"I met my uncle on his death-bed, and Gowrie in the tap-room," said Herries, heatedly. "It is strange, I admit, since I came here so very unexpectedly."
"Extremely strange," said Trent, scoffingly. "I don't believe in coincidences myself. Every word you say seems to connect you more and more with the crime. This Gowrie may have been your accomplice."
"If so, he has left me in the lurch," said Herries, sitting down wearily, and with all the fire gone out of him. "There seems to be a kind of fatality haunting my steps. Jonah's luck, I expect."
Trent tried to keep up his official dignity, as he went to open the door to call Mrs. Narby. But on passing Herries, the young man looked so dejected, that he clapped him on the shoulder.
"Cheer up," he said in rather a shamefaced manner, "the evidence is very black against you, I admit; but you may be able to clear yourself yet."
"Find out the man who passed through the tap-room this morning at eight, and my character will be cleared," said Herries.
Rather ashamed of his momentary yielding. Trent opened the door.
"I will thank you not to teach me my duty, sir," he said in a dignified manner, and Herries shrugged his shoulders. It was terrible to think that his liberty and life, should be in the power of so obvious an idiot.
In the presence of Herries, the Inspector examined Mrs. Narby, who from being voluble, now became tongue-tied. Mrs. Narby's youth had brought her into frequent contact with the Whitechapel police, and she knew the value of silence. Everything had to be clawed out of her by persistent questioning, and all her answers went to prove that Herries was assuredly the guilty person. As her vernacular was vile and harsh, it will be as well to give the gist of her evidence in decent English.
Sir Simon Tedder, she said, had arrived about half-past six on the previous night, just before Herries came. He said that he wanted a parlour and a bedroom, as he was expecting a gentleman to call about eight o'clock. But the expected visitor never arrived and Sir Simon--he had not given any name, nor had Mrs. Narby asked him for one--seemed much annoyed. At ten o'clock he had retired to bed, after paying the score, and announced that he would depart, without breakfast, at eight in the morning. Mrs. Narby confessed that she saw him--as she believed--pass through the tap-room in his fur coat about that hour. He said nothing to her, and she said nothing to him, being well-pleased with the liberal sum he had paid her. She thought that having come to the inn secretly, he wished to preserve his incognito, so let him pass out without a word. But at ten o'clock--that is two hours later--the real Sir Simon had been found dead in his bed. Without doubt, the man who escaped through the tap-room could not have been the millionaire.