“And do you identify either of the prisoners?” inquired the magistrate.
“I identify the elder one. I came face to face with him coming down the principal staircase with a bag in his hand. I was about to give the alarm; but he drew a revolver, and threatened to blow out my brains if I uttered a word.”
The accused man’s face relaxed into a sickly smile.
“And you were silent?”
“For the moment, yes. Next second he was out into the road, and took to the open country. I am quite certain he is the man; I would know him among ten thousand.”
“And you have heard nothing of this English lady’s maid since?” asked the magistrate.
“No; she disappeared after, as we suppose, taking the impression of the key.”
The next witness was a short, stout, dark-faced man with a shiny bald head, evidently a Jew. He was Joseph Hirsch, jeweller, of the Sternstrasse, Eugendorf, and he described how, on a certain evening, the prisoner Bourne—whom he identified—had entered his shop. He took him to be a wealthy Englishman travelling for pleasure, and showed him some of his best goods, including a ruby pendant worth about fifty thousand marks. The prisoner examined it well, but saying that the light was not good, and that he preferred to return next morning and examine it in the daylight, he put it down and went out. A quarter of an hour later, however, he had discovered, to his utter dismay, that the pendant had been cleverly palmed, and in its place in the case was left a cheap ornament, almost a replica, but of brass and pieces of red glass. He at once took train to Treysa and informed the chief of police, who showed him a photograph of the prisoner—a copy of one circulated by Scotland Yard.
“And do you see in Court the man who stole the pendant?” asked the magistrate.
“Yes; he is there,” the Jew replied in German—“the younger of the two.”