“Well!” said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, “Alter that—anything.”
“A very natural fear, my lord,” explained Mr Benham. “A poor man like the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner’s position.”
“Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?” asked the judge. “It’s getting very late.”
“Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn.”
But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his client’s interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge ordered lights to be brought in—for it was becoming dark—and then Jem Pollock was recalled.
There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer’s weatherbeaten face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will. Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers’ Ladder a man passed him walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something familiar about the stranger’s figure and gait, and when he, the witness, wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.
A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on it—“Roland Dor— —don, W.,” but the address was almost entirely gone. The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest interest in the proceedings.
This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance soon quieted down, and he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting event—the rector’s daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.
This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow’s narrow escape was well known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel’s inexorable voice recalled to prose again.
“Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss Ingelow?”