The Story Behind the Verdict/Chapter 8

announced his intention of taking his mother to the Riviera.

He had brought an unconscious and dying young man to her house, and without question or comment, knowing only that he wished the identity of this strange guest to be concealed, she had invented the fiction that he was her cousin and sustained the story before court and coroner. But she had suffered from the shock of "Armand le Mesurier's" death in her house and it was up to so good a son as Keightley to see that her health and nerves were re-established. He made his own preparations for the journey hurriedly, and desired her to make none at all.

"We'll stay a few days in Paris. I have wired to the Ritz to reserve us one of their garden suites. You can buy all the clothes you want in Paris, and you'll have me to advise you."

"The time has gone by when it's easier or pleasanter to shop in Paris than in London," she remonstrated mildly.

"Oh! don't make objections, that is so like other women. We'll cross on Saturday."

Her nerves, notwithstanding what he said, had not suffered anything like as much as his. She was really happy in having been of use to him.

"Very well, dear. Saturday it shall be."

Keightley proposed, but Roger Macphail disposed. The tickets were taken and the boxes packed. On Friday evening Keightley had a note from Roger:

The signature was the well-known hieroglyphic.

Fortunately Keightley was alone when he got this letter, for he turned pale, and swore as if he had been an ordinary man. He said "curse" and "damn"; he "wished to God people would mind their own business"; he said that he "wasn't going to be blackmailed or bullied by Roger Macphail": he swore he should start to-morrow; and that the Battersea Flat murder was nothing to him.

After he had relieved his feelings in this way he sat down to read the enclosures, which were all extracts from various daily papers. Since the day of "Armand le Mesurier's" death Keightley had avoided the newspapers.

The next extract was dated the following day. There were three of them altogether:

The third extract was a report of the opening of the inquest:

When Keightley Wilbur had finished reading these extracts he had another short spell of anger against Roger Macphail for having sent them to him. Then he sat down at his desk and dashed off a note:

Having sent off the letter and decided to think no more about the extracts or the case, it is perhaps needless to say he could get neither the one nor the other out of his mind. He did know who had shot Stanley Dacre, and why this summary vengeance had been taken: that the murderer had already answered for his crime. But what did Roger Macphail know? Roger had painted Louis de Brissac under the title of "The Young Count." Did he identify his sitter with the young man who had arrived at Carlton House Terrace on the night of the murder, met with a fatal accident, and been buried, after an inquest had been duly held, under the name of "Armand le Mesurier"? Did Roger know or guess what part he, Keightley, had taken in that sad night's work? And if so—if so

Keightley could not rid himself of query or uneasiness. Again he heard the shot and saw the boy drop from the wall, he chased him and listened to that laboured breath. Now they were upon the bridge, and he called him by his name: "Louis de Brissac—Count Louis de Brissac!"

Again he saw the anguished, startled eyes, and was too late to avert the consequences of his rash call. Again he led the stumbling steps towards the motor, and felt upon his hands the warm drip, drip of mucilaginous blood.

What had happened in the flat? He had not stayed to ask, nor gone back to ask. And if he was uneasy or sleepless because he had failed in doing this, he yet justified himself. He was an amateur and not a professional detective. The police were already on the spot when he started to run. It was their affair and not his.

Roger Macphail and David Devenish were standing together on the platform of Victoria Station the next morning when Keightley Wilbur arrived with his mother. David was going to spend Christmas at Monte Carlo, according to habit. Roger only wanted to speak to Keightley, to impress his view upon him.

"Let me have a word with you alone," Roger said when greetings had been exchanged. Keightley frowned and answered hastily:

"I can't stop, my dear fellow: my mother is with me."

"Can I be of any use?" David asked, looking from one of them to another.

"Thanks," Keightley answered hurriedly. "Thanks. Where are your things? We might as well get places together."

Keightley's mother knew, and greeted, both his friends. She said she was glad Mr. Devenish was coming with them, for all that she was secretly disappointed at not having her son to herself. And she asked Roger how it was that he remained in England when the climate was so impossible for his work. With infinite difficulty Roger found an opportunity for that word alone with Keightley. He had already assured Mrs. Wilbur that he liked painting in grey weather.

Don't go, Wilbur," he said then, earnestly. "Let Devenish take your mother over. Stay in England at least until after Monday—until after the next hearing of this Battersea Flat Case. The circumstances are all so strange. Guy Dacre is suspected of having shot his brother. Suppose he should not be able to clear himself?"

"You've gone muzzy! What concern have I with the Dacres or their affairs?" Keightley answered angrily.

"You knew Mrs. Mott, visited her."

"What has that to do with you?"

How much or how little did Roger know? Keightley's nerves were on edge, and he was in the mood to quarrel with his best friend. "It's not your business, anyway."

"Stay, if it is only to keep up the tradition of your interest in these coroners' court cases."

"It is only a tradition now. I am sick of them."

"Did Guy Dacre shoot his brother?"

"How the devil should I know?"

"You do know. I'm sorry, Wilbur. But you force my hand."

"Your hand?"

"Armand le Mesurier"—at the mention of the name Wilbur coloured violently—"is supposed to have shot himself by accident in the spare bedroom of your house in Carlton House Terrace."

"Supposed! What do you mean by supposed? There was an inquest; the jury found"

"Come, come, Wilbur. What do you or I care for the irresponsible findings of coroners' juries? A girl who sits for me sometimes, and who is sister to a housemaid in your house, has a curious story to tell. She was not called as a witness, but she says the young man was shot before he entered the house. That she saw you and your Japanese valet supporting him."

Keightley's thin and expressive face became merely obstinate.

"She should have come forward at the time," he said coldly. "It's too late now."

"She will never come forward; that is not the question. It is no question of evidence or outside interference. Wilbur, this is between you and me. And words are unnecessary, too many words. We know who killed Harry Maingaye; we suspect, or perhaps you know, who killed Stanley Dacre. I am with you all the way, or further, in desiring not to share our knowledge with anybody. But if it should come to letting an innocent man suffer …?"

The guard came up, touched his hat.

"It's time to take your seat, sir."

Keightley wavered for a moment, stood uncertain, undecided.

"That would be all very well if it were a man," he said in the old manner, with a careless shrug. "But this fellow is only a stockbroker. See you in April"

The porter held the door open, the guard waved his green flag, the hissing of the engine changed into a shriek, slowly and with dignity the train moved out of the station. From the platform Roger Macphail saw Keightley Wilbur lean out of the window, wave his cap to him. Now he, and then the train, was out of sight.

On Monday, at the adjourned inquest on Stanley Dacre, Roger Macphail, with difficulty and some reluctance, forced his way into the crowded court and stood amongst less well-motived idlers, listening whilst one policeman after another was called to give repetitive and unimportant evidence.

Roger saw that Mr. Guy Dacre was in court, a man with a pale, flabby face and a single eye-glass, obviously exceedingly nervous, turning every few minutes to speak to his counsel. He sat between an elderly clergyman in shabby canonicals and a lady with tired eyes and fashionable clothes, who was understood to be his wife. To-day he was, it appeared, willing to go into the witness-box. The coroner remarked significantly that he was glad he had reconsidered his position. Mr. Colvin rose quickly and said that was a most improper observation, and there was a short interchange of discourtesies.

Mr. Guy Dacre, duly sworn, said he was a stockbroker, and gave an address in Mount Street, Piccadilly. He was thirty-seven years of age, married, with one child. He went on:

"I had no idea my brother was intimate with Mrs. Mott. I did not know her under that name. It is not true that we were old friends. I had known her a little over six weeks. I first made her acquaintance in Battersea Park. She appealed to me for protection. It was towards evening, and she said she was sure she was being followed; she was panting and obviously frightened. On that occasion I saw her home."

The witness admitted he had not wished his wife to know of these visits, and in reply to Mr. Colvin said that was the reason of his confused statement at the police-station. He said he had now made a clean breast of everything to his wife.

Witness then said that on the evening of the crime he went with Mrs. Mott to see some new fittings in her bedroom—the room had been repapered and there was a new bed and curtains. They had been there a short time when they heard the shot. He went over to the window.

The coroner asked quickly:

"Where does the bedroom look on to?"

"The outside staircase. I saw a man who had just jumped over the lower wall."

"You saw this man?"

"Yes."

What was he doing?"

"Lying almost full length on the trellis-work of the wall. He dropped down into the garden and then I did not see him again."

"Could you give us any description of him?"

"He seemed very young, almost a boy, fair-haired, in dark clothes and cap. That was all I saw."

"And Mrs. Mott, did she see this man?"

"I thought he had dropped out of sight before she joined me at the window. But she said she saw him too."

"What did you do then?" "We then went into the sitting-room. A minute later a policeman knocked at the door, Mrs. Mott admitted him. I followed him down the staircase; then I saw Stanley. …" He stopped and showed some emotion.

The coroner:

"Tell us what your sensations and beliefs were then. You did not know it was your brother?"

"I saw a man unconscious and apparently badly wounded, bleeding, deadly white, and naturally I never thought about it being any one I knew. Then everything seemed to happen at once. Mrs. Mott went into hysterics and began screaming. A doctor arrived and a whole posse of policemen. I asked the inspector if he would want me any more. When he said 'Yes,' I went upstairs again. I spoke to Mrs. Mott and tried to soothe her—said it was probably a frustrated attempt at a burglary. I did not know then that the man was dead. It was getting late, so I went down again and told Sergeant Ferris I could not stay. He told me he was afraid I should not be able to go. I began to feel the strain of the whole thing and wanted to get into the fresh air. Then the inspector asked me if I knew any one of the name of Dacre. Afterwards I was taken to the police-station."

Mrs. Mott, who was accompanied by a hospital nurse and attended by a doctor, was next called. She looked very ill and was accommodated with a seat. She gave her evidence in a low voice that was at times nearly inaudible.

"My name is Inez de Brissac. I am a novelist, and occupy No. 1 B Flat, Warriner Gardens. I have lived there for about four months. Stanley Dacre, now lying dead, was an old friend of mine. He did occupy the ground-floor flat, but left about three weeks ago.

"About five o'clock on the day of the murder his brother, Guy Townsend Dacre, called upon me by appointment. He had visited me before. Neither brother knew of the visits of the other. We sat and talked in the sitting-room. After we had had tea I showed him some decorations I had carried out in my bedroom: whilst doing so we heard a shot. He said, 'What on earth is that?' and threw open the window. I went to him and saw a man scrambling over the wall dividing our back from the adjoining one to the right. Then we went again into the sitting-room, and almost immediately Sergeant Ferris knocked at the door and told us a man had been shot

"I last saw Mr. Stanley Dacre about three weeks ago, when we had a few words. It was the day he left the ground-floor flat."

Asked as to the cause of the quarrel, the witness hesitated and then said:

"He accused me of having men at the flat. He said 'It's all over,' meaning our friendship. He struck me: it was not for the first time."

Further queries elicited with difficulty the admission that she had known Mr. Stanley Dacre in the lifetime of Harry Maingaye, whose friend he was. That after Harry Maingaye's death they had been together for some time, but never happily. Mr. Dacre was always jealous and suspicious of her; thought frequently that they were followed or watched, would talk constantly about Harry Maingaye's death, and question and cross-question her as to who it could have been that murdered him. "He made me wretched," she exclaimed, "he treated me dreadfully." Asked whether she had at any time any idea as to who had murdered Harry Maingaye, she answered in the negative, seemed greatly affected, and for a few minutes was unable to go on.

The coroner asked her if she could give any description of the man she saw getting over the garden wall.

"What had he on, for instance?"

"He had on a light overcoat, a felt hat—Monte Carlo shape; dark hair."

"Was he any one you knew or could recognise?"

She began to speak, and, according to one of the reporters, said she thought she did know the man. Before, however, she had finished her sentence she grew very white, and the next moment appeared to faint or collapse, and had to be carried from the box.

The coroner immediately drew the attention of the jury to the discrepancy in the description of the man who was supposed to have got over the garden wall. Nobody had seen this person except Mrs. Mott and Mr. Guy Dacre, the two people who might have the best possible interest in proving his existence. He added significantly that even in these trying circumstances they had been unable to agree as to his appearance, age, or clothes.

At this point Mr. Colvin intervened on behalf of his client. He said an attempt was being made to implicate him in this crime, with which his only connection was the accident of his presence in the flat.

The coroner asked if he was ing on the way in which he was conducting the case. Mr. Colvin answered hotly, and it was understood affirmatively.

Then followed what was afterwards described as "a scene in court." At the end of which there was a further adjournment. There seemed to be a consensus of opinion that Mr. Guy Dacre was in a very ugly position. Nobody believed he had not recognised his brother. The story of the man who had been seen getting over the garden wall—whom he had described as young and fair, in a dark tweed suit and cap, and Mrs. Mott as dark, dressed in a light overcoat and Monte Carlo hat—was equally, if not more, incredible.

The court emptied quickly. Roger Macphail was not nearly as surprised as he pretended when, before he got to the end of the street, he felt a hand upon his arm.

"So you did not go after all?" was what he said.

"Yes, I did," Keightley answered. "I went as far as Paris. Got back last night. Fact is, I met Willie Kirsch, Mrs. Mott's publisher, and he could talk of nothing but this case and the Comtesse de Brissac, who, by the way, he called 'Inez.' He had a book of hers in the press at the moment, which he says he shall withdraw. 'Every man who has called at that flat or visited her at any time will be a marked man. I told you she was a very dangerous woman when you asked me for an introduction. My advice to you now is to get out of the way, to go to Egypt or Taormina. Why not Taormina?’" Keightley imitated Willie Kirsch's stammering insistency. "Well, Macphail, you know as well as I do that a man like me cannot allow himself to be advised by a Willie Kirsch. My mother likes Devenish, and he will look after her at Monte. Where are you going? I'll walk part of the way with you. The adjournment is for a week, isn't it? I was watching your stockbroker friend. If ever I saw a man blue with funk he was the man: he looked as if he expected to be hanged, and knew he deserved it."

The two walked on together out of the sordid surroundings of the coroner's court, to where the sun pierced through the gloom and lit into a strange foggy splendour the river and the buildings on either side.

"He is drink-soddened or life-soddened, naturally nervous," Roger answered thoughtfully. "But there is a good deal I don't understand."

"You are not a psychological novelist," Keightley answered lightly.

"Let me hear your view."

"Well, to begin with, Mr. Guy Townsend Dacre is not one of your 'splendid sinners.' Get the circumstances well into your mind. Then you'll find the root word of what followed is ‘reaction.' Even before that shot was fired the man was probably thinking how quickly he could get away. It was not true that he did not recognise his brother. What was true was that he did not look at him. He saw blood and could not face it, envisaged publicity and became panic-stricken. At the police-station some one warned him that anything he said might be used against him, and that made matters worse. He did not know what to confess or what to deny."

"Every sign of guilt was upon him."

"M'yes. But it was not blood-guilt."

"Then, how do you account for the description of the man they both saw; the descriptions so precise and yet so different."

Keightley stopped short with an exclamation. Then he looked at his companion.

"Do you really mean you don't know?"

"Do you really mean you do?"

"Dacre saw de Brissac. Inez saw—me."

"Good God! You were there? But, of course—now I begin to understand."

"I went there because I wanted to know who shot Harry Maingaye, and I felt the clue would be in Inez de Brissac's hands. Until I saw her son's face in your picture at the Grafton Gallery, although the clue was there, I never grasped it. Then when, all at once, I knew who it was that was watching, following her, I rushed off to Warriner Gardens to warn, advise—I thought I should have been in time to prevent any further tragedy. That was what I hoped. I saw him getting over the wall and bolted in pursuit. I got up to him on the bridge, called him by name"

"And he turned the gun on himself?"

"I did not know then that he had shot Stanley Dacre. I believe I should have done the same thing if I had been in his place." Keightley showed unusual signs of feeling. "The woman was his mother—his mother! His mind must have been unhinged ever since, without any preparation or warning, he heard a word launched against her. He was a cadet in the army then—little more than a boy. He ran away. There must have followed months of hiding, perhaps of privation, under a changed name, not the name of which he had been proud, that he would keep clean. He left that clean, good name to his father, to his step-brothers. For himself he hid, skulked, waited, watched. Roger, what bitter thoughts must have come to him! And perhaps, in his utter loneliness, a sudden softening, a mother-want, forgiveness. For all that it was through her that he was a criminal and hunted, without place or name. I'll tell you what he said in his delirium, when he was dying." Keightley Wilbur walked more quickly that Roger should not see his face as he told him.

"‘She kissed me once. When I was small and lay in my cot, frightened of the dark, she came in, so beautiful and soft, perfumed like flowers, bent over and kissed me!’" Now Keightley stood still.

"Roger, he called out to her when he was dying. ‘Mother,' he said, his eyes lighting as if he saw her. ‘Kiss me again, mother.’ And then—he died."

They walked on without speaking until Keightley again broke the silence.

"He had seen this man strike her and lay in wait for him. I can put myself into his mind, his poor disordered mind. When he shot Harry Maingaye he killed all his own youth, his future and his pride. But when he shot Stanley Dacre it was for her. Because, notwithstanding what she was and had done, she was still his mother. And in the measureless loneliness of his long disordered days he remembered that when he had been small she came to him, once, in the darkness and kissed him in his cot. It was well that he died, Roger. There is no room in the world for a proud youngster whose mother's name is a byword among men."

This pause was longer than the last. At the end of it Roger was startled to hear him say:

"That is why I don't know what to do. You said 'Don't go,' and I came back. Not because I thought Guy Dacre was in any jeopardy, or cared if he were, or if I myself were. Neither of us counts. And if the truth comes out, the whole truth, neither of us would suffer. But she would."

"She?"

"My mother. Don't you begin to see? Louis de Brissac lies in the family mausoleum at Severne Park. To help me and save further scandal, impulsively, perhaps recklessly, my mother identified him as her 'young cousin, Armand le Mesurier!' She assoiled her own fine honour and I connived at it, let her do it. Now, look. Inez recognised me, there is hardly a doubt about it. What is going to happen when she says so?"

"You would have to tell the truth."

"And how credible will it be? I could say I went there to save Louis de Brissac from committing another crime. To the question, how long had I known him, or how well I knew him, my answer is this: that I did not know him at all! Up to that evening I had seen nothing of him but his portrait. Roger, the story won't hold water. I should not care a bit if only myself was concerned. But how am I to account for my mother's share in the matter?"

"She did it for you."

"We should have to find a jury of altruists to believe the truth, and then they wouldn't. The very moment she sees my name in the papers she will rush back …"

"Mrs. Mott's identification will go for nothing if Guy Dacre persists in his."

"The more brilliant a fellow is the greater the danger of his eclipsing his own path."

Keightley, although gloomy, was better when he began to make phrases, and Roger got a little reassured about him. But he did not let him out of his sight all that day. He even took him to the studio.

"You had better make a sketch of me. Rather than drag my mater into this and let her be cross-examined and her word doubted, I shall shoot myself. Then your drawing will be worth money. I count, you know. Nobody could do the work I've done and not count. What a tragedy if I had to go out over a thing like this!"

"Don't talk rot. You won't go out."

"I suppose I had better see a first-class lawyer. Are there any first-class lawyers, or only those with reputations?"

Roger, his palette on his thumb, was walking backwards and forwards, studying his subject, roughing it on the canvas, posing and altering the position. Roger did not know any other way of making Keightley keep even approximately still.

"Colvin is the best man for you to see—Marcus Colvin, Guy Dacre's lawyer; he is often at the Savoy. You might be able to pump him as to Dacre's position: pretend he is a friend or acquaintance of yours. As soon as you know that Dacre is in no danger you can think exclusively of your mother, and incidentally of yourself. Do you know Dacre, by the way?"

"I'm not a Cabinet Minister. It is only Cabinet Ministers who can afford to know stockbrokers."

It was late in the evening of the day before the adjourned inquest that Keightley and Roger, supping together, saw not only that clean-shaven young barrister, Mr. Marcus Colvin, but also his client, Mr. Guy Dacre, at a well-filled round table in the grill room of the Savoy.

"Now is your chance," said Roger. "Can't you join them? Do you recognise any of the ladies?"

Keightley's spirits had fluctuated very much in the interval. But Roger shrewdly suspected that the more he talked of suicide the less he contemplated it. The papers reported that Mrs. Mott was still ill, suffering from valvular disease of the heart. If any further evidence was wanted from her, it would probably have to be taken on commission. There was what Keightley called "a good sporting chance." Guy Dacre's position was really more precarious than his; yet here was Guy Dacre, obviously enjoying his supper.

"Do I know any of the houris? I should rather think I do!" He rattled off their names. "Ellaline Blaney and I are old friends: I'll go and ask her how Devenish is getting on at Monte. She's sure to have heard. The other men are not up to much: baccarat boys, pigeons and hawks. They've been pointed out to me before."

He carried out his intention, and came back to tell Roger they were all going on to play chemin de fer, and had asked him to join them.

"The blotchy young man with the bulging forehead is host. He says he will make himself responsible for me! I told him I was awfully grateful, and he said: 'Not at all; that's all right,' in a most friendly manner. Getting on in the world, ain't I?"

"You will be careful," Roger said.

"What of? Of being fleeced? That doesn't matter. I haven't much on me, though. What have you got? Lend me all you have."

Roger had half a crown, a few coppers, and a French fifty- franc note.

"Never mind: I daresay I shall manage. Anyway, by this time to-morrow I shall know the position. You'd better breakfast with me. Eleven or eleven-thirty?"

"The inquest is at eleven. I'll be with you at ten."

Keightley rejoined the party, and soon made himself at home with them.

There were motors waiting at the door of the restaurant, and presently they all went off. Keightley did not hear what address was given, but quite soon the cars drew up at a door in Coventry Street.

"Don't give your own name," was the hurried instruction of the young man who had offered to be responsible for Keightley Wilbur. "We're all anonymous. You twig? I call myself Jackson."

The party of three women and five men, all in evening dress, got out, and a policeman on his beat looked conveniently the other way. They passed the not very exacting regard of a one-armed Cerberus who opened the door to them.

"Friends of Mr. Jackson! Oh, yes, on the second floor. You will find Captain Biddell there, and a few people."

A big fair man had the croupier's seat at the long green-covered table and there were already a few punters. The big fair man was introduced as Captain Biddell, but which branch of His Majesty's Service he represented was not stated. He made them welcome, and said he was "glad to see any friend of Charlie Jackson." He then drew their attention to a crowded buffet and begged them to help themselves. He said he thought later on they would have a good game. It was now about 1.30

Every phase of life in London was known to Keightley Wilbur, but this was the first time he had been in an illegal gambling hell. He hoped his new experience would be completed by a raid, but was not destined to realise his ambition. There was a redistribution of seats, caused by the entrance of their party, and he found himself, perhaps not without a little manœuvring, between Marcus Colvin and Guy Dacre. When the wooden box containing the cards travelled round to him, he had to confess that he did not know what to do with it, and had never played chemin de fer before. With the camaraderie of the casino, they taught him how to separate a card and then another from the pack, and duplicate the movement. He staked a fiver on their advice, turned it into ten, and the ten into twenty, at the cost of a sovereign to Captain Biddell.

Dacre urged: "Go on: play it up again;" and Colvin suggested, more judiciously, that he should "take it in."

The blotchy young man called out, "Be a sport!" and Keightley released another card.

Then some one said "Banquo!" and Keightley, wondering what Macbeth had to do in this galère, went on dealing. Before he found the connection "Neuf" was announced exultantly, and the money he had gained and the fiver he had staked were all swept away. And he found he had also lost the privilege of the deal.

"What a damned silly game!" he said.

Guy Townsend Dacre, of the flabby face and single eye-glass, explained, in a voice that matched his face, how easily he might have turned his five pounds into forty. Then every one seemed to go on doing the same thing, and the cabalistic talk never varied:

"A card?"

"No."

"Six."

"Sept."

"He stopped on a five!" or "He drew on a five!" Either of which actions seemed to be equally reprehensible.

"Curse it, I'm baccarat again. Did you ever see such luck?"

"I'll go it," or "I'll see it." And there were calculations as to the amount due to the cagnotte.

Keightley, never so bored in his life, was yawning and wondering how much longer he would be able to stand it, when Marcus Colvin pushed back his chair and said:

"I'm off. Are you coming?" he asked his client, over Keightley's head.

"Let's have one more deal. I haven't had a pass the whole evening."

"You are not bound to have one if you stay. It's past three. We have to be in court at eleven. You'd better come."

But Mr. Dacre, whose attentions to the buffet had proved unremitting, decided to try his luck once more.

"Are you going my way?" Keightley asked, seeing his opportunity and taking it quickly. "I've had enough, too."

The two men went out together.

"What an atmosphere!"

"Lentil soup and tobacco. Do you find it amusing? I suppose there are any number of these places still open?"

"I fancy so. No! I don't find it amusing. I can't afford to play high. Punting in fivers doesn't give you much of a chance. I really came to-night because I wanted to keep an eye on a client."

"Dacre?"

"Yes. The case comes on again to-morrow."

"Takes it easy, doesn't he? He seems to me to be in a devil of a mess."

Marcus Colvin rather shut up when he was approached so directly as that, and Keightley had to alter his tactics. They talked of the weather and the difficulty of finding a taxi. Mr. Colvin, it appeared, lived in Hampstead. He extolled the air of that salubrious suburb, but admitted the difficulty of getting to it.

"If you can walk as far as Carlton House Terrace with me, I'll knock up my chauffeur, and he will run you home in no time."

One expands more easily to a young man who lives in Carlton House Terrace and puts a motor at your disposal, than to one you meet casually in a night house. While Kito was getting the car ready, and his host was supplying him with a good Havana, Marcus Colvin found himself talking more freely about the Battersea Flat murder.

"I am interested in coroners' courts," Keightley explained. "I am projecting a series of articles to be called 'The Story Behind the Verdict.’"

"In this case I should think you will get your story before the verdict is given."

"No: you don't say so!"

"It will come out when Mrs. Mott identifies the man she saw get over the garden wall."

"She can identify him?"

"She knew him well enough. That was the man Stanley was jealous of, not Guy, who had been to the flat only three times altogether."

"There is no doubt, then, that there was a man—that Guy Dacre did not shoot his own brother?"

"The whole inquiry so far has been an absolute farce. The coroner doesn't know his business. Stanley Dacre was killed by a revolver shot. The police were on the premises within three minutes. Guy is searched at the police-station, Mrs. Mott is searched, and the premises; no revolver is found. Neither of them could have eaten it. Ipso facto, neither of them shot the man."

"Then Guy Dacre is in no danger?"

"No more than you."

Keightley paled.

"Than I?" he said mechanically. "Shall I fill your glass again?"

"Than you or me. Thanks, yes. Dacre would never even have been suspected if he had not told so many lies. No! Dacre is in no danger." He tossed off his glass. "Fact is, we've as good as got the man."

"Good God!" Marcus Colvin was pleased with the effect he was making.

"The man of whom Stanley was jealous, for whom he was watching, the man who shot him … I say, one can see you're not used to these hours; you've gone the colour of a candle."

"I get a touch of migraine now and again. It isn't the hours. Who did you say the man was? But I suppose that is a secret."

"I hope it won't be this time to-morrow. We shall have to get it from her. I've got a detective there now, watching, in touch with the doctor. At the slightest change I'm on the spot with a magistrate: we get her dispositions."

She hasn't spoken yet, then?"

"No; but she will. Well! I must be going; I heard the car a couple of minutes ago. Thanks so much. I hope we shall meet again." He laughed when he was in the hall. "I say, I see you wear a light coat and a Monte Carlo hat. I shouldn't, if I were you. That was what the fellow who shot Stanley Dacre had on."

"Well! It's not exactly fancy dress." Keightley laughed too; but less when he was alone. He stood on the doorstep long after the motor was out of sight, sweating in the cold night air.

How had it come about that he had allowed his mother to follow him into this morass, lie for him, soil her whiteness? He swore that if there were no other way out he would take the way he had told Roger. Even now he pictured her in the witness-box, her charm and distinction exposed to the vulgar curiosity of the crowd, cornered into contradicting herself by a clumsy brute like this Marcus Colvin, for instance.

"Well! At any rate I shall know the worst by to-morrow. At the worst I suppose one might prove an alibi. Roger would lie for me—Kito, of course—Devenish, too, if it came to it. But one would have to tell him everything. The other way is better; just to go out. What an amazing end to a career like mine! Meteor-like!"

He tried to make phrases, but in an emergency like the present they helped him extraordinarily little. Kito, when he came back with the car, provided him with a few hours of doctored sleep. But the Keightley Wilbur who gave Roger Macphail breakfast the next morning and drove with him afterwards to the coroner's court was a very silent young man from whom the spirit of epigram and paradox had temporarily departed.. Roger bade him pull himself together.

"Whatever happens, don't be taken by surprise."

"Do I look bad?"

"A little white about the gills."

"It is really not for myself I care. If only I'd kept the mater out of it!" He had lost for the moment even the power of pretence.

The court was more crowded than before, and it was with difficulty they secured a seat. Then came the time of waiting, an interminable ten minutes, voices and words reaching them as through a mist."

"I wonder who they will call first."

"They'll call her for sure."

"She knows right enough who did it. Another of her fancy men."

"Will they do nothing to her? Women like that ought to be whipped from the cart tail."

"If I had my way"

"Hush! Here he is."

"Here's the coroner."

They all rose.

Everybody spoke in a hushed whisper. To-day, surely to-day there would be sensational evidence.

"Another policeman! How disappointing. We've heard what the police have to say."

Sergeant Ferris repeated his former evidence, adding that he was quite positive that no revolver had been found on Mrs. Mott nor Mr. Dacre, nor upon the premises; which had been thoroughly searched.

There passed in and out of the witness-box a succession of inspectors, sergeants, and ordinary policemen. All that they were asked, and that they had to testify, was that the flat and the whole house had been thoroughly searched, and that no weapon had been discovered.

Now came a pause. Then Mrs. Inez B. Mott's name was called.

Roger saw that the pallor of Keightley's cheeks was ashen, but the brightness of his eyes undimmed. Some one went up and spoke to the coroner, and the coroner bent down to listen. When he spoke, he spoke very shortly and as if annoyed at the news that had just been conveyed to him. But all he said was:

"Are there any more witnesses to call?"

There seemed to be something in the nature of a consultation between the various inspectors, and one of them spoke to Marcus Colvin.

"What do you suppose is happening?"

"He is going to sum up."

Question and answer were laconic. Roger knew Keightley's self-control was strained to its limit.

"Gentlemen" The coroner gave a brief summary of the admitted facts of the case, and went over again all the dreary evidence.

"Now I come to the most curious part of this strange case. There were only two people in the flat at the time and apparently both of them saw the criminal, who, having fired the shot, climbed over the garden wall, and dropped out of sight. They both saw him, but in every possible detail their description differs. I hoped, gentlemen, that upon further examination Mrs. Mott would have been able to correct or explain this discrepancy. She was understood in the court to say she thought she recognised the man, who, possibly, was also an habitué of the flat. Unfortunately"

When the coroner said "unfortunately," and paused, the blood flowed slowly back into Keightley's face, and Roger felt the relaxation of his strained attention.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Mott never recovered consciousness after she left the court. She can add nothing to her evidence. The information has just been brought me that she passed away at an early hour this morning."

Both the men lost the next sentence or two.

"Can't we get out?"

"We may as well hear the finish. He cannot be long now."

Without leaving the box, the jury returned the verdict to which they had been directed:

"Wilful murder against some man unknown."

"Close shave, wasn't it?" Keightley said an hour or two later. He was completely himself again when he gave that light coat and Monte Carlo hat to the cloak-room attendant at the Savoy. "But, of course, she could never have been absolutely sure. The night was foggy. At the worst, it would only have been a matter for a clever counsel and an alibi. I can't think why I got so excited about it. I am afraid, by the way, I shan't be able to give you another sitting for that picture. Wait while I 'phone Kito to pack and get the tickets. I shall go straight through to Monte this time. No more coroner's court stories for me. After all, it's bad copy. There is no culminating point of interest, and the principal character is dead before the curtain goes up."