“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?”