“I understand that clearly.”
After a little more conversation, Tom went, carrying with him in his waistcoat pocket a tiny phial, filled with some dark-coloured fluid which the chemist had mixed expressly for him.
On the point of leaving, Tom produced three or four rustling pieces of paper. “Here are thirty pounds on account, Mr. Sprague,” said he. “I think we understand one another, eh?”
The chemist’s fingers closed like a vice on the notes. His heart gave a great sigh of relief. “I am your humble servant to command, Mr. Bristow,” he returned. “You have saved my credit and my good name, and you may depend upon me in every way.”
As Tom was walking soberly towards his lodging, he passed the open door of the Royal Hotel. Under the portico stood a man smoking a cigar. Their eyes met for an instant in the lamplight, but they were strangers to each other, and Tom passed on his way. Next moment he started, and turned to look again. He had heard a voice say: “Mr. St. George, your dinner is served.”
He had come at last, then, this cousin, who had not been seen in Duxley since the day of the inquest—on whose evidence to-morrow so much would depend.
“Is that the man, I wonder,” said Tom to himself, “in whose breast lies hidden the black secret of the murder? If not in his—then in whose?”
CHAPTER II.
THE TRIAL
“How say you, prisoner at the bar: Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“Not Guilty.”