"Your name?" demanded the Inspector, curtly official.
"Dr. Browne. I have come from Tarhaven, and wish to see my friend, Mr. Herries, who is, I understand, accused of murder."
"Who told you so?"
Browne took a telegram from his breast-pocket, and passed it in silence to the officer. It was unsigned and contained but a few words, which were as follows: "Angus Herries accused of murder, Marsh Inn, Desleigh. Come immediately." When Trent read this, he laid it on the table, and scrutinised the doctor, carefully.
Browne was short and stout, and imperative. His hair was red, so was his moustache, and short beard, and he had choleric blue eyes. Apparently he had a temper, but, recognising the majesty of the law, and knowing that it would be needful, for Herries' sake, to stand well with its representative, he kept himself in hand. Experience had taught him the necessity of being cool at critical moments, and the present was critical, if not for himself at least for his friend.
"What do you know of this?" asked Trent, when he had taken in the exterior of his visitor.
"As much as you see in that telegram," retorted Browne, pointing to the table. "I was a fellow-student of Mr. Herries in Edinburgh, and have not seen him for quite two years. I know him well enough to say that he is not guilty of murder."
"The evidence is strongly against him."
"Circumstantial evidence has hanged an innocent man before now."
"It will not hang Mr. Herries if he can prove his innocence. By-the-way, did you see Dr. Harkness in the train?"