“I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892—I am not sure which.”
“We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want to solve the important question—who is, who was John Marbury, and how did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who knows anything about him. What was your business before you left England?”
“I was interested in financial affairs.”
“Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?”
“In London, of course.”
“At what address?”
For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His brow had flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly.
“I resent these questions about my private affairs!” he snapped out.
“Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question.”
“And I refuse to answer it.”
“Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you are telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?”
“I refuse to answer that question also!”
The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner.
XII
The New Witness
The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. He was addressing the witness.
“I am sure, Mr. Aylmore,” he said, “there is no wish to trouble you with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of this matter of John Marbury’s death, and as you are the only witness we have had who knew him personally—”
Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner.
“I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!” he exclaimed. “And I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private affairs of twenty years ago—I very much resent it! Any question that is really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry.”
The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, and Spargo again became keenly attentive.
“Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not yield him offence,” he remarked drily. He turned once more to the witness, regarding him as if with interest. “Can you tell us of any person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under discussion—twenty to twenty-two or three years ago?” he asked.
Aylmore shook his head angrily.
“No, I can’t,” he replied.
“And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at that time who knew you both!”
“Possibly—at that time. But when I returned to England my business and my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don’t know of anybody who knew Marbury then—anybody.”
The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; Spargo saw the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the door of the court. The Counsel looked again at the witness.
“One more question. You told the court a little time since that you parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of Waterloo Bridge—at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve.”
“About that time.”
“And at that place?”
“Yes.”
“That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore—just now,” said the Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. “I am going to ask you, sir, at this point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be given to you and the jury. If you would be pleased to direct that David Lyell be called—”
Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had sat behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into view, ushered by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being called, stepped jauntily and readily into the place which the member of Parliament just vacated. He took the oath—Scotch fashion—with the same readiness and turned easily to the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, glancing quickly round, saw that the court was breathless with anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by Aylmore.
“Your name is David Lyell?”
“That is my name, sir.”
“And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?”
“I do.”
“What are you, Mr. Lyell?”
“Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & Soutar, distillers, of Kilmarnock.”
“Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?”
“They do—once every six weeks I go to Paris.”
“On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to Paris?”
“I was.”
“I believe you stayed at De Keyser’s Hotel, at the Blackfriars end of the Embankment?”
“I did—it’s handy for the continental trains.”
“About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?”
“I did, sir. I’m a bad sleeper, and it’s a habit of mine to take a walk of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed.”
“How far did you walk?”
“As far as Waterloo Bridge.”
“Always on the Temple side?”
“Just so, sir—straight along on that side.”
“Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody you knew?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament.”
Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder’s head was averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And Breton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining silk hat.
“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament,” repeated the Counsel’s suave, clear tones. “Oh! And how did you come to recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member of Parliament?”
“Well, sir, in this way. At home, I’m the secretary of our Liberal Ward Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to arrange with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and speak, and naturally I
