“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.