Miss Watson stayed in London until the inquest was over. This was hurried forward out of deference to the position of the deceased. She had to give evidence of identification.
There was nothing fresh in spite of the efforts of those engaged on the case. Tremendous excitement was aroused, not only because of the fact that the murdered man was a Cabinet Minister, but on account of the bizarre events which had surrounded the mystery.
All efforts to trace the ownership of the revolver had failed. Lewis’s landlady could only state that she thought it was his, as it looked like it. But a Webley is so common a type that this did not count for much. The number was an old one, and the weapon had probably passed through many hands.
The police did not press their case against any particular individual, and the jury returned the usual verdict against some person or persons unknown.
Collins had been most assiduous in his attempts to make Miss Watson’s part as small a one as possible, and had endeavoured to keep her spirits up, without intruding himself. Sanders, in spite of all his efforts, was still sulky, and plunged into the work of going over Sir James’ papers, which fell to his lot.
The ordeal was over, and all those women of Society who had crammed themselves into the court were trying to sort themselves out again. Opinion was about equally divided between Lewis and a lunatic as the villain of the piece.
Collins sought the back room where the witnesses had gone.
His face was stern. He walked directly to Mrs. Simmons, who was sniffing in a corner.
“I would like to have a word with you, if I may,” he said.
“Certainly, sir,” she replied.