“I believe not, sir,” said Nell.
“Oh, you believe not—you don’t know, for certain, then?”
“He has not resided in this neighbourhood for some time. He left a little under two years ago,” said the inspector. “As far as he is concerned we are well able to let you know. He was convicted at the last sessions at Sheffield upon a charge of burglary, since which period he has been doing part of his time. He was sentenced to four years’ penal servitude.”
A murmur ran through the court at this declaration.
“What did he say?” inquired Brickett, of a policeman who stood next to him. “Charles Peace convicted of burglary! It can’t be; I dunno believe it.”
“Silence; order in the court!” shouted the usher.
“Well, I’m staggered—regularly dumbfounded!” murmured the landlord. “It bean’t true.”
“Order!” was again called, and Brickett remained silent, but he had half a mind to give an open contradiction to the inspector’s statement.
“It’s right enough,” whispered the policeman. “He’s quodded. Hold your row.”
“Now, Miss Fulford,” said the coroner, addressing himself to the witness, “you have given us, I dare say, a very faithful account of your last interview with the ill-fated young man, Mr. Philip Jamblin. But of the warning you gave him—which, I am sure, everyone must regret that he did not heed. You say a man was behind the hedge during the earlier part of the conversation?”