Hetty admitted the fact with a sigh. She had no illusions as to the future. Unless something like a miracle happened Gordon was certain to stand in the dock charged with the murder of a man unknown. Examined in the cold light of day, Gordon Bruce's story was an extraordinary one. Hetty was forced to admit that from the lips of a stranger she would not have believed a word of it.
And Gilbert Lawrence now refused to say anything. He was the one person who seemed to be thoroughly satisfied. There was some comfort to be derived from this, but not much, as Hetty told herself miserably.
The inquest was sensational from the very start. After the dead man's landlady of the house by the docks and her landlord's agent proved the handwriting of the deceased, Sergeant Prout told the story of the missing banknotes. A good few of the packed audience knew Bruce by sight, and as the evidence proceeded he found the scrutiny of so many eyes quite trying.
Even the most guilty when brought to book are not without some feeling of shame, however defiant they may appear, but it is a horrible thing when the innocent has to stand and answer to a criminal charge. A wave of indignation passed over Bruce, to be followed by utter helplessness.
"Courage, dear old boy," Hetty whispered. "It will all come right in the end. Good will come out of this evil."
Bruce shut his teeth tightly and nodded. Still, in Prout's evidence he seemed to hear the voice of his judge passing sentence.
Prout concluded his evidence at length, every word of which told dead against the one man seated there. Not half a dozen people in the room would have acquitted him on the criminal charge.
"Do you propose to go any further today?" the coroner asked.
Prout was understood to say no, when Bruce rose. His face was deadly pale, a tiny red spot burning on either cheek. But he had his voice under proper control; there was no look of guilt about him.
"If you have no objection, sir, I should like to give evidence," he said.