"John Milford, the dead man's servant. He has a statement to make which will clear up this dreadful business—clear it up beyond question, I think. Doctor Robbins and myself are here to confirm his evidence."
There was a short pause. I saw the police counsel and Inspector Curtis exchanging some hasty remarks, while the magistrate bent down and engaged for a moment in consultation with his clerk. Gordon leaned across to me.
"Neither Logan nor Miss Solano are in court," he whispered quickly. "Do you know why?"
I shook my head. Even the extreme tension of the moment did not prevent a horrible feeling of anxiety from clutching at my heart.
Then the magistrate's voice broke in, sharp and decisive.
"I will hear what these witnesses have to say before granting the remand."
The counsel for the police rose as if to protest, but the magistrate waved him back and called on Milford to take his place in the witness-box.
Between my excitement at the unexpected interruption and my dread that something had happened to Mercia and Billy, it was a moment or so before I was able to wrench my mind back to its normal clearness. Then I realised that Milford was standing in the box, and that a great stillness had descended on the court.
The magistrate adjusted his glasses. "It will be best," he said quietly, "if you give us your evidence in your own way. Don't allow yourself to become hurried or confused. I shall ask you questions myself, but otherwise no one will interrupt you until you have finished."
With a slight bow, Milford stepped to the front of the box, and placed his hands on the ledge before him. Then, looking straight at the Bench, he began to speak in the quiet, respectful, unemotional voice of a well-trained butler. There was something delightfully incongruous between his own perfect self-possession and the feverish eagerness with which everyone else in court was hanging on his words.