“It is.”
“Has it been shown to any one since you found it?”
“It has not been seen by any one but myself and the Chief Constable.”
The barrister raised his hand and pointed to the ledge of the witness-box.
“Take that letter from the case,” he said peremptorily. “Hand it to the Coroner.”
There was a tense silence in the room as the Coroner, handed the letter, slowly drew forth a sheet of folded note-paper from its envelope, and adjusting his spectacles, read the contents. All eyes were now bent upon him—and they were all quick to see the start which the old gentleman gave as he read, and the shade of annoyed surprise that came over his face. Being human, he was unable to repress a little, smothered exclamation. It was drowned by the sharp accents of the barrister.
“I must ask you, sir, to read that letter to the jury,” he said.
The Coroner looked round on Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions. Clearly, he had no relish for the task which his duties imposed. But he braced himself—with another look which took in the whole scene before him.
“This letter, gentlemen,” he said, turning again to the jury, “is written on a sheet of note-paper, on which is engraved the address Greycloister, Selcaster, and it is dated December 8th, 1905. It runs as follows:
‘GUY MARKENMORE,