The proceedings went swiftly and smoothly from beginning to end. Whether or not he was a particularly good coroner—and Creighton felt some doubt of that—Merton was certainly expert in the technique of his job. He handled his witnesses capably, with deftness and dispatch, extracting facts from them with the easy grace of a headwaiter pulling corks, and each time a fact popped out he beamed benignly at his jury.
No mention was made of the police theory, and from the way Merton neatly headed off one or two witnesses who came close to trespassing on that forbidden ground, Creighton reckoned that Norvallis had persuaded him to mark time "in the interests of justice." The crowd that had come for a thrill were rewarded by the tale of the black monk, most of which was told by Miss Ocky. Her soft, clear voice carried to every ear, and her cool, matter-of-fact tones seemed rather to accentuate the dramatic values of her testimony than otherwise. It was the highlight of the whole picture, more interesting even than the verdict with its orthodox tag of "person or persons unknown."
"Norvallis hasn't shown his hand," murmured Jason Bolt, who was sitting next to Creighton.
"It'll make a louder splash in the papers to-morrow," retorted the detective cynically.
He had taken care to seat himself at the beginning of the inquest in such a way that he could watch the faces of the spectators who had come to this macabre entertainment. There was so much to the case that was hopelessly dark to him that he dared miss no opportunity to seek something or somebody who might inject even a single ray of light into the murk. He knew that the crowd at any inquest was quite likely to include the very person or persons unknown mentioned in the verdict. He watched the crowd here with a sharp eye for any one who might display a deeper interest than that of the casual ambulance-chaser brand.
He spotted just one among those present who seemed worthy of closer attention. This was a strikingly handsome blond man, middle-aged and well-dressed, who occupied an inconspicuous seat in the farthest corner of the long room. He had about him an air of strained intensity as he leaned forward to follow every word of the testimony, particularly when Miss Ocky was giving hers, and he tugged nervously and continuously at a close-cropped mustache. Creighton could see that his face was haggard and bore lines of worry—and he could see that an unmistakable look of relief came into his eyes as the jury returned its open verdict.
"Interesting," said the detective to himself, and touched Bolt on the arm as the man hurried from the room at the conclusion of the proceedings. "Who is that fair-haired chap just going out?"
"His name is Leslie Sherwood," answered Jason promptly. "He's a native of these parts but he has been out in the great world making lots of money. He has just returned and opened up the old Sherwood place, which has been closed since his father's death a few months ago. Why?"
Creighton was spared a reply by the appearance of a dapper, sharp little old gentleman who came up and greeted Bolt by his first name.
"Hello, Judge!" Jason turned with a gesture of his hand. "I want you to meet Mr. Peter Creighton, of New York. This is Judge Taylor, Mr. Creighton, who has always handled our legal affairs and managed somehow to keep us out of jail! Judge, Creighton is here to investigate that robbery of the other evening when Simon's notebook was stolen."