Having thus delivered himself of what he believed to be an admirable prelude to the proceedings, Sir Christopher glanced complacently towards Dr. Lascelles, as much as to say, "That was rather good, I flatter myself;" and the physician responded with a sign of approval. The knight then fixed his eyes in a searching manner upon the two prisoners, who, however, appeared to be much less in awe of the magisterial dignity than of the presence of the mysterious stranger, at whom they from time to time cast furtive looks of terror and supplication.
"Sir Christopher Blunt," said that individual, who throughout the proceedings spoke in a feigned tone, and sate in such a manner that the light never once fell fully upon his countenance, "it is now necessary to remind you that a gentleman with whom you are well acquainted, and whose name is Torrens, is now in a criminal gaol, charged with the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay."
"I heard the news with grief, and indeed with incredulity as to the truth of the accusation," observed the knight.
"Ask those men, sir," said the stranger, in a low and impressive voice, "what they know of that foul assassination."
"God bless me!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, much agitated: "surely these men now before me are not the—the——"
"The real murderers of Sir Henry Courtenay!" added the stranger solemnly.
"Is this possible?" cried the Justice of the Peace, surveying the prisoners with apprehension and horror.
"That's the confession we have to make, your worship," said Tim the Snammer, in a dogged tone.
"Dreadful! dreadful!" murmured the knight: then, somewhat mastering his emotions, he asked, "What is your name?"
"Timothy Splint, your worship," was the reply.