After what seemed an interminable length of time, a little gentleman, in a black frock-coat, thrust his way with some impatience through the general public, and made his way to one end of the table set apart in the cleared space. A murmur ran round that this was the Coroner, from the neighbouring county-town; murmurs, also, that he did not quite look the part, inasmuch as that he wore an air of cheerfulness, which seemed almost to suggest that he was about to preside at a wedding, rather than at anything so formidable as an inquest.
A little glancing at his watch by this gentleman; an expostulatory whisper or two on his part to the constables in attendance, and the door of the inner room opened again, and Inspector Tokely came bustling out. One constable—a stranger to Bamberton, and of more importance on that account, produced a list, from which, with a strong provincial accent, he proceeded to call out certain names. Then, more shuffling of feet, and some friendly pushing of bashful jurymen forward, and the twelve ranged themselves sheepishly, with much coughing, round the table, and were duly sworn.
“Be seated, gentlemen, I beg,” said the Coroner, busy with his papers. “Stop one moment, though”—glancing up quickly—“have you viewed the body?”
Several of the jurymen present expressed a decided disinclination to do anything of the kind; and it became apparent that that important ceremony had not been performed.
“Really, Moody,” exclaimed the Coroner—“this is most remiss on your part. This should have been done first of all. We are wasting time—valuable time.”
The repentant Mr. Moody—the strange constable—made some attempt at an apology, and concluded by hurrying the jurymen through another door, where they were heard to go heavily up wooden stairs, and to tramp about a little overhead. In the meantime, the Coroner had a word or two with Inspector Tokely, and glanced once or twice, with a nod, towards the door where the prisoner was supposed to be.
The jurymen coming down again—some of them rather white-faced and wide-eyed—the Coroner abruptly motioned them to their seats, and turned to Tokely as he took his own.
“Inspector, I think we may have Mr. Chater in here now.”
The general public seemed to stir and sway, as though bent by a sudden wind; bending towards each other, and whispering hoarsely, yet keeping their eyes with one accord turned towards that door. Inspector Tokely hurried out, and came back in another moment, glancing over his shoulder through the doorway; immediately following him came Philip Chater, with two constables in close attendance. He looked round for a moment at the murmuring crowd; seemed to seek one face in it, and to smile as he recognised it. At the same moment, a woman in the crowd burst into violent weeping.
The Coroner rapped the table impatiently with his knuckles. “Any demonstration on the part of any member of the public will necessitate my clearing the room at once,” he said, looking sternly about him.