“About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes—not in less.”
“Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?”
“Not possible, sir—even if he ran all the way,” repeated the witness firmly.
“Quite so, thank you,” said Mr Windgate. “A—one more question. Did you ever mention to anyone—any of your neighbours, for instance—having recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?”
“Not a word of it, sir.”
“That’s the case for the Crown, my lord,” said Mr Benham, rising as the witness left the box.
With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable, for judges are mortal—very much so too.
The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet to be heard.
And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell, another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.
Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog—his head in the air and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.