"And you recollect, sir, what happened a short time ago with regard to the crime of which Reginald Davis was accused?"
"Perfectly. The real criminal has confessed. And this poor devil, overwhelmed no doubt by the circumstantial evidence which told so strongly against him, acted too hastily."
"If the police had caught him, he would probably have been hanged by now," said Davis a little bitterly.
Mr. Bryant looked a little uneasy. "I should say it is more than probable from what I remember of the case; well, you know, the law makes mistakes at times, I will admit."
"And juries at inquests make mistakes at times, also," remarked Davis quietly. "This particular jury made a mistake. The dead man was no more Reginald Davis than you are."
It was not easy to startle Mr. Bryant, he had been through too many strange experiences for that, but he exhibited a mild surprise as he put the question: "And what authority have you for saying that?"
"I think you will admit the best. I who stand before you am the Reginald Davis who was wanted on that false charge of murder, and branded by that intelligent jury as a suicide."
"You can prove this, of course. I mean that you are the real Reginald Davis."
"Of course I can, sir; I can bring a dozen witnesses, if necessary, half of whom have known me since a boy."
Needless to say that a man of Bryant's experience did not, as a rule, believe one quarter of what he was told. But this man's face—this man's tones—convinced him that he was listening to the truth.