“You have no fear as to the result, have you?” Laura asked Sampson, with intense anxiety. “My husband will be able to prove himself innocent of this terrible crime.”
“I don’t believe the other side will be able to prove him guilty,” said Sampson, thoughtfully.
“But he may remain all his life under the stigma of this hideous suspicion. The world will believe him guilty, though the crime cannot be brought home to him. Is that what you mean?”
“My dear Mrs. Treverton, I am not clever enough or experienced enough to offer an opinion in such a case as this. We are only at the outset of things. Besides, I am no criminal lawyer.”
“What does Mr. Leopold say?” asked Laura, looking at him intently.
“I am not at liberty to tell you that. It would be a breach of confidence,” answered Sampson.
“I see. Mr. Leopold thinks there is a strong case against my husband.”
“Mr. Leopold thinks nothing at present. He has no data to go upon.”
“He must remember the report of the inquest and all that was said in the newspapers.”
“Mr. Leopold thinks that of the newspapers,” exclaimed Sampson, snapping his fingers. “Mr. Leopold is not led by the nose by the newspapers. He would not be where he is if he were that kind of man.”
“Well, we must wait and hope,” said Laura, with a sigh. “It is a hard trial, but it must be borne. Will anything be done tomorrow?”
“There will be an inquiry at Bow Street.
“Will Mr. Leopold be present?
“Of course. He will watch the case as a cat watches a mouse.”
“Tell him that I should think half my fortune too little to reward him if he can prove clearly and plainly prove my husband’s innocence.”
“Mr. Leopold won’t ask for your fortune. He’s as rich as well, rolling in money. He’ll do his duty, you may depend upon it, without any prompting from me.”
XL
Mr. Leopold Asks Irrelevant Questions
An inquiry was held at Bow Street next day. Several of the witnesses who had appeared nearly a year ago at the inquest were present, and much of the evidence that had been then given was now repeated. The policeman who had been called in by Desrolles, the doctor who had first examined the dead woman’s wound, and the detective who examined the premises—all these gave their evidence exactly as they had given it at the inquest. Mrs. Evitt was too ill to appear, but her previous statements were read. There was one witness present on this occasion who had not appeared at the inquest. This was George Gerard, who had been subpoenaed by the prosecution, and who described, with a somewhat reluctant air, his discovery of the dagger in Jack Chicot’s colour box.
“This was a curious discovery of yours, Mr. Gerard,” said Mr. Leopold, after the witness had been examined, “and comes to light at a curious time. Why did you not inform the police of this discovery when you made it?”
“I was not called as a witness.”
“No. But if you considered this discovery of yours of any importance, it was your duty to make it known immediately. You make your way into the house of the accused without anybody’s authorisation; you go prying and peering into rooms that have already been examined by the police; and you come forward a year afterwards with this extraordinary discovery of a tarnished dagger. What evidence have we that this dagger, ever belonged to the accused?”
“There need be no difficulty about that,” said John Treverton, “the dagger is mine.”
Mr. Leopold rewarded his client’s candour with a ferocious scowl. Was there ever such a man? a man who was legally dumb, whose lips the law had sealed, and who had the folly to blurt out such an admission as this.
The magistrate asked whether the dagger could be found. The police had taken possession of all Jack Chicot’s chattels. The dagger was no doubt among them.
“Let it be found and given to the divisional surgeon to be examined,” said the magistrate.
The inquiry was adjourned at the request of Mr. Leopold, who wanted time to meet the evidence against his client. The magistrate, who felt that the case was hardly strong enough for committal, granted this respite. An hour later John Treverton was closeted with Mr. Leopold and Mr. Sampson, in his room at Clerkenwell.
“The medical evidence shows that the murder must have been committed at one o’clock,” said Mr. Leopold. “You only discovered it at five minutes before three. What were you doing with yourself during those hours. At the worst we ought to be able to prove an alibi.”
“I’m afraid that would be difficult,” answered Treverton, thoughtfully. “I was very unhappy at that period of my life, and had acquired a habit of roaming about the streets of London between midnight and morning. I had suffered from a painful attack of sleeplessness, and this night-roving was the only thing that gave me relief. I was at a literary club near the Strand on the night of the murder. I left a few minutes after twelve. It was a fine, mild night—wonderfully mild for the time of year—and I walked to Hampstead Heath and back.”
“Humph!” muttered Mr. Leopold, “you couldn’t have managed things better, if you wanted to put the rope round your neck. You left your club a few minutes after twelve, you say—in comfortable time for the murder. You were seen to leave, I suppose?”
“Yes, I left with another member, a watercolour painter, who lives at Haverstock Hill.”
“Good—and he walked with you as far as Haverstock Hill, I suppose?”
“No, he didn’t. We walked to St. Martin’s Church together, and there he took a hansom. He had no latchkey, and wanted to get home in decent time.”
“Did you tell him you were going to walk up to the Heath?”
“No, I
