The coroner glanced at the jury. "Any questions, gentlemen," he asked.
The cobbler directed an intimidating scowl at the witness and demanded:
"Were you searching for bones when you came on these remains?"
"Me!" exclaimed the witness. "What should I be searching for bones for?"
"Don't prevaricate," said the cobbler sternly; "answer the question:
Yes or no."
"No, of course I wasn't."
The juryman shook his enormous head dubiously as though implying that he would let it pass this time but it mustn't happen again; and the examination of the witnesses continued, without eliciting anything that was new to me or giving rise to any incident, until the sergeant had described the finding of the right arm in the Cuckoo Pits.
"Was this an accidental discovery?" the coroner asked.
"No. We had instructions from Scotland Yard to search any likely ponds in this neighborhood."
The coroner discreetly forbore to press this matter any further, but my friend the cobbler was evidently on the qui vive, and I anticipated a brisk cross-examination for Mr. Badger when his turn came. The inspector was apparently of the same opinion, for I saw him cast a glance of the deepest malevolence at the too inquiring disciple of St. Crispin. In fact, his turn came next, and the cobbler's hair stood up with unholy joy.