That he could actually blackmail the Prime Minister to the extent of securing his immunity from arrest only increased his alarm, because he was able thereby to appreciate more than ever the reality of the unknown peril in which Lord Penshurst stood.
It was with much apprehension that he sent for the morning papers and read what they might have to say concerning the tragedy.
Fortunately the newspapers—whether by Rookley's instrumentality or not Westerham didn't know—were discreet almost to the verge of being indefinite.
They confined themselves to setting forth those details of the murder which could not be hidden; they advanced no theories whatsoever, contenting themselves by stating that the police had a clue and that important developments might be expected.
They did not mention the fact that the murder had been committed in the room occupied by a Mr. James Robinson, but Westerham was glad to note that they did not speculate as to who he might be, nor did they attempt to give any account of his present or past circumstances.
He was prepared to face, and if necessary to defeat, a battery of questions when he went to the inquest.
The strange little coroner's court was packed to suffocation, and Westerham was conscious that every eye was turned upon him. But he drew some comfort from the reflection that this was inevitable, seeing that he was the only witness in the case beyond the hall-porter and the detective.
To his surprise he found that the coroner led him quietly through a few formal questions as to the hour at which he arrived at the hotel and what he had seen there. The coroner, indeed, made no attempt to discover Westerham's actual identity, nor even suggested that he should advance any theory of the strange affair.
At the close of Westerham's evidence, however, one of the jurymen became for a few moments a little troublesome.
“I think it should be asked,” said this gentleman, “whether Mr. Robinson's suspicions turn in any particular direction.