"That I have, sir," said the waiter, with faint animation, "it was the talk of the country. Captain Larcher, wasn't it, sir, and his wife, a sweetly pretty woman? She was accused of the murder, I think; but she didn't do it. No, nor Mr. Jeringham either, though some people think he did, 'cause he cleared out. And small blame to him when they were after him like roaring lions."
"Do you remember Jeringham?"
"I should think so, sir. Why he stopped in this very hotel, he did. As kind and affable a gentleman as I ever met, sir. He kill Captain Larcher? Not he! no more than did the wife, poor thing! Now I have my own opinion," said this wise person significantly, "but I didn't take to it for five years after the murder. As you might say twenty years ago, sir."
"Who do you think committed the crime, then?" asked Tait, rather impressed by the man's manner.
The waiter looked around, with the enjoyable air of a man about to impart a piece of startling information, and bent across the table to communicate it to Tait. "Denis Bantry was the man, sir," he said solemnly; "Captain Larcher's valet."
"Nonsense! What makes you think that?"
"I don't think it, sir. I know it. If you don't believe me, go to The Laurels and ask the old gardener, Dick Pental. He saw it," finished the waiter, in a tragic whisper.
"Saw what? The murder?" said Tait, with a startled look.
"Yes, sir. He saw the murder. I heard it all from him, I did; I forget the exact story he told me. But Denis Bantry should have been hanged, sir. Oh, there isn't the least doubt about it, sir."
"But if this Dick Pental saw the crime committed, why didn't he come forward and tell about it?"