One of the jurymen—no other than old Toby Siggs—rose ponderously in his place. “Askin’ yer pardon, Mister,” he said, slowly—“I rather think as ’ow that was my ole gel.” Then, before the astonished Coroner could interpolate a remark, Toby turned abruptly, and addressed his spouse. “’Earty is it, ole gel,” he said, in a voice like muffled thunder, for her special hearing—“we’ll git ’im off, afore you’d ’ave time to draw ’arf a pint. Bear in mind, ole gel, as ’ow I’ve got a vote.”
“My good sir,” interposed the Coroner, hurriedly,—“let me impress upon you that this business must be tried judicially and fairly—with no bias. Understand that clearly.”
Toby nodded his head with much gravity. “Sich are my intentions, Mister,” he said. “So fire away as ’ard as you like. An’ Gawd ’elp the winner!” With which pious exclamation, Toby Siggs sat down perfectly satisfied with himself.
And now the Coroner—in a quick, bustling fashion, as though he were in a hurry, and should be glad to get so unimportant a matter off his hands—began to inform the jury of what their clear duty was, and how rapidly they might set about it. The body of this young girl, gentlemen, had been found in the adjacent wood. She was stabbed very near a vital part, and had undoubtedly, under considerable pain, and for a period perhaps of half-an-hour, slowly bled to death. They would be told—by the medical gentleman then present—who had made a most careful post-mortem examination of the body—that the wound could not have been self-inflicted. Such being the case, gentlemen, it devolved upon them to discover in what fashion her death had been caused; and here he would remind them that they must be guided entirely by circumstantial evidence. A man—a gentleman of good position—appeared before them that day, in a most unenviable situation. It was not for him, gentlemen, to tell them of their duty, or to lead them to imagine that any guilt attached to the man they saw before them; all that they must judge for themselves. But they would be confronted with witnesses—most unwilling witnesses—who would tell them of the intimacy which had undoubtedly existed between this man and the murdered girl; they would be told, gentlemen, by a witness from the railway station, of the appearance of this man, in a great state of excitement and hurry, at the station, in time—barely in time, gentlemen, to catch the last train to London. This, too, on the very night of the murder, and within a very short time of the hour at which, according to the medical testimony they would hear, this unfortunate young woman must have been struck down.
Here the Coroner stopped to clear his throat, and to glance at Philip Chater—as though to assure that unfortunate man that he was quite prepared to put a rope round his neck within the next few minutes, and had already got it half spun.
The gentlemen of the jury, who surely knew their duties, would be told how this man, deserting his home, had fled to London; how he had come back, in the dead of night, and had been seen about the village; how a most intelligent officer—a gentleman from Scotland Yard, gentlemen—had endeavoured to capture him; how he had again fled to London. They would be told, by a former associate of this man—now very repentant of his connection with him—of a sort of semi-confession made by this man to him. More than all, they would hear that a spade had been discovered near the body, which had evidently been used in a hurried attempt to dig a grave for the murdered girl (the crowd swayed again, like an angry sea and one woman shrieked out something unintelligible against the man who stood so calmly through it all)—and that spade would be traced as having come from the residence of the man now before them. While admitting, gentlemen, that all this evidence was purely circumstantial, the Coroner must beg them not to cast it lightly aside on that account, but to hear the witnesses with patience. And so sat down, having spun his rope to a tolerable length and strength.
Marshalled by Tokely, the first witnesses were already shuffling to their places, when an interruption came from among the crowd; and a young man thrust himself forward, and made straight for the Coroner. He was a bright-faced fellow, with a cool and gentlemanly bearing, and he gave a quick nod to Philip as he pressed forward.
“One moment, Mr. Coroner,” he said. “Mr. Chater here is an old friend of mine—knew him at Oxford. I’m a barrister; and I claim the right to represent Mr. Chater at these proceedings. I should like to point out to you, Mr. Coroner”—still with the same engaging frankness, and the same cheery smile—“that my friend is placed in a very awkward position, and has against him, in charge of the case, a very able representative of the law”—a bow here for the gratified Inspector—“from Scotland Yard. I merely propose to watch the case on behalf of my friend, and to put such questions as I may deem necessary, and as you, Mr. Coroner, may see fit, in the exercise of a wise discretion, to allow.” Here the young gentleman bowed all round again, with another cheery smile, and sat down near the Coroner, after having made a decidedly good impression.
Philip Chater broke the silence which seemed to hang so heavily about him, and addressed the Coroner. “I am greatly obliged,” he said, “for my friend’s kindly offer; but I would rather decline it. Whatever case there is against me must go on its merits; I desire nothing more.”
Before the Coroner, or any one else, could speak, the young gentleman came darting out of his chair, and had Philip by the button-hole—drawing him aside a little, and impressing his points upon him in an eager whisper.