‘No. But if you considered this discovery of yours of any importance, it was your duty to make it known immediately. You make your way into the house of the accused without anybody’s authorization; you go prying and peering into rooms that have already been examined by the police; and you come forward a year afterwards with this extraordinary discovery of a tarnished dagger. What evidence have we that this dagger ever belonged to the accused?’
‘There need be no difficulty about that,’ said John Treverton, ‘the dagger is mine.’
Mr. Leopold rewarded his client’s candour with a ferocious scowl. Was there ever such a man—a man who was legally dumb, whose lips the law had sealed, and who had the folly to blurt out such an admission as this?
The magistrate asked whether the dagger could be found. The police had taken possession of all Jack Chicot’s chattels. The dagger was no doubt among them.
‘Let it be found and given to the divisional surgeon to be examined,’ said the magistrate.
The inquiry was adjourned at the request of Mr. Leopold, who wanted time to meet the evidence against his client. The magistrate, who felt that the case was hardly strong enough for committal, granted this respite. An hour later John Treverton was closeted with Mr. Leopold and Mr. Sampson in his room at Clerkenwell.
‘The medical evidence shows that the murder must have been committed at one o’clock,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘You only discovered it at five minutes before three. What were you doing with yourself during those hours? At the worst we ought to be able to prove an alibi.’
‘I’m afraid that would be difficult,’ answered Treverton thoughtfully. ‘I was very unhappy at that period of my life, and had acquired a habit of roaming about the streets of London between midnight and morning. I had suffered from a painful attack of sleeplessness, and this night-roving was the only thing that gave me relief. I was at a literary club near the Strand on the night of the murder. I left a few minutes after twelve. It was a fine, mild night—wonderfully mild for the time of year,—and I walked to Hampstead Heath and back.’
‘Humph!’ muttered Mr. Leopold, ‘you couldn’t have managed things better, if you wanted to put the rope round your neck. You left your club a few minutes after twelve, you say—in comfortable time for the murder. You were seen to leave, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I left with another member, a water-colour painter, who lives at Haverstock Hill.’