"Not the slightest. It never occurred to me to ask any questions."
"The wise man does not ask questions," Counsel said dryly. "Possibly your curiosity would not have been gratified, in any case. But I suppose that you had an idea, eh? You feel pretty sure now that the plant was stolen from Streatham?"
"That is mere conjecture on your part," Frobisher replied.
"Oh, no, it isn't. I shall be in a position to prove the fact when the time comes. You can step down for the moment, Sir Clement, though I shall have to trouble you again. Call Paul Lopez."
Townsend put down his paper and stood up.
"It will be quite useless, sir," he said. "Lopez has disappeared. My information tells me that he has gone in the first instance as far as Paris. Perhaps later on we may be able to produce him, but that will require more than the usual subpoena."
The Coroner woke up again, and his eyes came down from the ceiling. Yet he had missed nothing of what was going on, as his next question showed.
"That is rather unfortunate, Inspector," he said. "What do you propose to do now?"
"Ask for an adjournment till Thursday, sir," Townsend said. "Then I hope to call Sir James Brownsmith, who I am sure will have a great deal to say. If that course is quite convenient to you——"
The Coroner snapped out a few words, and the crowd in the gallery began to fade away. In a kind of walking dream Sir Clement Frobisher found himself outside. He felt as if many years had been added to his life; he was shaking from head to foot. The gold sign of a decent hotel caught his eye. The white legend, "Wines and spirits," allured him. Somebody was speaking to him, but he did not heed.