He recalled to his mind cases where men who had fallen in love had committed every kind of indiscretion and jeopardised their safety. He had on his journeyings visited the Castle of Blois, and seen the spot where the Duc de Guise had stood eating prunes, while waiting for the summons of the King which had been a call to death, and all because in spite of warnings, he had remained on, in attendance on his mistress.
Giles, when he was examined was less sure than the constable.
“I couldn’t be sartin’,” he kept on repeating, “I were that flustered, and I be ’ard of ’earing. No I dun’no as ’ow I cud swear to any voice for sartin’.”
Fletcher was cute enough to see that such evidence was worthless, and that the stubborn old man would not alter his evidence in the Box.
But a startling new piece of information came to hand by accident, when he returned to the Club, and fell into conversation with the steward.
Their talk turned on Sefton, and the mystery which was no longer a mystery.
“Yes, sir,” said the steward, “I knew he was a doctor. He brought a gentleman in here sometime ago, who was bleeding like a stuck pig. I held the basin for him, and the way he bound him up showed me he had some experience.”
“When was this?” said Fletcher without suspecting anything important. The other laughed; “I can easily tell you that,” said he “it was the night the murder took place at the castle.”
“What?” said Fletcher “and who was the man?”
“That I can’t tell you for certain. He was on a seat outside the Club, and the night was dark. Mr. Sefton thought he had fallen down and cut himself. I thought it was just a case of drunkenness. I believe it was Mr. Halley who’s staying in the village.”