“How does he know?” demanded Mrs. Braxfield sharply. “Was he about here at that time—four o’clock?”
“He was about here an hour and a half later, and if it was misty at five-thirty it would be still more so at four-fifteen,” retorted Blick. “Now, if it was—as it was!—misty you might easily mistake one person for another, Mrs. Braxfield. And, at that time you referred to in your evidence, there was a man, closely resembling Mr. Harborough in height, build, and general appearance—I don’t refer to facial resemblance—who was somewhere in this immediate neighbourhood.”
“What man?” asked Mrs. Braxfield suspiciously.
“Baron von Eckhardstein,” said Blick. “That’s a fact!”
Mrs. Braxfield turned to Mr. Fransemmery, who had been standing during the exchange of words, and pointed him to an easy chair, opposite that in which Blick sat. She took another, between the two men.
“Oh!” she said. “So he was up here, was he? That foreign man, staying at Mrs. Tretheroe’s? Oh! Indeed! Well, I never saw him!—the man I saw was Mr. Harborough. To be sure, now to think of it, that foreigner is about Mr. Harborough’s height and figure.”
“Now that you think of it again, don’t you think that you may have been mistaken?” suggested Blick. “Don’t you think that the man you saw may have been von Eckhardstein, and not Harborough? Come, now!”
“No!” said Mrs. Braxfield. “You won’t come it over me, young man! I’ve been in a law-court before today, and you’re suggesting answers to your witness. The man I saw, and that I spoke about in that witness-box was John Harborough! Do you think that I shouldn’t know a man who’s been well known to me ever since he was that high? Ridiculous!”
“You hadn’t seen Harborough for seven years,” said Blick.
“What’s seven years out of thirty-five?” retorted Mrs. Braxfield, with scorn. “I remember John Harborough being born, there at Greycloister. I tell you it was him that I saw on Tuesday morning—of course it was! It is ridiculous, isn’t it, Mr. Fransemmery?”