George Gerard took up the dagger and looked at it curiously—a long thin blade, flexible, sharp, a deadly weapon in a strong hand, a weapon to inflict just such a wound as that deep stab which had slain La Chicot.
He examined the blade, the handle—looking at both through his pocket microscope. Both were darkly tarnished, possibly with the recent stain of blood; but the weapon had been carefully cleansed, and there was no actual speck of blood upon either handle or blade.
“Strange that the detectives should have overlooked this,” he said to himself, replacing the dagger in the box.
Mrs. Evitt had told him of Jack Chicot’s unaccountable disappearance, how he had gone out to call the police, and had never come back. What could this mean, except guilt? And here in the husband’s colour box was just such weapon as that with which the wife had been stabbed.
“And I know that he was weary of her, I know that he wanted her to die,” mused Gerard. “I read that secret in his face six months ago.”
He left the room presently, without any expression of opinion to the hospital nurse, who was eager to discuss the deed that had been done, and had theories of her own about it. He left the house and walked the neighbouring streets for an hour, waiting for the inquest.
“Shall I volunteer my opinion before the Coroner?” he asked himself, “To what end? It is but a theory, after all. And a Coroner is rarely a man inclined to give his ear to speculations of that kind. I’d better write to one of the newspapers. Would it do any good if I were to bring the crime home to the husband? Not much, perhaps. Wherever the wretch goes he carries with him a conscience that must be a worse punishment than the condemned cell. And to hang him would not bring her back to life. Poor, foolish, lost creature, the only woman I ever loved.”
The Prince of Wales’s Feathers—more popularly known as the Feathers—a public-house at the corner of Cibber Street and Woodpecker Court, was the scene of the inquiry. The witnesses were the doctor, the police-sergeant, the detective who had assisted in the examination of the premises, Desrolles, Mrs. Evitt, and Mrs. Rawber. Jack Chicot, the most important witness of all, had not been seen since he left the house under the pretence of summoning the police. This disappearance of the husband, after giving an alarm which roused the sleeping household—an altogether unnecessary and foolish act, supposing him to be the murderer—was the most remarkable feature in the case, and puzzled the Coroner.
He questioned Mrs. Evitt closely as to the habits of the dancer and her husband.
“You say they quarrelled frequently,” he said. “Were their disputes of a violent character?”
“I have heard her violent, but never him. She was very fond of him, poor thing; though she wasn’t a woman to give way or to be guided by a husband. She was fonder of drink than she ought to be, and he tried to keep her from it, leastways, when they first came to my house. Later he seemed to have give her up, as you may say, and let her go her own way.”
“Did he seem attached to her?”
“Not to my fancy. I thought the love was all on her side.”
“Was he a man of violent temper?”
“No; he was one that took things very quiet. I used to think there was something underhand in his character. I can call to mind her saying to me once, after they had been quarrelling, ‘Mrs. Evitt, that man hates me too much to strike me. If he was once to give way to his temper he’d be the death of me.’ Those words of hers made an impression upon me at the time—”
“Come, come,” interrupted the Coroner, “we can’t hear anything about your impressions. This isn’t evidence,” but Mrs. Evitt’s slow speech flowed onward like a tranquil stream meandering through a valley.
“ ‘I’d rather have a low brute that beat me black and blue,’ she said to me another time, poor dear thing, ‘if he was sorry for it afterwards, than a cold-hearted gentleman that can sting me to death with a word.’ ”
“I want to hear facts, not assertions,” said the Coroner, impatiently. “Did you ever know the husband of the deceased to be guilty of any act of violence, either towards his wife or anyone else?”
“Never.”
“Do you know if Madame Chicot had money or any other valuables in her possession?”
“I should say she had neither. She was a woman of extravagant habits. It wasn’t in her to save money.”
Mrs. Rawber’s evidence merely confirmed Mrs. Evitt as to the hour at which they had been aroused, and the conduct of Jack Chicot. The two women agreed as to the ghastly look of his face, and the sudden eagerness with which he had caught at the idea of going to fetch a policemen, an idea suggested by Desrolles.
Desrolles was the last witness examined. As he stood up to answer the Coroner, he caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd near the doorway. It was the countenance of Joseph Lemuel, the stock broker, sorely changed since Desrolles had seen it last. Close by Mr. Lemuel’s side appeared a well-known criminal lawyer. Desrolles’ bister complexion grew a shade grayer at sight of these two faces, both intently watchful.
The evidence of Desrolles threw no new light upon the mystery. He had known Mr. Chicot and his wife intimately—rarely had passed a day without seeing them. They were both excellent creatures, but not suited to each
