‘Oh, yes, sir, I have recognised her only too well. My poor pretty darling. She was called the “Beauty of Hampstead,” sir, the “Beauty of Hampstead.”’
‘Thank you, Mr Crampton, that will do. I am sorry to have troubled you so far, but it was necessary. You can retire, sir. Call Mr Henry Hindes.’
The witness entered the room, with a pallid face, compressed lips, as if resolved that nothing should make him betray himself, and a stolid demeanour which was wholly put on. The stakes were too high. He could not afford to think or fear. All he had to do was to believe things were not so, and to act accordingly.
‘You look ill, Mr Hindes. Do you wish for a chair?’
‘Certainly not! But I am an old friend of the family. I have known the deceased from a child.’
‘Ah! We will detain you as short a time as possible. You were in Dover, Mr Hindes, on Saturday last, I believe. Will you tell the jury why you came here?’
‘I came at the instigation, and with the knowledge, of my old friends Mr and Mrs Crampton, to bring a message to their daughter, and to see if I could effect a reconciliation between them.’
‘Between them and the young couple?’
‘No, not with Mr Walcheren—they steadfastly refused to see or speak with Mr Walcheren—but with his wife, their daughter.’
‘How could a reconciliation be effected with one and not with the other?’