"But surely," said Trent, who was taking copious notes, "you must have guessed that the man who went away was not Sir Simon."
Mrs. Narby placed her stout arms akimbo and raged.
"I never know'd es 'is naime wos Sir Simon, or anythink else," said she shrilly. "An' th' gent es parsed through th' tap-room wos tall an' stout, same es this Sir Simon y' torks of. He wore the same fur coat es Sir Simon wore wen he come inter this very parlour overnight, so 'ow wos I t' know es the gent es slung 'is 'ook at eight this mornin' wasn't th' same es come et harlf-past six in th' evenin'."
"Are you sure it was the same fur coat?"
"Yuss," said Mrs. Narby, stoutly, "there ain't no fur coat lef' in' th' bedroom of th' gent es lies a deader. I looked fur it," added the landlady defiantly, "es I sawr th' value, an' wanted summat fur my bein' ruined by 'im," and she pointed towards Herries.
"I never killed him," muttered Herries, wearily. It seemed scarcely worth while to contradict those who seemed certain that he was guilty.
"Ho, but y' did," cried Mrs. Narby, shriller than ever. "Y' wos a pore tramp with no money, and thet gent--Sir Simon es y' calls 'im--hed 'eaps an' 'eaps."
Trent looked up quickly.
"How do you know that?"
"I took in 'is tea," said Mrs. Narby, nodding vigorously, "an' Pope, me son, took in th' toast which the gent ate. He wos settin' at thet there table, with a 'eap of notes an' gold beside 'im, and a big morrocker pocket-book, int' which he shovelled the money wen he saw Pope an' me come in. Look fur the blue pocket-book, Mr. Policeman, an' if it's gorn, it's that there cove," she again pointed to Herries, who again shook his head, "as 'ave it."