Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poor Adelaide Melhuish’s mother and sister may figure further in this chronicle. The inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and was closed down again for a week with a celerity that was most disappointing both to the jury and the general public. Of three legal luminaries present only one, the Treasury man, uttered a few bald words. Belcher and Norris did not even announce the names of their clients. Norris noticed that Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim smile, but thought nothing of it until he received a check later in the week. Then he made some inquiries, and smiled himself.
The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks bore two spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by curiosity, happened to glance at him once, and found him gazing at Furneaux in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.
Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in the representative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely. Doris Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called about half past nine to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day.
Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had not the remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have been left hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their comments.
“As usual, the police are utterly at sea,” said one.
“Yes, ‘following up important clews,’ the newspapers say,” scoffed another.
“It’s a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and unpunished.”
“Which is the Scotland Yard man!”
“The small chap, in the blue suit.”
“What? That little rat!”