seen the body before the police came."

"But why didn't you go and tell your story to the inspector?"

Milford made a kind of protesting gesture with his hands. "How could I go to the police, sir, with a story like that? They'd have thought I was mad. Besides, I was that knocked over, I didn't rightly know what to do for the time. I had a sort of feeling that if they found out I'd been there the night before, they might think I'd had a hand in it."

"What did you do?" inquired the magistrate gently.

"I went back to Smith Street, and I thought the whole thing over. My first idea was to see Mr. Burton: then I remembered that he was going down to Ashton, and as likely as not he'd have started. There wasn't no doubt in my mind as to who'd done the murder. I felt as sure as anything it was one of the San Luca gang the master had told me about. As like as not they'd followed me down in a cab; and it troubled me much, sir, to think that maybe I'd brought his death on him after he'd saved my life. In a way, as you might say, sir, it made me feel I was responsible for finding the man who'd done it."

Milford's voice shook, and he brushed the back of his hand quietly across his eyes. That Prado, who had proved himself to be one of the most callous ruffians that even South America has produced, should have been capable of inspiring such signs of affection was a mystery which I will make no attempt to solve. It was quite plain, however, that Milford's distress was genuine.

"Didn't it appear to you to be a pretty hopeless business?" inquired the Magistrate.

Milford nodded. "I just had two things to go on, sir. I knew it was a foreigner, and I guessed that he couldn't be very far away. Mr. Northcote wasn't the sort of gentleman who'd have let himself be killed easy, and I'd heard the people outside the house talking about the blood-stains down the stairs. So I reckoned it out that he was probably lying low somewhere in the neighbourhood. There's many a house round that part would take a man in without asking no questions so long as he could pay what they wanted."

He paused to wipe away the perspiration which glistened on his forehead.

"Open another of the windows," said the magistrate irritably. "It's hot enough in here to make us all faint."

Milford waited a moment, while the policeman pulled down one of the long sashes at the back of the court.

"Well?" asked the magistrate interrogatively.

Milford moistened his lips. "It was a chance, sir, just pure chance, that put me on the right track. For three days I'd hunted round without finding out any more than the police had done. Then last night, just before eight o'clock it was, I was standing outside the Dockyard Arms when a boy came by with some papers. I bought one, and the first thing I saw when I opened it was about the arrest of Mr. Burton. Finding it unexpected like that, sir, gave me quite a turn. You see, sir, until I saw it in the paper, I didn't even know the police had discovered it was Mr. Northcote who'd been murdered. I felt that shaken, sir, I turned in to have a drop of brandy and to think it over quiet like. The Dockyard bar's divided into compartments—little wooden compartments—about as high as my shoulder. I was sitting there having my brandy and thinking over what I ought to do, when two men came in and sat down in the next division. They started talking, sir, not very loud, but enough for me to hear what they were saying. I listened for a bit without really taking in what they meant, and then all of a sudden it came to me, sir, like—like a blow in the face."

He paused.

"Yes," said the magistrate, "yes?"

"One of them, sir, was telling the other about a lodger who was ill in his house, and who wanted to see a priest. The other man said something about Father Merrill, and the first man said, in a kind of queer way, 'Well, ye see he was stabbed in the street, and I don't want no fuss so long as he can pay the rent.' When I heard that, sir, I pretty near jumped out of my seat, for something told me it was the man I was looking for. I kept quiet, though, to try and hear some more; but after that they spoke so low I couldn't catch what they were saying. I sat on till they'd done their drink and got up to go, then I slipped out after them. They separated on the pavement, and my man—the one who'd spoken first—turned off down towards the river. He was pretty well gone in liqueur, sir, and it was easy enough to follow him. He went all the way along to Shadwell, and turned in at a tumble-down, one-storey sort of place that looked as if it was part of an old warehouse alongside."

"What time was it then?"

"It must have been pretty near half-past ten, sir. Anyhow, it was just striking eleven when I reached the church at the corner of East Street."

"You came straight back, then?"

"Yes, sir. I thought it would be no use trying to get into the house on my own, even if the man was there. I wanted some one to help me—some one, too, who'd be the right sort of witness if there was any trouble. It seemed as like as not that I was the only person who rightly knew how things lay; and now Mr. Burton had been arrested, it wouldn't do for me to make any mistake. Well, sir, I turned it all over in my mind, and I decided at last that I couldn't do any better than go to this Father Merrill that the man had spoken about in the Dockyard Arms. You see, I'd heard others speak of him too, sir, in the lodging-house at Smith Street."

"Everybody in the East End knows Father Merrill, I believe," interrupted the magistrate.

"I should say they did, sir, pretty near. Anyhow, even at that hour, 'twas easy enough finding out where the reverend gentleman lived. I went to his rooms, and late as it was,—getting on for midnight, to be correct,—he came down and opened the door himself. I'd fetched him out of bed, but he didn't seem to mind. He took me into his sitting-room,—I'd said 'twas a matter of life and death, sir,—and there I told him the whole story straight through from beginning to end. Of course, I'd got the master's letter to Mr. Horsfall, and some old letters of my own in my pocket to show him; but even so, I was half afraid he wouldn't believe what I was telling him. But he did, sir. He just looked at me quiet, and asked me one or two questions, and he seemed to know I was speaking the truth. 'You stop here,' he said. 'I'll go and put on some things and come with you at once.' I waited for him, sir, maybe a matter of ten minutes, and then we set off together. We hadn't got half-way down the street before he stopped and knocked at one of the houses. 'We'll take Dr. Robbins with us,' he said to me. 'He's a big man, and he's used to murderers.'"

A sudden laugh ran round the strained court, in which the magistrate, Father Merrill, and the doctor himself joined.

"Stepney seems to be a most bracing neighbourhood," observed the first. "Go on, Mr. Milford."

"Dr. Robbins was up and dressed, as it happened, sir. Directly the reverend gentleman told him what was the matter, he came along at once, and we got down to the warehouse just as the clocks were striking half-past one. It's in a kind of little side street, sir, just off the river, and at that hour it was quiet as the grave—not a soul about nowhere. We went up to the house, and the doctor he rapped on the door with his stick. There was no answer, so he rapped again louder, and after a bit we heard someone fumbling with the latch. At last the door began to open slowly, and the man I'd followed put his head out round the corner. He seemed half-drunk still, sir, and the language he used was something shocking. The doctor didn't take much notice of him, though. He just shoved the door wide open and took him by the shoulder. 'Look here, my man,' he said to him, sharp-like, 'I'm a doctor, and I've come to see your lodger. If you make any trouble about it, we shall send straight away for the police.' That did the trick all right, sir. Directly the fellow heard the police mentioned, he crumpled up as if he'd been shot. Then he began to whine out that he hadn't done anything wrong, and that he knew nothing about the man who was lodging there. 'No one's accusing you,' said the doctor; 'all you've got to do is to take us to him, and be quick about it.' Well, sir, he led us down a passage into a most filthy-smelling sort of room. It was quite dark at first, but the doctor he had one of those little pocket-lamps, which he turned on, and there, on a bundle of rags in the corner, was a man lying and groaning something dreadful to listen to. The doctor walked across and looked him over for a minute without speaking. Then he pulled out a pocket-book and wrote down something on one of the pages. 'Take this round to my house,' he says to me, tearing it out, 'and come back with the things as quickly as possible. You'll find my assistant there: he'll give you what I want. Father Merrill and I will wait here.'"

"What was the drunken man doing?" asked the magistrate.

"He was standing in the corner, sir, mumbling to himself. No one took any notice of him."

"And you went to the doctor's house and got the things he needed?"

"Yes, sir. I was back at the warehouse in under the hour. Father Merrill let me in, and I found that he and the doctor had lit some candles and got things a bit straight generally. The man on the bed had stopped groaning, but he still seemed very bad. The doctor was bending over him, doing him up with bandages and things: I could see he was cut about something shocking."

"Was he conscious?"

"Not rightly, I don't think, sir. He was talking in a kind of broken English, but it sounded to me all nonsense so far as I could hear. More like singing than talking, as you might say. The doctor gave him some medicine out of one of the bottles I'd brought, and that seemed to quiet him, sir. Anyway, he stopped the noise he was making. The doctor went on sponging and strapping him up till he'd done what he could, and then he comes across to Father Merrill and me. 'He's got it right enough,' he says. 'He'll probably recover consciousness before he goes off, though.'"

"What time was this?" inquired the magistrate.

"About a quarter to three, sir, I should reckon. Anyhow, I know it didn't begin to get light for some time after. There we stayed, all three of us, sitting on the window-sill or on a bench there was against the wall, and watching the man. We didn't dare to leave the room, for the doctor said he might wake up like any minute, and if we wanted to ask him anything that would be our only chance. While we waited, I told the doctor the whole story the same as I'd told it to Father Merrill."

"And where was the gentleman who owned the house all this time?"

"He was in the next room, sir, asleep. They'd put him in there while I was away. I think he was too drunk to worry much about anything."

"He seems to have been of a philosophic nature all through," said the magistrate. "Go on."

"Well, sir, it must have been just about nine o'clock when the man on the bed gave a sudden sort of a groan and opened his eyes. The doctor was at his side quick, sir. He had some medicine all ready in a glass, and he put his arm round him and lifted him up in bed, and made him swallow it. It seemed to do him good almost at once, sir, for he laid back and looked round quite quiet and sensible like. 'Who are you?' he asks. The doctor bends down and wipes his forehead for him.

"'I'm a doctor,' he says, 'and this is Father Merrill, a priest. You wanted to see a priest, you know.'

"'Yes, yes,' says the man and then a cunning, frightened sort of look comes into his eyes.

"The Father comes up to the bed and speaks to him very gentle and kind. He tells him that he is dying, and asks him if there isn't something he wants to confess. The man reaches up to him, sir, and clutches hold of his cloak. 'I am dying, I am dying,' he says, 'are you sure?' Father Merrill bows his head, and the chap drops back again on the bed. He lies there for a minute, sir, without speaking, just breathing hard and picking at the clothes. Then Father Merrill bends over him and takes both his hands. 'Prado is dead,' he says, very distinct, 'and an innocent man has been arrested for killing him.' That seemed, somehow, to do the business, sir. The man on the bed gives a kind of gasp and pulls himself up on the pillow. 'No, no,' he whispers. 'I killed him.' Then he takes a long breath. 'Listen,' he says, 'I will tell you.' We all three came round the bed, sir, and the doctor pulls out a pocket-book and a pencil and begins to write down what the man was saying. It was hard to follow, sir, for he spoke English half-foreign like, and his voice was never better than a whisper. The doctor's got what he said wrote down—he'll show it you, sir—but in a manner of speaking it was just what I thought. He was one of the San Luca lot—Da Costa his name was, and he'd been watching the house in Park Lane. When I drove down in the taxi he'd followed me, and he'd laid low outside till I cleared off. Then he'd sneaked in somehow without being seen, sir, and knocked at the door of the master's room. I suppose Mr. Northcote must have thought it was me come back, for he unlocked it, sir, and this Da Costa had got inside and stabbed him before he could so much as call out. But Mr. Northcote, sir, as I said, he wasn't the sort of gentleman to go under easy. He'd dropped to the floor, sir; but it seems he was partly shamming, for when Da Costa jumped on him to finish him, he whipped out a knife and stabbed him in the side. How long they fought Da Costa didn't know, but by the time he'd finished the master he was about done in himself. He'd crawled away, sir, hardly knowing what he was up to, and got down somewhere by the river. Here he'd run across the man whose house he was in now. He told him he'd been stabbed in a street row, and wanted some place where he could lie up. The man asked him if he had any money, and when Da Costa showed him a pound he took him to Shadwell, and there he'd been ever since. That was his whole story, sir, as he told it to us. You'll find it all written down proper in the doctor's book, with Da Costa's name signed at the end. He was just able to do that, sir, before he went off queer again."

"And you have come straight to the court from Shadwell?" asked the magistrate, as Milford stopped to finish the glass of water.

"Yes, sir. The doctor sent out and got a nurse to look after Da Costa, and then we came right up in a cab."

There was a short silence while the magistrate made one or two notes. When he had finished, he adjusted his glasses and looked up.

"Well, I congratulate you on the way you have given your evidence, Mr. Milford," he said slowly. "You appear, too, to have acted with courage and discretion all through these amazing experiences. I have no doubt the counsel for the police will want to ask you a few questions before we take the evidence of Dr. Robbins and Father Merrill; and meanwhile,"—here he turned to Mr. Horsfall,—"perhaps you, sir, will be good enough to examine these papers."

* * * * * * * * *

Of the rest of the proceedings I could not, even if I wished to, give a very clear or detailed account. All the time Milford had been telling his story my attention had been so eagerly concentrated on his words that the reaction when he had finished left me curiously indifferent as to what the others might say. I only know I listened vaguely and in a restless fever of impatience. Milford's evidence had so plainly carried conviction to everyone in court that I knew my dismissal from the unpleasantly prominent part which I now occupied was only a matter of time. Even I could tell that the questions which the prosecuting counsel was putting were intended to clear up minor points rather than to cast any real doubt on the truth of Milford's narrative. Whatever the police might think about my conduct and character, they were obviously no longer under the delusion that I was a murderer.

It was another, and to me far more important, question than that of my immediate liberty which now occupied my thoughts. Ever since Gordon had leaned over and whispered to me that neither Billy nor Mercia were in court, a deep uneasiness had been lurking at the back of my mind. While Milford had been giving his evidence I had been too interested to think much of anything else; but now the tension was relaxed, all my previous anxiety about Mercia's safety returned with double intensity.

I looked slowly and carefully round the court to make certain that Gordon was right. Face after face that I knew stood out in turn before my eyes. I caught sight of the immaculately dressed figure of Lord Lammersfield leaning back in his seat, his arms folded—a cynical smile on his lips. A little farther on was the old gentleman who had unconsciously coached me for my first Company meeting. He was bending forward eagerly, his hand to his ear, as though unwilling to miss a single word of the case. York and his sister, my Chelsea landlady, Dr. Ritchie, the impassive head waiter from the Milan—it seemed that everybody who had played a part, however small, in Mr. Stuart Northcote's highly successful comedy had gathered here to watch the last act unroll itself. Everybody, that is to say, with three exceptions. Not only were Billy and Mercia conspicuous by their absence, but with a curious and very unpleasant shock I suddenly realised that Lord Sangatte was also missing. Search as I would round the crowded court, I could find no trace of that heavy face and those hard blue eyes which I remembered and disliked with such peculiar distinctness.

It was this discovery which more than anything else filled me with a savage impatience to get the present proceedings over and done with. There was some mischief afoot,—something in which Mercia and Billy and Sangatte were all involved,—and here was I knowing nothing about it and powerless to help. I felt a wild impulse to jump up out of my seat and make a dash for the door; but fortunately my common sense was sufficiently strong to restrain me. I dug my hands deeper in my pockets, and with apparent calm listened first to the doctor and then to Father Merrill as, under the magistrate's skilful questions, they in turn confirmed Milford's story.

How long the inquiry went on I can't say. It seemed centuries to me, but I suppose as a matter of fact it was only about three-quarters of an hour from the time Milford had finished giving his evidence that the magistrate leaned over and addressed the prosecuting counsel.

"Do you still persist in pressing for a remand?" he inquired.

There was a moment of tense excitement in court, while a certain amount of whispering went on between those responsible. At last the barrister in charge of the case rose to his feet.

"On behalf of the police, your worship," he replied, "I am prepared to withdraw the charge of murder against Mr. Burton."

"Bravo!" exclaimed a silvery voice at the back which I seemed to recognise, and instantly a general cheer went up all round the court. I presume it must have been the nervous strain of the moment which was responsible for this enthusiasm, for I can hardly believe that I cut a very heroic or sympathetic figure. Anyhow, the magistrate sat on the outburst with commendable severity.

"Will you be good enough to behave yourselves," he said sharply. "This is a police court—not a music hall."

Then he turned to the counsel.

"I shall hand this confession to the police," he said, "and I have no doubt Mr. Horsfall will be ready to lend his assistance to any further action that may be taken. Meanwhile, I do not think it necessary to prolong these proceedings."

Gordon was on his feet immediately.

"You dismiss the case, your worship?"

The magistrate bowed. "The charge is withdrawn, Mr. Gordon," he said.